Karen Lord

Paama sat up slowly, moving as cautiously as if facing a lion who had just declared his intention not to pounce, but to have a friendly chat instead.

“Never?” he said, dismayed.

“Never,” she reiterated firmly.

He nodded, pretending to be resigned, but secretly he thought that there were always ways to get around “never.”

“Ever wonder if you’ve done the right thing?” I asked him finally.

“Frequently,” he replied. “Legalities notwithstanding, to not wonder indicates a dangerous lack of awareness of the nearly infinite array of choices presented by life.”

It was a common characteristic among the warriors—no fear of death, and only pride for their scars, but little thought of all that could happen in between those two extremes.

Getting information out of them was like extracting gold from ore—a lot of labour and time, and why bother to do it when you know there’s a store just around the corner?

The ability to know another’s mind does not preclude the likelihood of misunderstanding it.

I don’t want easy. I want true.