War is not its own end, except in some catastrophic slide into absolute damnation. It's peace that's wanted. Some better peace than the one you started with.

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

When I go down into the ground at last, as God is my judge, I pray my best-beloved may have better to say of me than, "He didn't hit me."

History does not so much repeat as echo, I suppose.

The will to be stupid is a very powerful force, but there are always alternatives.

The gods' most savage curses come upon us as answers to our own prayers. Prayer is a dangerous business.

Mia Maz glanced aside in concern at his muffled snort. "Are you all right?" "Yes. Sorry," he whispered. "I'm just having an attack of limericks." Her eyes widened, and she bit her lip; only her deepening dimple betrayed her. "Shhh," she said, with feeling.