More than one philosopher has claimed that we ever remain children, far beneath the indurated layers that make up the armour of adulthood. Armour encumbers, restricts the body and soul within it. But it also protects. Blows are blunted. Feelings lose their edge, leaving us to suffer naught but a plague of bruises, and, after a time, bruises fade.

I was needed, but I myself did not need. I had followers, but not allies, and only now do I understand the difference. And it is vast.

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

It is an extraordinary act of courage,' said Tulas Shorn, 'to come to know a stranger's pain.

All they get around here is stories. Stories don't make you bleed. Stories don't make you go hungry, don't give you sore feet. When you're young smelling of pigshit and convinced there ain't a weapon in all the damn world that's going to hurt you, all stories do is make you want to be part of them.

For we are all bound in stories, and as the years pile up they turn to stone, layer upon layer, building our lives.

A story invites both writer and reader into a kind of superficial ease: we want to slide along, pleasingly entertained, lost in the fictional dream.