Quotes from Steven Erikson

Some things went beyond a single man's life, and maybe justice existed outside the minds of humanity, beyond even the hungry eyes of gods and goddesses, a thing shining and pure and final.

Sometimes,' Brys ventured, 'when nothing can be shared except regret, then regret must serve as the place to begin. Reconciliation does not demand that one side surrender to the other. The simple, mutual recognition that mistakes were made is in itself a closing of the divide.

Legana Breed spoke: 'You are all marines?' 'Aye,' Fiddler said. 'Tonight, then, I too am a marine. Let us go kill people.

To grieve is the gift of the living – a gift so many of our kin have long lost.

We destroy to create. But we deny the value of everything we destroy, which serves to make its destruction easier on our consciences. All that we reshape to suit us is diminished, its original beauty for ever lost. We have no value system that does not beggar the world, that does not slaughter the beasts we share it with—as if we are the gods.

Powiedz mi, Tool, o czym myÅ›lisz najcz??ciej? Imass wzruszyÅ' ramionami. – O bezcelowoÅ›ci, przyboczna. – Czy wszyscy Imassowie o niej myÅ›lÄ…? – Nie. WiÄ™kszo?? w ogóle nie myÅ›li. – A to dlaczego? PrzechyliÅ' gÅ'owÄ™. – Dlatego, ?e to bezcelowe, przyboczna.

Purest light will blind as surely as absolute darkness.

Pochyleni w wysokich siodÅ'ach swych quorlów Czarni Moranthowie lÅ›nili niczym Å›liskie od krwi diamenty w karmazynowym blasku cienkiej jak miecz smugi jutrzenki.

Longing. Look for it, in every crowd, and you will find it. Paint it any colour you choose: grief, nostalgia, melancholy, remembrance, these are but flavours, poetic reflections.

How perfect is running? This grand delusion of flight? Away from our demons, ever away, until even the self sobs loose, spins lost in our wake. Perfect, oh yes. And a thing to despise. No distance can win an escape; no speed can outrun this self and all its host of troubles. It's only the sweet exhaustion that follows that we so cherish. An exhaustion so pure it is as close to dying as we can get without actually doing so.

To measure time, one must begin. To grow futureward, one must root. Deep into the ground with blood.

An therein lurks the cruelest truth of all. In the end, we are no different from every other cult, every other religion. Convincing ourselves of the righteousness of our path. Convincing ourselves that we alone hold to an immutable truth. Secure in the belief that everyone else is damned. But it was all a game, the sacred a playground for secular power struggles, venal ambition. What's left to believe in?

Every story instructs. The teller ignores this truth at peril.

Eventually every man reaches a point where every memory is unwelcome

Death and dying makes us into children once again, in truth, one last time, there in our final wailing cries. More than one philosopher has claimed that we ever remain children, far beneath the indurated layers that make up the armour of adulthood. Armour encumbers, restricts the body and soul within it. But it also protects. Blows are blunted. Feelings lose their edge, leaving us to suffer naught but a plague of bruises, and, after a time, bruises fade.

A single regret could crush a thousand proud deeds

A soul carries a vessel of courage. It cannot be refilled. Every thing that takes from it leaves less behind.

Kadaspala worshipped colour. It was the gift of light; and in its tones, heavy and light, faint and rich, was painted all of life.

Strange how the past was remade to suit the present.

Even the gods felt close, drawn to witness all that was to come. Witness, or to seize the moment and act directly. A nudge here, a tug there, if only to appease their egos… if only to see what happens.

Love changes, aye, in the manner of growing to encompass as much of its subject as possible. Virtues, flaws, limitations, everything—love will fondle them all, with child-like fascination.

The man patrolling his prejudices never sleeps.

I would hold, my friend, that what you describe is but one side of the matter, and indeed one that looks only inward, as if the borders of your life enclose everything to be valued, while what lies beyond is of no worth whatsoever.

Inequity, else how can power be assessed, how can the gifts of privilege be valued? For there to be rich, there must be poor, and more of the latter than the former.