What was England, before Wolsey? A little offshore island, poor and cold. - Hilary Mantel

He never sees More—a star in another firmament, who acknowledges him with a grim nod—without wanting to ask him, what’s wrong with you? Or what’s wrong with me? Why does everything you know, and everything you’ve learned, confirm you in what you believed before? Whereas in my case, what I grew up with, and what I thought I believed, is chipped away a little and a little, a fragment then a piece and then a piece more. With every month that passes, the corners are knocked off the certainties of this world: and the next world too. Show me where it says, in the Bible, “Purgatory.” Show me where it says “relics, monks, nuns.” Show me where it says “Pope.”

Have you ever observed that when a man gets a son he takes all the credit, and when he gets a daughter he blames his wife? And if they do not breed at all, we say it is because her womb is barren. We do not say it is because his seed is bad.

The king turns, he looks at him, astonished. “You are not of Thomas More’s opinion, are you?”
He waits. He cannot imagine what the king is going to say.
“La chasse. He thinks it barbaric.”
“Oh, I see. No, Your Majesty, I favor any sport that’s cheaper than battle.”