The skin of the coward changes color all the time, he can't get a grip on himself, he can't sit still, he squats and rocks, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his heart racing, pounding inside the fellow's ribs, his teeth chattering. He dreads some grisly death. But the skin of a brave soldier never blanches. He's all control. Tense but no great fear.

Nothing in the world is so incontinent as a man's accursed appetite.

His descent was like nightfall.

Don't mess with the dead, boy, they have eerie powers.

From his tongue flowed speech sweeter than honey.

Old people don't need companionship. They need to be isolated and studied so it can be determined what nutrients they have that might be extracted for our personal use.

Restrain yourself... and gloat in silence. I'll have no jubilation here. It is an impious thing to exult over the slain.