The soul is a magician. Only living flesh hampers it.

I will draw you back to me. You shall see. By a chain of stars.

What is any of this to us? Time is endless and ours. Love and Death are only the games we play in it.

Maidens who stay maidens turn into saints. Old women become sorceresses. Tough jobs, both of these.

Hope is a punishable offense. The verdict is always death; one more death of the heart.

Writers tell stories better, because they've had more practice, but everyone has a book in them. Yes, that old cliche.

No one more cynical than an idealist.