It's the same questions we ask of our existence, and the answer is always the same. The mystery lies not in the question nor the answer, but in the asking and answering themselves, over and over again, and the end is engendered in the beginning.

Why is there ever this perverse cruelty in humankind, that makes us hurt most those we love best?

We speak of stories ending, when in truth it is we who end. The stories go on and on.

To my surprise, Joscelin rose. ‘Phedre-’ He began, then halted. Sitting below him, I watched him smile to himself, quiet and private. ‘Phedre yields with a willow’s grace,’ he said softly. ‘And endures with the strength of mountains. Without her, life would be calm; and yet lack all meaning.

Grief heals ... unshed tears fester like a canker in the soul.

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

We are meant to taste of life ... and drink the cup of it to the dregs, bitter and sweet alike.