Hindsight Is The Historian's Necessary Vice.

The Fate Of Peoples Is Made Like This, Two Men In Small Rooms. Forget The Coronations, The Conclaves Of Cardinals, The Pomp And Processions. This Is How The World Changes: A Counter Pushed Across A Table, A Pen Stroke That Alters The Force Of A Phrase, A Woman's Sigh As She Passes And Leaves On The Air A Trail Of Orange Flower Or Rose Water; Her Hand Pulling Close The Bed Curtain, The Discreet Sigh Of Flesh Against Flesh.

Write A Book You'd Like To Read. If You Wouldn't Read It, Why Would Anybody Else? Don't Write For A Perceived Audience Or Market. It May Well Have Vanished By The Time Your Book's Ready.

Imagination Only Comes When You Privilege The Subconscious, When You Make Delay And Procrastination Work For You.

He Turns To The Painting. "i Fear Mark Was Right." "who Is Mark?" "a Silly Little Boy Who Runs After George Boleyn. I Once Heard Him Say I Looked Like A Murderer." Gregory Says, "did You Not Know?

[margaret Thatcher] Was Pretending That Running A Country Was Like Running A Household, Which She Knew Wasn't True.