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.

Beauty is at its most poignant when the cold hand of Death holds poised to wither it imminently.

There are those who are awkward in the face of sorrow, fearing to say the wrong thing; to them, I say, there is no wrong in comfort, ever. A kind word, a consoling arm ... these things are ever welcome.

Only insofar as you enjoy being sorry, my dear, which, while it is a considerable amount, occurs only after the fact, thus making it a singularly ineffective deterrent, yes?

It is my observations, though, that happiness limits the amount of suffering one is willing to inflict upon others

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

It is a comfort, in anguish, to be reminded of the scale of one's own troubles against the mighty breadth of the world.