Best 98 of Bernard Cornwell quotes - MyQuotes

Follow
Bernard Cornwell
By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Gods fight, Ragnar went on earnestly, and some win, some lose. The Christian god is losing. Otherwise why would we be here? Why would we be winning? The gods reward us if we give them respect, but the Christian god doesn't help his people, does he? They weep rivers of tears for him, they pray to him, they give him their silver, & we come along & slaughter them! Their god is pathetic. If he had any real power then we wouldn't be here, would we?

By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

He had always thought there was an answer to all life's mysteries in the stars, yet whenever he stared at them the answer slipped out of his grasp... But he had to think now, and he stared at the smoke-dimmed stars in the hope that they would help him, but all they did was go on shining.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

- Senhor Uhtred! - O padre Willibald veio correndo na minha direção. - O que está acontecendo? O que está acontecendo? - Decidi começar uma guerra, padre - respondi cheio de animação. - É muito mais interessante que a paz.

By Anonym 19 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

We all suffer from dreams.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Looking back, of course, it was irresponsible, mad, forlorn, idiotic, but if you don't take chances then you'll never have a winning hand, and I've no regrets.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Because there could not be peace, not while two tribes shared one land. One tribe must win. Even the nailed god cannot change that truth. And I was a warrior, and in a world at war the warrior must be cruel.

By Anonym 20 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Wyn eal gedreas. Isso é parte de outro poema que às vezes ouço ser cantado no meu castelo. É um poema triste, e portanto um poema verdadeiro. Wyrd bið ful ãræd, diz ele. O destino é inexorável. E wyn eal gedreas. Toda alegria morreu.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

‎Our ancestors took this land. They took it and made it and held it. We do not give up what our ancestors gave us. They came across the sea and they fought here, and they built here and they're buried here. This is our land, mixed with our blood, strengthened with our bone. Ours!

By Anonym 18 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Our ancestors,” he went on after a while, “took this land. They took it and made it and held it. We do not give up what our ancestors gave us. They came across the sea and they fought here, and they built here and they’re buried here. This is our land, mixed with our blood, strengthened with our bone. Ours!” He was angry, but he was often angry. He glowered at me, as if wondering whether I was strong enough to hold this land of Northumbria that our ancestors had won with sword and spear and blood and slaughter.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Pelos ossos de Deus, Tom, o diabo fez um serviço ruim quando trepou com sua mãe.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

At risk of sounding foully pompous I think that writers' groups are probably very useful at the beginning of a writing career.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

What I mean by that is that the point of life, as I see it, is not to write books or scale mountains or sail oceans, but to achieve happiness, and preferably an unselfish happiness.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Acho que o Santo Graal é um sonho que os homens têm, um sonho de que é possível tornar o mundo perfeito. Se ele existisse, todos nós teríamos sabido que o sonho não pode se transformar em realidade.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

We make children and wealth and amass land and build halls and assemble armies and give great feasts, but only one thing survives us. Reputation.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

All you need to know, boy," Finan growled, "is that Lord Uhtred's side is the one that wins.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Is all ordained? Foreknowledge is not fate, and we may choose our paths, yet fate says we may not choose them. So if fate is real, do we have a choice?

By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

É um poema triste, e portanto um poema verdadeiro. Wyrd bið ful ãræd, diz ele. O destino é inexorável. E wyn eal gedreas. Toda alegria morreu.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

There are seasons of our lives when nothing seems to be happening, when no smoke betrays a burned town or homestead and few tears are shed for the newly dead. I have learned not to trust those times, because if the world is at peace then it means someone is planning war.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Serpent-Breath was famous...Wasp-Sting, short and lethal.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

If they saw men swarming up the wall, if they saw the axes chopping at our shields on the wall’s top, then they would join the battle. Men want to be on the winning side.

