It is not everyday that one learns an entire militia has sworn unbeknownest to obey you
A nervous silence loosens tongues
If I had to fall from Cassiel's grace, at least I know it took a courtesan worthy of Kings to do it.
The harp sounds at each passing breeze, but that does not mean the tune is masterfully played.
There are patterns which emerge in one's life, circling and returning anew, an endless variation on a theme. So musicians say the greatest sonatas are composed; whether or not it is true, I do not know, but of a surety I have seen it emerge in the tapestry of my life.
I preferred a hard truth to a well-meant lie.
That was the problem ... with trusting to the written word ... We were human, mortal and fallible. We forgot, we made errors, argued ambiguities, and twisted meanings to suit our own ends. And in doing so, mayhap we reshaped the gods themselves.
Happiness is the highest form of wisdom.
Grief heals ... unshed tears fester like a canker in the soul.
Pain redeems all. It is the awareness of life, a reminder of death.
For this too I learned, that a storyteller's tale may end, but history goes on always. These events, so distant in legend, play a part in shaping the very events we witness about us, each and every day.
Surely if we knew what bitterness fate held in store, we would shrink back in fear and let the cup of life pass us by untasted.
We may not have demon fathers dangling offers of infernal power before us, but everyone understands what it means to struggle with temptation or resist the urge to give in to our baser natures.
Fear and lies fester in darkness. The truth may wound, but it cuts clean.
Night breeds its own sort of anticipation.
Genius requires an audience.
It is a comfort, in anguish, to be reminded of the scale of one's own troubles against the mighty breadth of the world.
There is no folly like the folly of the wise.
It is not wise to meddle with D'Angelines in matters of love.
I would that I could have stopped time and preserved that day forever. It was a perfect day. There was the shadow of sorrow, yes. It would always be there. But that was the nature of life. The bright mirror and the dark, reflecting one another. And today there was so much brightness.
The tapestry of history is woven of many threads.
There are those who hold that there is a pattern to all that is said and done in this world, that no thing happens without reason nor out of time. As to that, I cannot speak, for I have seen too many threads cut short to believe it, but of a surety, I have seen too the weft of my fate shuttled on the loom. If there is a pattern, I do not think there is anyone among us who can stand at a great enough distance to discern it; yet I will not say that it is not so.
It's funny, because in deference to conventional wisdom, I spent my struggling writer years trying to suppress my naturally baroque literary voice and write clean, spare prose. I finally gave up and embraced my baroque tendencies when I wrote the Kushiel series.
Nothing spoils idle pleasure like too much awareness
There is as much deception in noise as there is in silence
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