Perhaps it is how we are made; perhaps words of truth reach us best through the heart, and stories and songs are the language of the heart

Yet, there was once a king worthy of that name. That king was Arthur. It is paramount disgrace of this evil generation that the name of that great king is no longer spoken aloud except in derision. Arthur! He was the fairest flower of our race, Cymry's most noble son, Lord of the Summer Realm, Pendragon of Britain. He wore God's favour like a purple robe. Hear then, if you will, the tale of a true king.

Jump blind and you might find yourself on the rim of a raging volcano, or smack in the middle of a battlefield during a savage war, or on a swiftly tilting ice floe in a tempest-tossed sea.

I knew, even as we touched that I had never wanted anything more in all my life. All my crabbed cravings were as a cupful of pond water beside the vast ocean of longing I felt surging through me. My head swam; my eyes blurred. I burned from the inside out as if my blood and bones were consumed with liquid fire.

Death wears many faces, but it’s stench is always the same.

Words are worth little when the heart refuses to hear. Therefore, judge us by our works.

How is a man fortunate to live in the darkness, brother?" "Why do you wonder?" asked Blaise. "For only he who has lived in darkness truly knows and values the light.