Quotes from Lois McMaster Bujold

If power was an illusion, wasn't weakness necessarily one also?

It was suicide, wasn't it? In an involuntary sort of way, said Vorob'yev. These Cetagandan political suicides can get awfully messy, when the principal won't cooperate. Thirty-two stab wounds in the back, worst case of suicide they ever saw? murmured Ivan, clearly fascinated by the gossip. Exactly, my lord.

But when he's cut, I bleed.

This is important! But you have to stay absolutely cool. I may be completely off-base, and panicking prematurely. I don't think so. I think you're panicking post-maturely. In fact, if you were panicking any later it would be practically posthumously. I've been panicking for days.

You try to give away what you want yourself.

I'd storm heaven for you, if I knew where it was.

It was hell to be so tired, and still care.

Signs of the Bastard's holy presence tend to be unmistakable, to those who know Him. The screaming, the altercations, the people running in circles - all that was lacking was something bursting into flame, and I was not entirely sure for a moment you weren't going to provide that as well.

Money, power, sex ... and elephants.

Lately I have come to believe that the principle difference between Heaven and Hell is the company you keep there....

He wanted to know what I saw in you. I told him... he paused again, and then continued almost shyly, that you poured out honor like a fountain, all around you. That's weird. I don't feel full of honor, or anything else, except maybe confusion. Naturally not. Fountains keep nothing for themselves.

Anything worth achieving is worth overachieving.

The good face pain. But the great? They embrace it.

Do it for yourself. The universe will be around to collect its cut later.

Damn it, he mumbled apologetically, things like this never happened to Vorthalia the Bold. She raised a thoughtful eyebrow. How do you know? The histories of those times were all written by minstrels and poets. You try and think of a word that rhymes with 'bleeding ulcer

the trouble with oaths of the form, death before dishonor , is that eventually, given enough time and abrasion, they separate the world into two sorts of people: the dead, and the forsworn.

My dinner party,' Miles grated. 'It's just breaking up.' And sinking. All souls feared lost.

Your father calls you to his court. You need not pack. You go garbed in glorious raiment. He waits eagerly by his palace doors to welcome you, and has prepared a place at the high table, by his side, in the company of the great-souled, honored, and best-beloved.

I don't duel, boy. I kill as a soldier kills, which is as a butcher kills, as quickly, efficiently, and with as least risk to myself as I can arrange.

One corner of his mouth crooked up, then the quirk vanished in a thoughtful pursing of his lips. He's bisexual, you know. He took a delicate sip of his wine. Was bisexual, she corrected absently, looking fondly across the room. Now he's monogamous. Vordarian choked, sputtering.

So you're saying that I could die at any moment!" "Yes. And this is different from your life yesterday in what way?

I don't confuse greatness with perfection. To be great anyhow is…the higher achievement.

No, no, never send interim reports, said Miles. Only final ones. Interim reports tend to elicit orders. Which you must then either obey, or spend valuable time and energy evading, which you could be using to solve the problem.

Hunting hawks did not belong in cages, no matter how much a man coveted their grace, no matter how golden the bars. They were far more beautiful soaring free. Heartbreakingly beautiful.