My name is Indigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.

"You seem like a decent fellow," Inigo said. "I hate to kill you."

"You seem like a decent fellow," answered the man in black. "I hate to die."

You have become, before my very eyes, a novel-holic, Miss Roginski said. Do you realize that you are spening more time now reading than you used to spend on games?

Even today, that's how I summon back my father when the need arises. Slumped and squinting and halting over words, giving me Morgenstern's masterpiece as best as he could. The Princess Bride belonged to my father. Everything else was mine.

"I don' suppose you could speed things up, Inigo said. "If you want to speed things up so much", the man in black said, clearly quite angry now, "you could lower a rope or a tree branch or find other helpful things to do".

"I could do that", Inigo agreed. "But I don't think you would accept my help, since I'm only waiting up here so that I can kill you. "That does put a damper on our relationship," the man in back said then.

"You cannot tell it," he said then, "because I wear a cape and a mask. But I am smiling now."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not left-handed either," said the man in black. And he too switched hands. and now the battle was finally joined. And Inigo began to retreat.

"Who are you?" he screamed.

"No one of import. Another lover of the blade."

You mean, you'll put down your rock and I'll put down my sword and we'll try and kill each other like civilized people?

Sonny, don't you tell me what's worth while- true love is the best thing in the world, exept for cough drops. Everybody knows that.

“Has it got any sports in it?”

“Fencing. Fighting. Torture. Poison. True love. Hate. Revenge. Giants. Hunters. Bad men. Good men. Beautifulest ladies. Snakes. Spiders. Beasts of all natures and descriptions. Pain. Death. Brave men. Coward men. Strongest men. Chases. Escapes. Lies. Truths. Passion. Miracles.”

“Sounds okay,” I said, and I kind of closed my eyes. “I’ll do my best to stay awake . . . but I’m awful sleepy, Daddy. . . .”

Who can know when his world is going to change? Who can tell before it happens, that every prior experience, all the years, were a preparation for . . . nothing. Picture this now: an all-but-illiterate old man struggling with an enemy tongue, an all-but-exhausted young boy fighting against sleep. And nothing between them but the words of another alien, painfully translated from native sounds to foreign. Who could suspect that in the morning a different child would wake? I remember, for myself, only trying to beat back fatigue. Even a week later I was not aware of what had begun that night, the doors that were slamming shut while others slid into the clear. Perhaps I should have at least known something, but maybe not; who can sense revelation in the wind?

What happened was just this: I got hooked on the story.

Actually, they were both wrong; Westley suffered not at all throughout. His screaming was totally a performance to please them; he had been practicing his defenses for a month now, and he was more than ready. The minute the Count brought the candle close, Westley raised his eyes to the ceiling, dropped his eyelids over them, and in a state of deep and steady concentration, he took his brain away. Buttercup was what he thought of. Her autumn hair, her perfect skin, and he brought her very close beside him, and had her whisper in his ear throughout the burning: “I love you. I love you. I only left you in the Fire Swamp to test your love for me. Is it as great as mine for you? Can two such loves exist on one planet at one time? Is there that much room, beloved Westley? . . .”