“The older I grow the more I become certain that it makes no difference what words we use to tell the same truths.”

“Beware what you speak,' said the Merlin very softly, 'for indeed the words we speak make shadows of what is to come, and by speaking them we bring them to pass, my king.”

“But this is my truth; I who am Morgaine tell you these things, Morgaine who was in later days called Morgan le Fay.”

“Lancelot: Morgaine, Morgaine - kinswoman, I have never seen you weep.Morgaine: Are you like so many men, afraid of a woman's tears? (...)Lancelot: No (...) it makes them seem so much more real, so much more vulnerable - women who never weep frighten me, because I know they are stronger than I, and I am always a little afraid of what they will do.”

“For this is the thing the priests do not know, with their One God and One Truth; that there is no such thing as a true tale. Truth has many faces and the truth is like the old road to Avalon; it depends on your own will, and your own thoughts, whither the road will take you, and whether, at the end, you arrive at the Holy Isle of Eternity or among the priests with their bells and their death and their Satan and hell and damnation...but perhaps I am unjust even to them. Even the Lady of the Lake, who hated a priest's robe as she would have hated a poisonous viper, and with good cause too, chid me once for speaking evil of the God.'For all the Gods are one god,' she said to me then, as she had said many times before, and as I have said to my own novices many times, and as every priestess who comes after me will say again, 'and all the Goddesses are one Goddess, and their is only one Initiator. And to every man his own truth, and the God within.'And so, perhaps, the truth winds somewhere between the road to Glastonbury, Isle of the Priests, and the road to Avalon, lost forever in the mists of the Summer Sea.But this is my truth, I who am Morgaine tell you these things, Morgaine who was in later days called Morgan le Fay.”

“What sorrow is like to the sorrow of one who is alone?Once I dwelt in the company of the king I loved well,And my arm was heavy with the weight of the rings he gave,And my heart weighed down with the gold of his love.The face the king is like the sun to those who surrounded,.But now my heart is emptyAnd I wander along throughout the world.The groves take on their blossoms,The trees and meadows grow fairBut the cuckoo, saddest of singers,Cries forth the only sorrow of the exile,And now my heart hoes wandering,In search of what I shall never see more;All faces are alike to me if I cannot see the face of my king,And all countries are alike to me When I cannot see the fair fields and meadows of my home.So I shall arise and follow my heart in its wanderingFor what is the fair meadow of home to meWhen I cannot see the face of my kingAnd the weight on my arm is but a band of goldWhen the heart is empty of the weight of love.And so I shall go roaming Over the fishers' roadAnd the road of the great whale And beyond the country of the waveWith none to bear me companyBut the memory of those I lovedAnd the songs I sang out of a full heart,And the cuckoo's cry in memory.”

“The road that is built in hope is more pleasant to the traveler than the road built in despair, even though they both lead to the same destination.”