He had despised the sorcerer, thinking him one of those mewling souls who forever groaned beneath burdens of their own manufacture.

This is the problem of all great revelations: their significance so often exceeds the frame of our comprehension. We understand only after, always after. Not simply when it is too late, but precisely because it is too late.

Saying 'I could have done more,' Zin, is what marks a man as a man and not a God.

Faith is the truth of passion. Since no passion is more true than another, faith is the truth of nothing.

If the world is a game whose rules are written by the God, and sorcerers are those who cheat and cheat, then who has written the rules of sorcery?

History. Language. Passion. Custom. All these things determine what men say, think, and do. These are the hidden puppet-strings from which all men hang.

What if the choice isn’t between certainties, between this faith and that, but between faith and doubt? Between renouncing the mystery and embracing it?