There was such a difference, he thought, between the beauty that illuminated, and the beauty that was illuminated.

Consequences lost all purchase when they became mad. And desperation, when pressed beyond anguish, became narcotic.

Something ... made him feel small, not in the way of orphans or beggars or children, but in a good way. In the way of souls.

Hoga Gothyelk no longer felt anger, not truly -- only varieties of sorrow.