Kingdom Cons

A estas alturas prefería la verdad que la historia verdadera.

...[E]xpertise was like underwear, something concealed out of modesty that you were almost unaware of.

From one day to the next the seasons had changed and a dense, golden pollen floated in the air, but She walked quickly, as tho to flee the dust of younger days, as tho to avoid anything that might tie her down.

Amazing, he thought; women are something else, and all you have to do is get over yourself to see how they shine.

They loved one another like people lingering over every instant, with the certainty that it was the only way to be alive.

Seems to me like you're pure passion, and if one day you have to choose between your passion and your obligation, Artist, then you are truly fucked.

Who was the King? An allpowerful. A ray of light who had lit up the margins because it couldn't be any other way as long as it wasn't revealed what he was. A sad sack, a man betrayed. A single drop in the sea of men with stories. A man with no power over the terse fabric inside the artist's head. (The Artist allowed himself to feel the power of an order different from that of the Court, the skill with which he detached words from things and created his own sovereign texture and volume. A separate reality.)