Books are nothing but repositories for those lies the author wants his reader to believe.

Any man who barely sustains an armistice with himself has no business poking around in an alien soul.

Oh, 'twould be marvelous if the world and its moral questions were like some game board, with plain black players and white, and fixed rules, and nary a shade of grey.

The people come from everywhere, from five hundred miles, to find their fortunes. By fortune is an ugly, two-faced goddess. When you have lived with her handiwork for half a generation, you hardly notice anymore. You forget that this is not the way life has to be. You cease to marvel at just how much evil man con conjure by existing.

The man who counts on the aid of a god deserves the help he doesn't get.

More evil gets done in the name of righteousness than any other way.

. . .and the thing that you know to be true is the lie that will kill you.