I think maybe we die every day. Maybe we're born new each dawn, a little changed, a little further on our own road. When enough days stand between you and the person you were, you're strangers. Maybe that's what growing up is. Maybe I have grown up.

There is something brittle in me that will break before it bends. Perhaps if the [the enemy] had brought a smaller army I might have had the sense to run. But he overdid it.

It never pays to walk blindly. Especially not in your own castle where familiarity hides so much - even when we have the eyes to see.

Confusing the author and the character seems to be a popular and rather unsophisticated reaction to books.

We die a little every day and by degrees we’re reborn into different men, older men in the same clothes, with the same scars.

Few things worth having can be got easily.

Memory is all we are. Moments and feelings, captured in amber, strung on filaments of reason. Take a man’s memories and you take all of him. Chip away a memory at a time and you destroy him as surely as if you hammered nail after nail through his skull.