What mortal knew the way their fate line would run?

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.

Writing is never, ever easy but I wake up every morning grateful for the gift of being able to do this.

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

A hard truth: that courage can be without meaning or impact, need not be rewarded, or even known. The world has not been made in that way. Perhaps, however, within the self there might come a resonance, the awareness of having done something difficult, of having done . . . something.

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

We are the total of our longings.