But slight mistakes accumulate, and grow to gross errors if unchecked.

All exiles carry a map within them that points the way homeward.

We pay for sins we do not remember, and seek to do a will we can scarce fathom. That is what it is, to be a god's chosen.

This is the secret that none dares tell who fights for a cause. Dying, we are all alike.

It's funny, because in deference to conventional wisdom, I spent my struggling writer years trying to suppress my naturally baroque literary voice and write clean, spare prose. I finally gave up and embraced my baroque tendencies when I wrote the Kushiel series.

There are patterns which emerge in one's life, circling and returning anew, an endless variation of a theme

It's funny, how one can look back on a sorrow one thought one might well die of at the time, and know that one had not yet reckoned the tenth part of true grief.