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“Advice,” chuckled Doña Vorchenza. “The years play a sort of alchemical trick, transmuting one’s mutterings to a state of respectability. Give advice at forty and you’re a nag. Give it at seventy and you’re a sage.”

Every active deed is etched in the matrix of passivity.

“I say again, impossible.”

“And I correct you again. Difficult. ‘Difficult’ and ‘impossible’ are cousins often mistaken for one another, with very little in common.”

By rights he was still outrunning his age, still ahead of most men nearing threescore years, but he knew deep in his heart that there would never be any way of running fast enough.

I have always found the presumptions of others to be the best possible disguise—haven’t you?

Time’s a river, Locke, and we’ve always drifted farther down it than we think.

“Here's to charming losers, I suppose.“

“If only we knew where to find some.“

I make it a point never to trust men with weapons to my windpipe.

In time, you’ll come to understand that a state like ours cannot afford to offer up a show of weakness for honesty’s sake; Duke Nicovante charges me with vouchsafing his security, not his conscience.

“‘Commonly thought,’ you say? Many things are commonly thought, but perhaps not commonly thought all the way through.”

“You needed a bath,“ Jean interrupted. “You were covered in self-pity.“

When you’re a priest, people tend to see the robe rather than the man.