The black of the ocean waves was the color of the sorrow in my breast, a sorrow that was never far away and always visible.

God himself had sent me away. I was truly now among the damned.

I was once a man, not a great man, not a saintly man, but a good man, and a man nonetheless.

I did not choose to be a monster—a shell of a man—half-human, half-fiend. I am a tiefling. I am what I am.

My life was going exactly where I wanted it to until the Devil showed up.

Iona stared at me for a long time. “You are going to leave me a widow before I have a chance to become a bride.

Then it kissed me—not as a man would kiss a lover, not with tenderness or even passion. This was a kiss that stole the soul of men. Revulsion at this creature’s kiss was instantly replaced by the warmth stealing through my veins, as if my missing blood were being replenished and contrived to heal me. I craved to keep kissing the beast. My entire being awakened to that kiss feeding me ecstasy, feeding me life.

If I could mimic the dynamic of any Shakespearean marriage, I’d choose to mimic the Macbeths—before the murder, ruthless ambition, and torturous descents into madness and death, that is.

And now about the cauldron singLike elves and fairies in a ring,Enchanting all that you put in.

I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none

My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.

Be bloody, bold, and resolute. Laugh to scornThe power of man, for none of woman bornShall harm Macbeth.

Nought’s had, all’s spent, where our desire is got without content.

I have no spurTo prick the sides of my intent, but onlyVaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itselfAnd falls on the other.

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.

The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.

The Weird Sisters, hand in hand,Posters of the sea and land,Thus do go, about, about,Thrice to thine, thrice to mine,And thrice again to make up nine.Peace, the charm's wound up.

All causes shall give way: I am in bloodStepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more,Returning were as tedious as go o’er.

Your face, my thane, is as a book where menMay read strange matters. To beguile the time,Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,But be the serpent under't.

And nothing is, but what is not.

Life is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing

Turn hell-hound, turn.

What sad, short lives humans live! Each life a short pamphlet written by an idiot! Tut-tut, and all that.

Be not lost So poorly in your thoughts.

Go, prick thy face and over-red thy fear,Thou lily-livered boy.

People see a Macbeth film. They imagine they have seen Macbeth, and don't want to see it again; so when your Mr. Hackett or somebody comes round to act the play, he finds the house empty. That is what has happened to dozens of good plays whose authors have allowed them to be filmed. It shall not happen to mine if I can help it.