A hand fought best when it made a fist.

She had been a solitary child, and then solitary as a woman, drawn into an orbit of her own that took her away from others, even those who would be her friends.

A hand fought best when it made a fist.

It is always difficult, even with the best will in the world, to look back a long way and see anything resembling the truth.

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.

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

We must be what we are, or we become our enemies.