His outflung hands traced over the threads of his rug, passed loop by loop through some patient woman's hands. Or maybe she hadn't been patient. Maybe she'd been tired, or irritated, or distracted, or hungry, or angry. Maybe she had been dying. But her hands had kept moving, all the same.

A true Vor, Miles told himself severely, does not bury his face in his liegewoman's breasts and cry--even if he is at a convenient height for it.

Suicidal glory is the luxury of the irresponsible.

Endure pain, find joy, and make your own meaning, because the universe certainly isn't going to supply it.

Like integrity, love of life was not a subject to be studied, it was a contagion to be caught. And you had to catch it from someone who had it.

Anything worth achieving is worth overachieving.

If the truth doesn't save us, what does that say about us?