The bitterness of joy lies in the knowledge that it cannot last. Nor should joy last beyond a certain season, for, after that season, even joy would become merely habit.

I held out my book. It was precious to me, as were all the things I'd written; even where I despised their inadequacy there was not one I would disown. Each tore its way from my entrails. Each had shortened my life, killed me with its own special little death.

I hate the way, once you start to know someone, care about them, their behavior can distress you, even when it's unreasonable and not your fault, even if you were really trying to be careful, tactful.

We all have our dreams. May we find them, and God have mercy on us when we do.

It's lovely. I hate it.

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

It was the forest’s fault. Those two handsome woodcutters. An evil place, the forest, everyone knew it, full of temptations and imps...

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

Whatever the hell I am, I am Me.

I'm not very good at being alive. Sometimes I despair of ever mastering it, getting it right. When I'm old, perhaps.

The humble were the elect of God. Did not the priests teach so, in their gemmed, kingly robes, from their towering pulpits?

The kind of teacher who never learned anything herself. Or taught anything, except sarcasm or fear.

and their days make no story for they were good and joyful and without event

Israbel smiled once more. It was difficult to take your gaze away from her mouth - unless you looked into her eyes; and then you could only look at those... ("Israbel")

Azhrarn the Beautiful," said Chuz lovingly, "it is your beautiful madness I have come to see.

Azhrarn, Lord of Terrors, terrified.

Standing by the frozen glass, he stared down at the icy, barely lit streets running towards the river Seine, the bell-clanging local church, then to the sky like black lead. ("Israbel")

Men could not have too much. Ecstasy and vulnerability belonged in the same dish. The fear the cup would be snatched away was what gave the wine its savor and as Zhirem’s cup was sure, so was his joylessness… to die is a fear, but to live is a fear, also.

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