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.

Latin! The language of God! Or perhaps He speaks Hebrew? I suppose that's more likely and it will make things rather awkward in heaven, won't it? Will we all have to learn Hebrew?

Writing is a solitary occupation.

So far it's 43 books in 25 years.

Pride makes a man, it drives him, it is the shield wall around his reputation... Men die, they said, but reputation does not die.

Wyrd bith ful araed (Fate is inexorable).

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.