“He didn't want to talk to Pol. Pol would want him to go somewhere on the back of a horse.”

“Durnik needs a tower somewhere in the Vale," Belgarath was saying."I don't see why, father," Polgara replied."All of Aldur's disciples have towers, Pol. It's the custom.""Old customs persist --even when there's no longer any need for them.""He's going to need to study, Pol. How can he possibly study with you underfoot all the time?"She gave him a long, chilly stare."Maybe I should rephrase that.”

“My daughter accepted without comment the fact that she wasn't going to age. The peculiar thing about the whole business in her case was the fact that she really didn't. Beldin and the twins and I had all achieved the appearance of a certain maturity. We picked up wrinkles and grey hair and a distinguished look. Pol didn't...I guess a sorcerer is supposed to look distinguished and wise, and that implies wrinkles and grey hair. A woman with grey hair and wrinkles is called a crone, and I don't think Pol would have liked that very much. Maybe we all wound up looking the way we thought we ought to look. My brothers and I thought we should look wise and venerable. Pol didn't mind the wise part, but "venerable" wasn't in her vocabulary. I might want to investigate that someday. The notion that we somehow create ourselves in intriguing.”

“I want you to put 'He didn't want to ride the damn horse' on my tombstone.”

“I didn’t want to go back to sleep. I wanted to talk to him until the earth started revolving around the moon.”

“Een handicap is dichterbij dan u denkt. Probeer maar eens een website te bedienen met een gebroken pols of RSI-klachten.”