By Anonym 17 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Oh the madness of battle! We fear it, we celebrate it, the poets sing of it, and when it fills the blood like fire it is a real madness. It is joy! All the terror is swept away, a man feels he could live for ever, he sees the enemy retreating, knows he himself is invincible, that even the gods would shrink from his blade and his bloodied shield. And I was still keening that mad song, the battle song of slaughter, the sound that blotted out the screams of dying men and the crying of the wounded. It is fear, of course, that feeds the battle madness, the release of fear into savagery. You win in the shield wall by being more savage than your enemy, by turning his savagery back into fear.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

The existence of tricks does not imply the absence of magic.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

I'm fortunate that the books sell, but even more fortunate to live in Chatham, to be very happily married and to have, on the whole, a fairly clear conscience.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Skin the colour of chestnuts

By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

I still feel a pang every time I look at her,’ I admitted. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ he said enthusiastically. ‘A pang! A quickness in the heart.’ ‘Love,’ I said drily. ‘We’re lucky, you and I,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s friendship, it’s love, and it’s still something more. It’s what the Irish call anmchara, a soul friend. Who else do you want to talk to at the day’s end? I love the evenings when we can just sit and talk and the sun goes down and moths come in to the candles.’ ‘And we talk of children,’ I said, and wished I had not, ‘and of servants’ quarrels, and whether the cross-​eyed kitchen slave is pregnant again, and we wonder who broke the pothook, and whether the thatch needs repair or whether it will last another year, and we try to work out what to do about the old dog that can’t walk any more, and what excuse Cadell will conjure up for not paying his rent again, and we discuss whether the flax has steeped enough, and if we should rub butterwort on the cows’ udders to improve their yield. That’s what we talk of.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

He has a mouth, lord," Gerbruht said. "I envy him," I said. "Envy him, lord?" "Most of us have to lower our trews to shit.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

I have learned that it is one thing to kill in battle, to send a brave man's soul to the corpse hall of the gods, but quite another to take a helpless man's life...

By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

It was while he was on the tower that Robbie came to the rampart beneath. 'I want you to look at this,' Robbie called up to him, and flourished a newly painted shield. 'You like it?' Thomas peered down and, in the moonlight, saw something red. 'What is it?' he asked. 'A blood smear?' 'You blind English bastard,' Robbie said, 'it's the red heart of Douglas!' 'Ah. From up here it looks like something died on the shield.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

I’m not his man, Father. I’m Uhtred of Bebbanburg, and the lords of Bebbanburg don’t marry pious maggotfaced bitches of low birth.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

The bards sing of love, they celebrate slaughter, they extol kings and flatter queens, but were I a poet I would write in praise of friendship.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Poor Uther. He believed that virtues are handed down through a man's loins! What nonsense! A child is like a calf; if the thing is born crippled you knock it smartly on the skull and serve the cow again. That's why the Gods made it such a pleasure to engender children, because so many of the little brutes have to be replaced. There's not much pleasure in the process for women, of course, but someone has to suffer and thank the Gods it's them and not us.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

You'll call me damned Jew, a Christ murderer, a secret worshipper of pigs and a kidnapper of Christian children. How absurd! Who would want to kidnap children, Christian or otherwise? Vile things. The only mercy of children is that they grow up, as my son has but then, tragically, they beget more children. We do not learn life's lessons.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

If you roll the dice often enough you always get the numbers you want. If I tell you the sun will shine tomorrow and that it will rain and there will be snow and that clouds will cover the sky and that wind will blow and that it will be a calm day and that thunder will deafen us, then one of those things will turn out to be true and you'll forget the rest because you want to believe that I really can tell the future.

By Anonym 17 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

— Mas o que é que você faria com o Graal? — Eu iria usá-lo. — Para quê? — Para livrar o mundo do pecado. — Seria um trabalho notável, mas nem Cristo conseguiu realizá-lo. — Você pára de eliminar ervas daninhas entre os vinhedos só porque elas sempre voltam a nascer?

