I'd storm heaven for you, if I knew where it was.

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

Poets speak of hope in ladies smiles, but give me a smirk any day, I say.

My home is not a place, it is people.

As the week wore on, Ivan contemplated the merits of inertia as a problem-solving technique with growing favor

"It was suicide, wasn't it?" "In an involuntary sort of way," said Vorob'yev. "These Cetagandan political suicides can get awfully messy, when the principal won't cooperate." "Thirty-two stab wounds in the back, worst case of suicide they ever saw?" murmured Ivan, clearly fascinated by the gossip. "Exactly, my lord."

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