Quotes from Richard K. Morgan

Face the facts. Then act on them. It's the only mantra I know, the only doctrine I have to offer you, and it's harder than you'd think, because I swear humans seem hardwired to do anything but. Face the facts. Don't pray, don't wish, don't buy into centuries-old dogma and dead rhetoric. Don't give in to your conditioning or your visions or your fucked-up sense of . . . whatever. Face the facts. Then act.

It's not an easy thing to put a gun to your own head, even if you do want to die. To do it when you want to live must take the will of a demon.

Running away just makes your arse a bigger target.

The essence of control is to remain hidden from view, is it not?

This enemy you cannot kill," I murmured. He nodded and finished the quote for me. "You can only drive it back damaged into the depths and teach your children to watch the waves for its return.

You should have heard the boatman who brought me up here from the Glades. Fire in the northern sky, lights in the marshes, a black dog heard barking through the night. Doesn't occur to anyone to wonder how exactly you can tell it's a black dog just from the fucking bark it makes.

In any agenda, political or otherwise, there is a cost to be borne. Always ask what it is, and who will be paying. If you don't, then the agenda makers will pick up the perfume of your silence like swamp panthers on the scent of blood, and the next thing you know, the person expected to bear the cost will be you. And you may not have what it takes to pay.

Wealth, in his experience, was not something the people who had it were at all keen to see trickling anywhere.

Books — the warm, leather-skinned weight of them in your hands, the way they smelled when you lifted them close to your face. The unfeasibly heart-jolting shock once, as a tome fell heavily open at some much-visited page, divided itself neatly in two blocky halves along the spine — and you thought, guiltily, that you'd broken it.

Everyone's afraid of what they don't understand, Ringil said quietly.

I've heard that said about outlanders and enemies before, and I don't generally trust it. Just too bloody convenient, the quick and easy way to deal with difference. Oh, they're not like us, they're insane. It saves you having to think too much.

I've talked to the lawyers. Did you disinfect afterward?

The priest I didn't talk to at all, because I didn't want to have to hide his body afterward.

That's right. People. It's all people. People and their stupid fucking groups. Show me an individual decision maker whose decisions have harmed me, and I'll melt his stack to slag. Show me a group with the united purpose of harming me and I'll take them all down if I can. But don't expect me to waste time and effort on abstract hate.

You know what you stupid fucking conspiracy assholes just don't get? No one is that well organized. There is no big Deep State evil, no Corporate Earth Plot to Enslave Humanity. It's just a bunch of conflicting interests making a fucking mess wherever they go.

Shopping is physical interaction, exercise of decision-making capacity, sating of the desire to acquire, and an impulse to more acquisition, a scouting urge. It's so basically fucking human when you think about it. You've got to learn to love it

Every skill must be practised. Every act rehearsed. A blade is only a blade when it cuts.

From a legal point of view—" He shook his head. "Forget the law. It isn't going to help. They'll cite it where it suits them, ignore it where it doesn't. They're clerics, Archeth. They spend their whole fucking lives selectively interpreting textual authority to advantage.

Men were like blades, they would all break sooner or later, you included. But you looked around at the men you led, and in their eyes you saw what kind of steel you had to hand, how it had been forged and tempered, what blows, if any, it would take.

There are ruins, steeped in shadow, and a bloodred sun going down in turmoil behind distant hills. Overhead soft-bellied clouds panic toward the horizon like whales before the harpoon, and the wind runs addict's fingers through the trees that line the street.

It has been a messy week, and I blame myself as much as anyone else. I feel like a behaviourist who has designed her rat's maze poorly.

People are sheep, Ringil raged. Moronic fucking sheep.

When they ask how I died," I said. "Tell them: Still Angry.

Freed hands both rising for the pommel now, so natural, so smooth, it was like Kiriath machinery, as if he were machinery, a cunningly crafted clockwork Kiriath mannequin, built to complement the steel. He felt the accustomed kiss of the grip on his palms, felt the grin on his face turn into a snarl. Cold chime as the scabbard gave up its embrace. And the Ravensfriend came out.