“Worry is only rust on the blade.”
“If it rusts, it can never be trustedIf its owner fails to control it, it will cut himYes, pride is like a blade”
“He wanted to give me a blade? What's wrong with that?”“Blades,” he whispered, “and sheaths go together. And your sheath will only ever hold my blade.”
“what makes a work of fiction safe from larvae and rust is not its social importance but its art, only its art”
“. . . if gold rust, what then will iron do?/ For if a priest be foul in whom we trust/ No wonder that a common man should rust. . . .”
“Waiting is the rust of the soul.”