Your father calls you to his court. You need not pack. You go garbed in glorious raiment. He waits eagerly by his palace doors to welcome you, and has prepared a place at the high table, by his side, in the company of the great-souled, honored, and best-beloved.

Not that I haven't leaped up into the blinding light of competence now and then. It's sustaining the altitude that defeats me.

Guard your honor. Let your reputation fall where it will. And outlive the bastards.

When the souls rise up in glory, yours shall not be shunned nor sunderered, but shall be the prize of the gods' gardens. Even your darkness shall be treasured then, and all your pain made holy.

If you can't be seven feet tall, be seven feet smart.

You have to be careful who you let define your good.

The good face pain. But the great? They embrace it.