Weariness, sometimes more than anything else, can bring an end to war.

By things so achingly small are lives measured and marred.

As many have noted, the peril for authors is that our work space is too easily our play space.

A hand fought best when it made a fist.

One man sees a riselka: his life forks there.  Two men see a riselka: one of them shall die.  Three men see a riselka: one is blessed, one forks, one shall die. One woman sees a riselka: her path comes clear to her.  Two women see a riselka: one of them shall bear a child.  Three women see a riselka: one is blessed, one is clear, one shall bear a child.

There are kinds of action, for good or ill, that lie so far outside the boundaries of normal behavior that they force us, in acknowledging that they have occurred, to restructure our own understanding of reality. We have to make room for them.

You'd never killed anyone. Then you had.