The Bards Sing Of Love,

There Are Seasons Of Our Lives When Nothing Seems To Be Happening, When No Smoke Betrays A Burned Town Or Homestead And Few Tears Are Shed For The Newly Dead. I Have Learned Not To Trust Those Times, Because If The World Is At Peace Then It Means Someone Is Planning War.

So Far It's 43 Books In 25 Years.

I'm Fortunate That The Books Sell, But Even More Fortunate To Live In Chatham, To Be Very Happily Married And To Have, On The Whole, A Fairly Clear Conscience.

We Make Children And Wealth And Amass Land And Build Halls And Assemble Armies And Give Great Feasts, But Only One Thing Survives Us. Reputation.

Madness Ends Sometimes. The Gods Decree It, Not Man.