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.

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

I am in limbo, and in limbo there are no races, no prizes, no changes, no chances. There are merely degrees of endurance, and endurance never was my strong point.

I am exceedingly angry for no good reason.

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

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

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