Arthur, Their Young King, Like A Hero

The Truth Is Not So Good A Story.

Lancelot: Morgaine, Morgaine - Kinswoman, I Have Never Seen You Weep. Morgaine: Are You Like So Many Men, Afraid Of A Woman's Tears? (...) Lancelot: No (...) It Makes Them Seem So Much More Real, So Much More Vulnerable - Women Who Never Weep Frighten Me, Because I Know They Are Stronger Than I, And I Am Always A Little Afraid Of What They Will Do.

Rome Was Mud And Smoky Skies; The Rank Smell Of The Tiber And The Exotically Spiced Cooking Fires Of A Hundred Different Nationalities. Rome Was White Marble And Gilding And Heady Perfumes; The Blare Of Trumpets And The Shrieking Of Market-women And The Eternal, Sub-aural Hum Of More People, Speaking More Languages Than Gaius Had Ever Imagined Existed, Crammed Together On Seven Hills Whose Contours Had Long Ago Disappeared Beneath This Encrustation If Humanity. Rome Was The Pulsing Heart Of The World.

I Know All About Endings. It Is Beginnings That Elude Me.

[t]he House Of Maidens Was For Little Girls Whose Whole Duty In Life Was To Spill Things, Break Things, And Forget Things . . . Until They Had Spilled, Broken, And Forgotten Everything They Could, And Thus Made Room In Their Lives For A Little Wisdom.