Patroclus, he says, Patroclus. Patroclus. Over and over until it is sound only.

He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.

In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.

When he died, all things soft and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.

And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.

But is it not a sort of genius to cut always to the heart?

She wants you to be a god, " I told him."I know." His face twisted with embarrassment, and in spite of itself my heart lightened. It was such a boyish response. And so human. Parents, everywhere.

Patroclus, ' he said. He was always better with words than I.

For who can be ashamed to lose to such beauty?

Wealth and reputation were the things our people had always killed for.

There is no honour in betraying your friends.

No one escapes from life alive.

One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the same day as we do ourselves.

Yet 'Reality' is just whatever illusion we believe in

The best things in life are the things that we cannot buy with money.

There must be a bad chromosome somewhere in man that urges him to wound that which he can't conquer, deface that which is more beautiful, misunderstand and befoul the work of another.

You must not change one thing one pebble one grain of sand until you know what good and evil will follow on that act.

Art is form struggling to wake from the nightmare of nature.

Zen is...joyous iconoclasm which respects nothing and no one, particularly itself.

There is a statue of limitation.