By Anonym 14 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Life is a jest of the Gods and there is no justice. You must learn to laugh… or else you'll weep yourself to death.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Madness ends sometimes. The Gods decree it, not man.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Love is a dangerous thing. It comes in disguise to change our life... Lust is the deceiver. Lust wrenches our lives until nothing matters except the one we think we love, and under that deceptive spell we kill for them, give all for them, and then, when we have what we have wanted, we discover that it is all an illusion and nothing is there. Lust is a voyage to nowhere, to an empty land, but some men just love such voyages and never care about the destination. Love is a voyage too, a voyage with no destination except death, but a voyage of bliss.

By Anonym 20 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

You will not say how you are haunted by the faces of the men you killed, how in their last gasp of life they sought your pity and you had none. You will not speak of the boys who died screaming for their mothers while you twisted a blade in their guts and snarled your scorn into their ears. You will not confess that you wake in the night, covered in sweat, heart hammering, shrinking from the memories. You will not talk of that, because that is the horror, and the horror is held in the heart’s hoard, a secret, and to admit it is to admit fear, and we are warriors. We do not fear. We strut. We go to battle like heroes. We stink of shit.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

I do understand that you can look into someone’s eyes,” I heard myself saying, “and suddenly know that life will be impossible without them. Know that their voice can make your heart miss a beat and that their company is all your happiness can ever desire and that their absence will leave your soul alone, bereft and lost.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

If you can master me, that look seemed to say, then you can master whatever else this wicked world might bring. I can see her now, standing amidst her deerhounds that had the same thin, lean bodies, and the same long nose and the same huntess eyes as their mistress. Green eyes, she had, with a kind of cruelty deep inside them. It was not a soft face, any more that her body was soft. She was a woman of strong lines and high bones, and that made for a good face and a handsome one, but hard, so hard. What made her beautiful was her hair and her carriage, for she stood as straight as spear and her hair fell around her shoulders like a cascade of tumbling red tangles. That red hair softened her looks, while her laughter snared men like salmon caught in basket traps. There have been many more beautiful women, and thousands who were better, but since the world was weaned I doubt there have been many more so unforgettable as Guinevere, eldest daughter of Leodegan, the exiled King of Henis Wyren. And it would have been better, Merlin always said, had she been drowned at birth.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

-"I have kept the faith, Planchard." -"Then you are the only man who has" Planchard said, "and it is an heretical faith." -"They crucified Christ for heresy" Vexille said, "so to be named a heretic is to be one with Him.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

And I looked,' Pyrlig said to me, 'and I saw a pale horse, and the rider's name was death.' I just stared in amazement. 'It's in the gospel book,' he explained sheepishly, 'and it just cam to mind.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Then you start another book and suddenly the galley proofs of the last one come in and you have to wrench your attention away from what you're writing and try to remember what you were thinking when you wrote the previous one.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Research is a lifelong occupation so it's hard to factor it in, but I reckon most books take 5 months from start to finish.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

A sad, plangent music. In the British camp, Sharpe thought, they would be singing, but no one was singing here.

By Anonym 19 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

We should know who they are," I said, "before we kill them. That's just being polite.

By Anonym 19 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Thirty paces, twenty, and you can see the eyes of the men who will try to kill you, and see the spear-blades, and the instinct is to stop, to straighten the shields. We cringe from battle, fear claws at us, time seems to stop, there is silence though a thousand men shout, and at that moment, when terror savages the heart like a trapped beast, you must hurl yourself into the horror. Because the enemy feels the same. And you have come to kill him. You are the beast from his nightmares.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

It will never end. Till the world ends in the chaos of Ragnarok, we will fight for our women, for our land, and for our homes. Some Christians speak of peace, of the evil of war, and who does not want peace? But then some crazed warrior comes screaming his god's filthy name into your face and his only ambitions are to kill you, to rape your wife, to enslave your daughters, and take your home, and so you must fight.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

Writing is a solitary occupation.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Bernard Cornwell

That joy. That madness. The gods must feel this way every moment of every day. It is as if the world slows. You see the attacker, you see him shouting, though you hear nothing, and you know what he will do, and all his movements are so slow and yours are so quick, and in that moment you can do no wrong and you will live forever and your name will be blazoned across the heavens in a glory of white fire because you are the god of battle.