Wars of small kingdoms and forgotten lands, what do chessmen dream of in the dark?

I am exceedingly angry for no good reason.

Why? is the boy's motto, why does, why is, why not? Food, weather, time, fires, sea and season, clothes and cars and people; it's all grist to the mill of why.

But hands are sacred things. Touch is personal, fingers of love, feelers of blind eyes, tongues of those who cannot talk.

I have faced Death. I have been caught in the wild weed tangles of Her hair, seen the gleam of her jade eyes. I will go when it is time - no choice! - but now I want life.

You want to know about anybody? See what books they read, and how they've been read.

The company you keep at death is, of all things, most dependent on chance.