Great anguish lies in wait for those who long too greatly. - Mary Renault

We are weary of ourselves, and have dreamed a king. If now the gods have sent us one, let us not ask him to be more than mortal.

It had come to him that no one would ever look from these eyes but he: that among all the lives, numerous beyond imagination, in which he might have lived, he was this one, pinned to this single point of infinity; the rest always to be alien, he to be I.

In hatred is love, we grow like the thing we brood upon. What we loathe, we graft into our very soul.