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“The whole of modern so-called civilised existence is an attempt to deny reality insofar as it exists. When did Don last look at the stars, when did Norman last get soaked in a rainstorm? The stars as far as these people are concerned are the Manhattan-pattern!” He jerked his thumb at a window beyond which the city’s treasure-house of coloured light glimmered gaudily.

—Blessed are they who expect the worst, for they shall get it!

Is there worse evil than that which goes in the mask of good?

—If I ever get good at hospital politics, I think I shall start to hate myself.

Did you never hear it said that what sets the genius apart from the plodder is the ability to see what happens and not what he expects to happen?

Evil cannot be conquered by wishing.

A crown is a pitiless master, harsher than the staff of a pig-keeper; while a staff bears up, a crown weighs down, beyond the strength of any man to wear it lightly.

Are these signs of hope, or do we deceive ourselves by wishing them to be?

“Long ago I yearned to be a hero without knowing, in truth, what a hero was. Now, perhaps, I understand it a little better. A grower of turnips or a shaper of clay, a Commot farmer or a king — every man is a hero if he strives more for others than for himself alone. Once,” he added, “you told me that the seeking counts more than the finding. So, too, must the striving count more than the gain.

“Once, I hoped for a glorious destiny,” Taran went on, smiling at his own memory. “That dream has vanished with my childhood; and though a pleasant dream it was fit only for a child. I am well content as an Assistant Pig-Keeper.”

Their lusts had known no limit until now. They had gorged themselves, surpassed their own imaginings again and again, recklessly squandering what they had supposed to be inexhaustible; they had been like children in a house filled with sweetmeats, destroying what they could not consume. Until now.

Now it was as though the planet itself was sick of their arrogance.

“How then?” Taran asked. “Could The Book of Three deceive you?”

“No, it could not.” Dallben said. “The book is thus called because it tells all three parts of our lives: the past, the present, and the future. But it could as well be called a book of ‘if.’ If you had failed at your tasks; if you had followed an evil path; if you had been slain; if you had not chosen as you did — a thousand ‘ifs,’ my boy, and many times a thousand. The Book of Three can say no more than ‘if’ until at the end, of all things that might have been, one alone becomes what really is. For the deeds of a man, not the words of a prophecy, are what shape his destiny.”

—Why can I never visualize things turning out better as clearly as I can visualize the catastrophes I scraped past by a hair? “Everything for the best in the best of all possible worlds!” Hah!