In the rare air of that altitude he forgot he was he. One way or another that was the aim of life. Shamans flew outside the self in ecstasy. Other people found love, or causes.

The glue between the horn that pushes and the sinew that pulls. The glue gets ignored, but you know, Ahai, up to half of a bow is glue. I suspect Ogodoi is the son I can least afford to lose.

The animals haven't split apart into what they think and what they feel. They are whole and trust in their instincts.

Tchingis, if you determine this is to be so, who can withstand you? You are poetry after an ugly day, and heal wounds I didn't know I had.

Such coincidences were the rhymes that God wrote into fate, his chords of music.

He only knows a single thing to clasp, that like God can't be split up into pieces: our honesty to one another.

I am a neighbour king to stretch my branches over him, just as Toghrul sheltered me when I was a weed-stalk next to a strong tree.

I'm interested in the moment when two objects collide and generate a third. The third object is where the interesting work is.

She'd loved him as much as he'd let her. More than he'd let her.

Abu Ghraib, as bad as it was, can't be compared to what Saddam was doing to people.

Break, beat up everything, beat and destroy! Everything that's being broken is rubbish and has no right to life! What survives is good

Nations cannot endure in sin.

Through incarnations, some beings do go down. That is to say, they forget. The soul falls into an eclipse of itself and there is a downward progression for a time.

The right thing at a wrong time is a wrong thing.

Because the truth of God is love, conversion to God is conversion to love.

I enjoy reporting on triumph over tragedy.

Bridge is a game for the undivided intellect.