In war everybody is a prisoner.

A profound love between two people involves, after all, the power and chance of doing profound hurt.

The island of Gont, a single mountain that lifts its peak a mile above the storm-racked Northeast Sea, is a land famous for wizards.

The thing about working with time, instead of against it, he thought, is that it is not wasted. Even pain counts.

The future has become uninhabitable. Such hopelessness can arise, I think, only from an inability to face the present, to live in the present, to live as a responsible being among other beings in this sacred world here and now, which is all we have, and all we need, to found our hope upon.

To hear, one must be silent.

Not even need and love can defeat fate.