Chaos needs no allies, for it dwells like a poison in every one of us.

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.

The soul knows no greater anguish than to take a breath that begins with love and ends with grief.

The notion of evil for its own sake strikes me as boring -- all these Dark Lords intent on creating wastelands packed with enslaved victims... for what?

Ah, Meese has brought us her finest goblets! A moment, whilst Kruppe sweeps out cobwebs, insect husks and other assorted proofs of said goblets' treasured value.

The only death I fear is dying ignorant.

All that we were has led us to where we are, but tells us little of where we’re going. Memories are a weight you can never shrug off.