The deeds of men, as footprints in the desert. Nothing under the circling moons is fated to last. Even the sun goes down.

But if you couldn't do everything, did that mean you did nothing?

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

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.

I have always argued, in a good novel, interesting things happen to interesting people.

Men made wagers with their judgment, their allegiances, their resources.

When I was 18 years old, in a more innocent time, my first backpacking trip through Europe, I sneaked into the Temple of Saturn in the Roman Forum after nightfall and spent several hours in there avoiding the guards patrolling.