To be both rich and handsome was bad enough. But to have a voice like honey over warm bread on top of that was simply inexcusable.

You,” I said, “are sweet music in a distant room.

Each woman is like an instrument, waiting to be learned, loved, and finely played, to have at last her own true music made.

Everything said, you couldn't hope for a nicer day to have a half dozen ex-soldiers with hunting bows relieve you of everything you owned.

All explicit knowledge is translated knowledge, and all translation is imperfect.

Metal rusts, music lasts forever.

You have to be a bit of a liar to tell a story the right way.