Something ... made him feel small, not in the way of orphans or beggars or children, but in a good way. In the way of souls.

Achamian tossed his hands skyward in dismay. “Foolish boy! How many faiths are there? How many competing beliefs? And you would murder another on the slender hope that yours is somehow the only one?

I wanted a literate, socially intricate, and cosmopolitan world - something I could have fun destroying.

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

Gods are but greater demons, the Cishaurim said, hungers across the surface of eternity, wanting only to taste the clarity of our souls. Can you not see this?

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.

To indulge it is to breed it. To punish it is to feed it. Madness knows no bridle but the knife.