David Barrow

“Holy shit," I breathed. "Hellhounds."
"Harry," Michael said sternly. "You know I hate it when you swear."
"You're right. Sorry. Holy shit," I breathed, "heckhounds.”
― Jim Butcher, Grave Peril

“The Yllish people never developed a written language,” she said. “Not true,” Elodin said. “They used a system of woven knots.” He made a complex motion with his hands, as if braiding something. “And they were doing it long before we started scratching pictograms on the skins of sheep.” “I didn’t say they lacked recorded language,” Inyssa muttered. “I said written language.” Elodin managed to convey his vast boredom in a simple shrug. Inyssa frowned at him. “Fine. There’s a type of dog in Sceria that gives birth through a vestigial penis,” she said. “Wow,” Elodin said. “Okay. Yeah.”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear

“Don’t worry,” Michael said, quietly. “Just let me do the talking.” Chapter Seven Michael rested his chin in his hands and sighed. “I can’t believe we’re in jail.”
― Jim Butcher, Grave Peril

“God has worker’s hands. Just remember—angels carry no harps. Angels carry hammers.”
― Luis Alberto Urrea, The Hummingbird's Daughter