“A rose by any other nameWould get the blameFor being what it is--The colour of a kiss,The shadow of a flame.A rose may earn another name,So call it love;So call it love I will,And love is like the sea,Which changes constantly,And yet is stillThe same.”

“What is any of this to us? Time is endless and ours. Love and Death are only the games we play in it.”

“Are not all loves secretly the same? A hundred flowers sprung from a single root.”

“It's lovely. I hate it.”

“When I write, I go to live inside the book. By which I mean, mentally I can experience everything I’m writing about. I can see it, hear its sounds, feel its heat or rain. The characters become better known to me than the closest family or friends. This makes the writing-down part very simple most of the time. I only need to describe what’s already there in front of me. That said, it won’t be a surprise if I add that the imagined worlds quickly become entangled with the so-called reality of this one.Since I write almost every day, and I think (and dream) constantly about my work, it occurs to me I must spend more time in all these places than here.”

“Azhrarn the Beautiful," said Chuz lovingly, "it is your beautiful madness I have come to see.”

“She did this not out of fear of him, but out of pity. Because she had come to see the ultimate terrible truth behind all others. Which was that the stupidity and avarice and hatred of mankind had finally begun to make him also stupid, avaricious, hating, and cruel beyond reason. Even though he was a god, a god of love.”