First The Priests Arrive. Then The Conquistadores.

Blackthorne, Beside The Gates, Was Still Turmoiled By His Boundless Joy At Her Reprieve And He Remembered How His Own Will Had Been Stretched That Night Of His Near-seppuku, When He Had Had To Get Up As A Man And Walk Home As A Man Unsupported, And Became Samurai. And He Watched Her, Despising The Need For This Courage, Yet Understanding It, Even Honoring It.

The More I Know, The More Sure I Am I Know So Little. The Eternal Paradox.

How Baffling It Was That Even The Most Cunning And Clever People Would Frequently See Only What They Wanted To See, And Would Rarely Look Beyond The Thinnest Of Facades. Or They Would Ignore Reality, Dismissing It As The Facade. And Then, When Their Whole World Fell To Pieces...they Would Tear Their Topknots Or Rend Their Clothes And Bewail Their Karma, Blaming Gods Or Kami Or Luck Or Their Lords Or Husbands Or Vassals-anything Or Anyone-but Never Themselves.

Only By Living At The Edge Of Death Can You Understand The Indescribable Joy Of Life - Shogun.

There Is No Dignity For Either The Sufferer Or The Torturer