Quotes from Steven Erikson

The longer one lives, the less valued is that life. Why is that?

Old men and the dead stood at the same wall, and while the dead faced it, old men held their backs to it. Beyond that wall was oblivion. They spoke from the end times, and both knew a need to lead the young onto identical paths, if only to give meaning to all they had known and all they had done.

In all that is to come, think on forgiveness. Hold to it, but know too that it must not always be freely given. Sometimes forgiveness must be denied.

Closing in a noose around her neck, the sound blocked the outside world – its air, its light.

And what about him? What's his name again, Throatslitter? Did his ma decide on that for her little one, do you think?' 'Can't say,' Balm replied. 'Give a toddler a knife and who knows what'll happen.

If I'd known a lecture was coming, I'd have kept my mouth shut." "Coming to terms with life as an adolescent, are you?

A savage awareness seemed to ride the spinning sand, reaching relentlessly past the folds of their telaban, a thousand abrasive fingers clawing paths across their skin. Loose cloth and rope ends spiked upward, whipping with urgent rhythm. The roar filled the air, filled their skulls.

You still think like a child, don't you? Clay figurines sunk to their ankles in the sand, one here, one there, standing just so. One says this, the other says that, then you reach down and rearrange them accordingly. Scenes, vistas, stark with certainty.

To know and to understand that we must all die, Trull Sengar, is not to worship death. To know and to understand is itself magic, for it made us stand tall.

The dead are ever refashioned, for they have no defence against those who would use or abuse them – who they were, what their deeds meant. And this was the anguish…this…injustice.

I was once told that dreams are worthy things," said Emancipor, "even if they end up in misery and unending horror." "Ah, and who told you that?" He shrugged. "My wife.

There were things a child needed to believe, sewn like clothes, or even armour; that he could then wear until the end of his days.

Others? Other dragons? I think not, and let us be clear here, Kanyn Thrall, your other victories have all the bravado of rats crunched underfoot. I make breakfast of mortal heroes and shit out pitted iron at day's end. I make morsels of Tiste champions, snacks of Thel Akai hunters, paltry meals of Jhelarkan, Dog-Runners, Thelomen and Jheck.

To grieve is a gift best shared. As a song is shared.

Every worthwhile plan is diabolical.

No one valued the given heart, no one saw that sacrifice for the precious gift it was. No, just a thing to be grasped, twisted by uncaring hands, then wrung dry and discarded.

but as he watched, he saw the blossoming of wounds on the woman – her arms, legs, chest. Her expression held complete disbelief.

The son, after all, is but an extension of the mother – at least so the mother believed, there in some inarticulate part of her soul, unseen yet solid as an iron chain. Assail the child and so too the mother is assailed, for what is challenged is her life as a mother, the lessons she taught or didn't teach, the things she chose not to see, to explain away, to pretend were otherwise than what they were.

Evading responsibility was a proclivity of the human species, it seemed.

Bloodflies rode her drawn gasps into her mouth, biting as she gagged and spat.

Shall I loose the fleas on my head to rend your worthless flesh from your jellied bones?

There is no armor made that can withstand the truth. -Karsa Orlong.

She saw her breath curl in a white stream, drawn inward to the darkness beyond.

Fallen. Who tracks our footsteps, I wonder? We who are the forgotten, the discounted and the ignored. When the path is failure, it is never willingly taken. The fallen. Why does my heart weep for them? Not them but us, for most assuredly I am counted among them. Slaves, serfs, nameless peasants and labourers, the blurred faces in the crowd—just a smear on memory, a scuffing of feet down the side passages of history