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

Arthur’s fingers tighten on the silver-braided hilt: see how naturally it fits his hand! He pulls. The Sword of Britain slides from its stone sheath. The ease with which this is accomplished shines in the wonder in Arthur’s eyes. He truly cannot believe what he has done. Nor can he comprehend what it means.

That Arthur has not always existed seems odd to me. Like the wind on the moors and the wild winter stars, surely he has always lived . . . and always will.

Three things cannot be called back: the arrow when it speeds from the bow, the milk when the churn is upturned, the word when it leaps from the tongue.

It had long been an ambition to find the line of force that might lead to the Holy Land in the time of Christ.

Knowledge is a burden--once taken up, it can never be discarded.

Truth is a constant delight to those that love her; such beauty holds no power to offend.