We go, in winter's biting wind, On many a short-lived winter day, With aching back but willing mind To dig and double dig the clay.

We go in withering July To ply the hard incessant hoe; Panting beneath the brazen sky We sweat and grumble, but we go.

One's homesickness for Heaven finds at least an inn there; and it's an inn on the right road.

Poor comfort all comfort: once what the mouse had spared Was enough, was delight, there where the heart was at home

The lily in splendor, the vine in her grace, The fox in the forest, all had their desire, As then I had mine, in the place that was happy and poor.

Without appreciation (for yourself, others and life itself) there is no growth

Mark this on your wall and remember it always: The greatest single most powerful enemy to success is success itself.

...it begins with isolation - demons always inhabit desolate places...

Home they brought her warrior dead.

I don't keep anything on paper (except within an actual novel in progress, at which point I need a file to keep track of plot threads, characters, and so on).

Life breaks us all but in the end we are stronger in the broken places.

A man in armour is his armour's slave.

We have our whole lives to try and get a glimpse of what that could be, in our own life. It's so exciting.

It's kind of like when you look at yourself in the mirror and you say your name. And it gets to a point where none of it seems real.

One lion thinks it's just hilarious to tackle us. He's very funny about it... and we always know when it will happen.