It is not the strength of the body that counts, but the strength of the spirit.

A nice pickle they were all in now: all neatly tied up in sacks, with three angry trolls (and two with burns and bashes to remember) sitting by them, arguing whether they should roast them slowly, or mince them fine and boil them, or just sit on them one by one and squash them into jelly.

I'm in a position where it doesn't matter what people think of me now.

A pen is to me as a beak is to a hen.

Alive without breath, As cold as death; Never thirsty, ever drinking, All in mail never clinking.

It needs but one foe to breed a war, and those who have not swords can still die upon them.

The Road goes ever on and on Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with eager feet, Until it joins some larger way Where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say