Never argue with a pedant over nomenclature. It wastes your time and annoys the pedant.
One corner of his mouth crooked up, then the quirk vanished in a thoughtful pursing of his lips. “He’s bisexual, you know.” He took a delicate sip of his wine. “Was bisexual,” she corrected absently, looking fondly across the room. “Now he’s monogamous.” Vordarian choked, sputtering.
If you can’t do what you want, do what you can.
People give themselves to you, in their talking, and in other ways, if you are quiet and patient and let them, and not in such a damned rush to give yourself to them you go bat-blind and deaf.
Do it for yourself. The universe will be around to collect its cut later.
If you’re trying to take a roomful of people by surprise, it’s a lot easier to hit your targets if you don’t yell going through the door.
Any man can be kind when he is comfortable. I’d always thought kindness a trivial virtue, therefore. But when we were hungry, thirsty, sick, frightened, with our deaths shouting at us, in the heart of horror, you were still as unfailingly courteous as a gentleman at ease before his own hearth.
History does not so much repeat as echo, I suppose.
All the worry people expend over not existing after they die, yet nary a one ever seems to spare a moment to worry about not having existed before they were conceived. Or at all. After all, one sperm over and we would have been our sisters, and we’d never have been missed.
Well, what is a blessing but a curse from another point of view?
Some people grow into their dreams, instead of out of them.
Guard your honor. Let your reputation fall where it will. And outlive the bastards.
There is no more hollow feeling than to stand with your honor shattered at your feet while soaring public reputation wraps you in rewards. That’s soul-destroying. The other way around is merely very, very irritating.
A weapon is a device for making your enemy change his mind.
I’d storm heaven for you, if I knew where it was.
I’ve got forward momentum. There’s no virtue in it. It’s just a balancing act. I don’t dare stop.
His outflung hands traced over the threads of his rug, passed loop by loop through some patient woman’s hands. Or maybe she hadn’t been patient. Maybe she’d been tired, or irritated, or distracted, or hungry, or angry. Maybe she had been dying. But her hands had kept moving, all the same.
One foot in front of the other, wasn’t that the grownup way of solving problems? Surely he ought to be a grownup at his age.
The world is made by the people who show up for the job.
Mia Maz glanced aside in concern at his muffled snort. “Are you all right?” “Yes. Sorry,” he whispered. “I’m just having an attack of limericks.” Her eyes widened, and she bit her lip; only her deepening dimple betrayed her. “Shhh,” she said, with feeling.