No sorrow will live in me as long as that joy — save one, and I thank you for that, too. - Peter S. Beagle

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No sorrow will live in me as long as that joy — save one, and I thank you for that, too.

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About Peter S. Beagle

Peter Soyer Beagle (born 20 April 1939) is an American fantasist and author of novels, nonfiction, and screenplays.

Biography information from Wikiquote

Also Known As

Alternative Names: Peter Soyer Beagle

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Additional quotes by Peter S. Beagle

Real magic can never be made by offering up someone else’s liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back. The true witches know that.” A

"I don't think I could ever see her closely," the sentinel replied, "however close she came." His own voice was hushed and regretful, echoing with lost chances. "She has a newness," he said. "Everything is for the first time. See how she moves, how she walks, how she turns her head — all for the first time, the first time anyone has ever done these things. See how she draws her breath and lets it go again, as though no one else in the world knew that air was good. It is all for her. If I learned that she had been born this very morning, I would only be surprised that she was so old." The second sentinel stared down from his tower at the three wanderers. The tall man saw him first, and next the dour woman. Their eyes reflected nothing but his armor, grim and cankered and empty. But then the girl in the ruined black cloak raised her head, and he stepped back from the parapet, putting out one tin glove against her glance. In a moment she passed into the shadow of the castle with her companions, and he lowered his hand. "She may be mad," he said calmly. "No grown girl looks like that unless she is mad. That would be annoying, but far preferable to the remaining possibility." "Which is?" the younger man prompted after a silence.
"Which is that she was indeed born this morning. I would rather that she were mad."

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"Unicorns are not to be forgiven." The magician felt himself growing giddy with jealousy, not only of the touch but of something like a secret that was moving between Molly and the unicorn. "Unicorns are for beginnings," he said, "for innocence and purity, for newness. Unicorns are for young girls."

Molly was stroking the unicorn's throat as timidly as though she were blind. She dried her grimy tears on the white mane. "You don't know much about unicorns," she said.

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