I preferred a hard truth to a well-meant lie.

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.

For this too I learned, that a storyteller's tale may end, but history goes on always. These events, so distant in legend, play a part in shaping the very events we witness about us, each and every day.

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

What is fear but courage's shadow?

The pain of the flesh is naught to that of the heart