And in the city on all sides, the howling of the Hounds rose in an ear-shattering, soul-flailing crescendo. The Lord of Death had arrived, to walk the streets in the City of Blue Fire.

Never, dear gods. Never mess with mortals.

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.

One day, perhaps, you will see for yourself that regrets are as nothing. The value lies in how they are answered.

The lesson of history is that no one learns.

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

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.