It's a kind of spiritual snobbery that makes people think they can be happy without money.
Justice lacking passion fails, betrays.
The pressed oil of words can blaze up into music, into image, into the heart and mind's knowledge. The lit and shadowed places within us can be warmed.
Wrong solitude vinegars the soul, right solitude oils it.
Between certainty and the real, an ancient enmity.
Some questions cannot be answered. They become familiar weights in the hand, round stones pulled from the pocket, unyielding and cool.
Near even a candle, the visible heat. So it is with a person in love.
There's a terrible delight in watching a rival sink without a trace
The entrances I make now, when we kick in the door of a high-risk warrant, eighty percent of the homes we're kicking into, it's dark in there for some reason. That's just the way the bad guys are doing it now. So now all of my sights are night sights; I've also put special light rails on the bottom of all of them so I can put a special light on them that's combination white lightlaser.
There are lots of people I admire and respect, but I don't necessarily want to be like them. I'm to happy being myself.
I'm not. . . ' Angharad began, but then she thought. Not what? Not a bad person? Perhaps. But had she never known anger? Never held unkind thoughts? The stranger's observation was valid. No one was innocent of darkness.