Quotes: William Goldman - page №1

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...if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.

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Just because you're beautiful and perfect, it's made you conceited.

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I know something you do not know. I am not left-handed either.

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The Prince found Buttercup waiting unhappily outside his chamber doors.
It's my letter,' she began. 'I cannot make it right.'
Come in, come in,' the Prince said gently. 'Maybe we can help you.' She sat down in the same chair as before. 'All right, I'll close my eyes and listen; read to me.'
Westley, my passion, my sweet, my only my own. Come back, come back. I shall kill myself otherwise. Yours in torment, Buttercup.' She looked at Humperdinck. 'Well? Do you think I'm throwing myself at him?

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The Queen's Pride was his ship, and he loved her. (That was the way his sentences always went: It is raining today and I love you. My cold is better and I love you. Say hello to Horse and I love you. Like that.)

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It was only when the giant got halfway down the incline that he suddenly, happily, burst into flame and continued his trip saying, "NO SURVIVORS, NO SURVIVORS!" in a manner that could only indicate deadly sincerity.

It was seeing him happily burning and advancing that startled the Brute Squad to screaming. And once that happened, why, everybody panicked and ran...

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Cynics are simply thwarted romantics.

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Westley: This is true love — you think this happens every day?

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You don't want to be rude but you have to be careful - there are a lot of strange people out there.


(Goldman attributes this quote to Cliff Robertson.)

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Inigo Montoya: He's right on top of us. I wonder if he is using the same wind we are using.

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True love is the best thing in the world, except for cough drops.

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Inconceivable!"
"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

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Enough about my beauty," Buttercup said. "Everybody always talks about how beautiful I am. I've got a mind, Westley. Talk about that.

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And what have I done?"
What? WHAT?...You've stolen them."
With that, Cornelia fled, but Buttercup understood; she knew who "them" was.
The boys.
The beef-witted featherbrained rattledskulled clodpated dim-domed noodle-noggined sapheaded lunk-knobbed BOYS.

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That's all you need? Easy. I love you.Okay? Want it louder?I love you. Spell it out schould I l-o-v-e y-o-u. Want it backwards You love I.

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Life is pain. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something.

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No. Not yet. A craftsman only. But I dream to be an artist. I pray that someday, if I work with enough care, if I am very very lucky, I will make a weapon that is a work of art. Call me an artist then, and I will answer.

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I just know once you're over your emotional outbursts, you'll come up with-'
I mean if we even had a wheelbarrow, that would be something,' Westley said.

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Writing is finally about one thing: going into a room alone and doing it. Putting words on paper that have never been there in quite that way before. And although you are physically by yourself, the haunting Demon never leaves you, that Demon being the knowledge of your own terrible limitations, your hopeless inadequacy, the impossibility of ever getting it right. No matter how diamond-bright your ideas are dancing in your brain, on paper they are earthbound.

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Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who tells you differently is selling something.