Christ, It's So Good To Be Alive.

What Are Clouds, But An Excuse For The Sky? What Is Life, But An Escape From Death?

All Stories Have A Beginning, A Middle And An Ending, And If They're Any Good, The Ending Is A Beginning.

Isn't Man But A Blossom Taken By Wind, And Only The Mountains And The Sea And The Stars And This Land Of The Gods Everlasting?

How Can A Man Be So Brave And So Stupid, So Gentle And So Cruel, So Warming And So Detestable -- All At The Same Time?

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.