Soldiers are issued armour for their flesh and bones, but they must fashion their own for their souls. Piece by piece.

I mean the only thing us dead soldiers got in common is that none of us was good enough or lucky enough to survive the fight. We're a host of failures.

The idea that an author can extricate her or his own ongoing life experience from the tale being written is a conceit of very little worth.

Curious,” Bauchelain said. “What is it you wish us to do for you?” “Usurp the king,” Imid Factalo said. “Usurp, as in depose.” “Right.” “Depose, as in remove.” “Yes.” “Remove, as in kill.

Do mortal fools still measure the increments leading to their deaths, wagering pleasures against costs, persisting in the delusion that deeds have value, that the world and all the gods sit in judgment over every decision made or not made?

The future can ever promise but one thing and one thing only: surprises.

You’re loitering, citizen.” “Actually, I was hesitating.