Volkhavaar

This sight was terrible, more terrible than words convey, for words are cowards as men are, and hide things as men do.

Having failed, do you accept failure, saying only: Well, it is so. I will turn to other things? When night comes, do you accept the blackness of it, saying only: Well, it is so. I will turn and wait for morning? Or do you go on striving to light a candle against that dark however often the wind blows out the flame, however often the night returns?

It was as easy to be alone with six kin as it is to be alone by yourself, and maybe easier.

What Is, is, what Was, was, but what is To Be, may be otherwise.

Who knew? If the illusion is quite perfect, who is to say it is not real?

The irony of her story is merely that her love became, in the end, her motive rather than her goal, the doorway rather than the house.