"Organization seemed to be the key. To get huge masses of properly matched men and material to the right place at the right time in the right order with the swiftness required to even grasp survival—to wrestle an infinitely complex and confusing reality into the abstract shape of victory—organization, it seemed, might even outrank courage as a soldierly virtue."

"The deadly weapon seemed unnaturally light and easy in his hand. Something that lethal should have more heft, like a broadsword. Wrong, for murder to be so potentially effortless—one ought to at least have to grunt for it."

"I guess it just doesn’t look very heroic to sneak up behind somebody and shoot them in the back. I can’t help thinking it would be more efficient, though."

"“You know,” he said as they started back up the corridor, “it might be better if we don’t yell, going in. It’s startling. It’s bound to be a lot easier to hit people if they’re not jumping around and ducking behind things.” “They do it that way on the vids,” Mayhew offered."

"I’ve got forward momentum. There’s no virtue in it. It’s just a balancing act. I don’t dare stop."

"What you are is a question only you can answer."

"It’s never too late while you’re breathing."

"Ask a simple question, get a simple brick wall."

"To kill a man, it helps if you can first take away his face. A neat mental trick. Handy for a soldier."

"I would fight the world for you, but I’m damned if I can figure out how to save you from yourself. Go for it, kid."

"Welcome to Barrayar, son. Here you go: have a world of wealth and poverty, wrenching change and rooted history. Have a birth; have two. Have a name. Miles means “soldier,“ but don’t let the power of suggestion overwhelm you. Have a twisted form in a society that loathes and fears the mutations that have been its deepest agony. Have a title, wealth, power, and all the hatred and envy they will draw. Have your body ripped apart and re-arranged. Inherit an array of friends and enemies you never made. Have a grandfather from hell. Endure pain, find joy, and make your own meaning, because the universe certainly isn’t going to supply it. Always be a moving target. Live. Live. Live."

"Children might or might not be a blessing, but to create them and then fail them was surely damnation."

"Let me help. Rhymes with I love you, right?"

"Surely she was mad. She didn’t feel anything, no grief or remorse, though her heart was racing and her breath came in gasps. A shocky combat-high, that immortal rush that made men charge machine guns. So this was what the war-addicts came for."

"I don’t want power. I just object to idiots having power over me."

"Suicidal glory is the luxury of the irresponsible. We’re not giving up. We’re waiting for a better opportunity to win."

"Why have these people so blithely handed me the right to risk their lives? God, I hate command."

"You have a little time yet. You can say a lot in a little time, if you stick to words of one syllable."

"But pain...seems to me an insufficient reason not to embrace life. Being dead is quite painless. Pain, like time, is going to come on regardless. Question is, what glorious moments can you win from life in addition to the pain?"

"Any community’s arm of force—military, police, security—needs people in it who can do the necessary evil, and yet not be made evil by it. To do only the necessary and no more. To constantly question the assumptions, to stop the slide into atrocity."

"Good soldiers never pass up a chance to eat or sleep. They never know how much they’ll be called on to do before the next chance."

"Our children change us…whether they live or not."

"It’s...a transcendental act. Making life. I thought about that when I was carrying Miles. “By this act, I bring one death into the world.” One birth, one death, and all the pain and acts of will between."

"Anyway, she now realized, the military histories she’d read had left out the most important part; they never told what happened to people’s babies."

"“You think like a soldier, m’lady.” Kly sounded approving. Cordelia wrinkled her brow in dismay. What an appalling compliment. The last thing she wanted was to start thinking like a soldier, playing their game by their rules. The hallucinatory military worldview was horribly infectious, though, immersed in it as she was now."

"My home is not a place, it is a person, sir."

"Stupidity, yes, but not unilateral stupidity. Something this screwed up had to have taken a committee."

"“For all you Betans seem soft, you have an appalling cold-blooded streak in you.” “Rational streak, sir. Rationality has its merits. You Barrayarans ought to try it sometime.”"

"“What a barbaric custom.” “Well, we could treat crime as a disease, like you Betans. You know what that’s like. At least we kill a man cleanly, all at once, instead of in bits over the years….I don’t know.” “How will they…do it?” “Beheading. It’s supposed to be almost painless.” “How do they know?” His laugh was totally without humor. “A very cogent question.”"

"You can’t choose between evil and evil, in the dark, by logic. You can only cling to some safety line of principle."

"Check your assumptions, Cordelia thought to herself in amusement. In fact, check your assumptions at the door."

"“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “The dead cannot hurt you. They give you no pain, except that of seeing your own death in their faces. And one can face that, I find.” Yes, he thought, the good face pain. But the great—they embrace it."

"An honor is not diminished for being shared."

"What a strange world you must live in, inside your head."

"A person’s things can be a kind of exterior morphology of their mind."

"I’ve always felt that theists were more ruthless than atheists."

"I’ve always thought—tests are a gift. And great tests are a great gift. To fail the test is a misfortune. But to refuse the test is to refuse the gift, and something worse, more irrevocable, than misfortune. Do you understand what I’m saying?"

"“Ah, yes. I recall from your file that you are some sort of theist.” said the Emperor. “I am an atheist, myself. A simple faith, but a great comfort to me, in these last days.” “Yes, I have often felt the pull of it myself.”"

"Why shouldn’t a madman dream of being sane?"

"“Women shouldn’t be in combat,” said Vorkosigan, grimly glum. “Neither should men, in my opinion.”"

"“So this word of honor business—you believe he never breaks it?” “Well…” “He does, then.” “I have seen him do so. But the cost was huge.” “He breaks it for a price, then.” “Not for a price. At a cost.” “I fail to see the distinction.” “A price is something you get. A cost is something you lose.”"

"“Well, I don’t hate him. I can’t say I worship him, either.” She paused a long time, and looked up to meet her mother’s eyes squarely. “But when he’s cut, I bleed.”"

"I’m sorry. I can love you. I can grieve for you, or with you. I can share your pain. But I cannot judge you."

"The really unforgivable acts are committed by calm men in beautiful green silk rooms, who deal death wholesale, by the shipload, without lust, or anger, or desire, or any redeeming emotion to excuse them but cold fear of some pretended future. But the crimes they hope to prevent in that future are imaginary. The ones they commit in the present—they are real."

"“Suffering bastard.” “I thought you saw meaning in that sort of thing,” said Vorkosigan. “In the abstract. Most days it’s just stumbling around in the dark with the rest of creation, smashing into things and wondering why it hurts.”"

"But exile, for no other motive than ease—that would be to give up all hope of honor. The last defeat, with no seed of future victory in it."