In dreams we stand in this great democracy of the possible and there we are right pilgrims indeed. There we go forth to meet what we shall meet.

For even if you should have stood your ground, he said, yet what ground was it?

But I didn't know what to say to him. What do you say to a man that by his own admission has no soul? Why would you say anything?

The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and the reality, even where we will not.

Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.

War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner.

The carrion birds sat about the topmost corners of the houses with their wings outstretched in attitudes of exhortation like dark little bishops.