Quotes from Steven Erikson

Whiskeyjack's eyes widened as a crowd of excited guests poured out from the main chamber and gathered on the terrace.

History meant nothing, because the only continuity was human stupidity. Oh, there were moments of greatness, of bright deeds, but how long did the light of such glory last? From one breath to the next, aye, and no more than that.

Kneel to one or many, but never—never, Kalyth—hold to a belief that but one god exists, that all that is resides within that god. Should you hold such a belief, then by every path of reasoning that follows, you cannot but conclude that your one god is cursed, a thing of impossible aspirations and deafening injustice, whimsical in its cruelty, blind to mercy and devoid of pity.

Shurq Elalle's fate had taken a turn for the worse. Nothing to do with her profession, for her skills in the art of thievery were legendary among the lawless class. An argument with her landlord, sadly escalating to attempted murder on his part, to which she of course - in all legality - responded by flinging him out the window. The hopeless man's fall had, unfortunately, been broken by a waddling merchant on the street below. The landlord's neck broke. So did the merchant's.

People with no sense or appreciation of humor, Invigilator, always take money too seriously. Its possession, anyway. Which is why they spend all their time stacking coins, counting this and that, gazing lovingly over their hoards and so on. They're compensating for the abject penury everywhere else in their lives. Nice rings, by the way.

The hillside before them blurred, as if a curtain of wind-blown sand rose before it. A churning wind roiled through this strange mist.

Seeing that he could not go on, seeing that he was near ters, Brys simply nodded. He turned to study what he could see of the Malazan position. Nothing but armored lizards, weapons lifting and descending, blood rising in a mist. But, as he stared he noticed something. The Nah'ruk were no longe advancing. You stopped them? Blood of the gods, what manner of soldiers are you?

The hand of vengeance stayed cold only so long. Any soul possessing a shred of humanity could not help but see the reality behind cruel deliverance, no matter how justified it might have at first seemed. Faces blank in death. Bodies twisted in postures no-one unbroken could achieve. Destroyed lives. Vengeance yielded a mirror to every atrocity, where notions of right and wrong blurred and lost all relevance. He

All it needs,' she said, memories clouding her mind, 'is the breaking of one rule, one law. A breaking that no one then calls to account. Once that happens, once the shock passes, every law shatters. Every rule of conduct, of proper behaviour, it all vanishes. Then the hounds inside each and every one of us are unleashed.

It was as if a giant invisible hand had reached down to the Crown, closing to gather in every building, crushing them all while pushing down into the hill.

There are ways of leaving. The worst of these is also the most final.

Pain worn without pause and for so long could itself become a mask.

Barring the necessary brains, of course," Kruppe said, "which is my true skill—though one such as Coll would never understand such abilities, alien as they are to him.

I see now that the unnamed soldier is a gift. The named soldier—dead, melted wax—demands a response among the living…a response no one can make. Names are no comfort, they're a call to answer the unanswerable. Why did she die, not him? Why do the survivors remain anonymous—as if cursed—while the dead are revered? Why do we cling to what we lose while we ignore what we still hold?

Mammot's body withered beneath the clambering, frenzied attack. Flesh was ripped away, fires lancing, boring holes through him. He was driven to his knees, a vortex swirling like madness around him.

Since when did ethics and morality become weapons of submission?

Dragonflies big enough to ride - imagine whizzing through the clouds, looking down on everything! Seeing how beautiful it all was, and then dropping hundreds of bombs on it.

Innocence was a blade of glory, yet it could blind on both sides.

You have no sword…' 'Indeed, I have not. Do you think I will need one?' She leaned close to him. 'Now more than before, I would think.' 'Perhaps you are right. We must needs find a quarry.' 'The Barghast Range. A flint the colour of blood – I will invest it, of course, to prevent its shattering.' 'As you did once before, sister.' 'Long ago.' 'Aye, so very long ago.

If you want us leading you, well, one thing us humans don't understand, and that's giving up. We fight when the fight's been thumped out of us. We rebel when all we got left that's not in chains is inside our skulls. We defy when the only defiance we got left is up and dying.

Somewhere above this foul temple, crows danced with sparks above the mouth of a chimney, virtually unseen in the darkness. Each one carried a word, but the sparks were deaf. Too busy with the ecstasy of their own bright, blinding fire. At least, until they went out.

The drunk answers every assault with smirking equanimity,' observed Haut, pouring his cup full again. 'All reasoned words thud like pebbles in the sand. Made immune, I imbibe the nectar of the gods.

Who now strides on my trail devouring the distance between no matter how I flee, the wasted breath of my haste cast into the wind and these dogs will prevail dragging me down in howling glee for the beasts were born fated, trained in bold vengeance by my own switch and hand and no god will stand in my stead, nor provide me sanctuary, even should I plead for absolution - the hounds of my deeds belong only to me, and they have long hunted and now the hunt ends.

Witness? Yes, you are witness. Even so, what I, Karsa Orlong, shall shape, you cannot imagine. No one can.