When you become my age, you realize it’s not about the thing done. It’s the beauty of the plan.[to Oliver]
What is the universe without each sunrise? That’s how we judge our gods, not on their math but their poetry.
We can make anything we fancy in this arena of infinite promise, and this is what we come up with? Weapons? War? Surely we have more imagination than that.
Is it such a terrible thing to feel sorrow for your enemy? What is he, except a brother with another name?