Quotes from Steven Erikson

Never mind the truth. The past is what I say it is. That is the freedom of teaching the ignorant

Hurt was nothing. Was meaningless. But no, there was value in pain, if only to remind oneself that one still lived. When nothing normal could be regained, ever, then other pleasures had to be found. Cultivated, the body and mind taught anew, to delight in a darker strain.

In those last years, Mappo had heard, Trynigarr, his tongue loosened by drink, had talked often, filling the air with slurred, meaningless words and fragmented remembrances. So many words, not one wise, to fill what had once been the wisest of silences.

They came with white hands and left with red hands.

We define adulthood as a solemn recognition of responsibility. We make the distinction when considering the acts of children, and will argue that they were not responsible, because their brains have not yet matured to make the proper connection between an act and its consequences.

You realize, don't you, that I've worked very hard at cultivating apathy. In fact, it seems to be bearing endless fruit.

Show me a god that does not demand mortal suffering. Show me a god that celebrates diversity, a celebration that embraces even non-believers and is not threatened by them. Show me a god who understands the meaning of peace. In life, not in death.

He suddenly drew out the latest weapon in his arsenal, a long-knife. 'See this? Just like the kind Kalam used. It's a damned fast weapon, but I can't see it doing much against armour.' 'Where Kalam stuck them there wasn't no armour. Throat, armpit, crotch – you should give it to Smiles.' 'I grabbed it to keep it from her, idiot.

Raised high, the sword groaned awake, chains of smoke writhing from the blade. A terrible sound as of wheels creaking filled the air and behind it arose a chorus of moaning filled with hopelessness.

Consider this then a warning. Liars will lie, and continue to do so, even beyond being caught out. They will lie, and in time, such liars will convince themselves, will in all self-righteousness divest the liars of culpability. Until comes a time when one final lie is voiced, the one that can only be answered by rage, by cold murder, and on that day, blood shall rain down every wall of this vaunted, weaning society.

Cutter rubbed at his face. He needed a shave. And a bath. And clean, new clothes. And a purpose in life.

The Down Markets opened out onto it from three sides; a more decrepit collection of useless items for sale Tehol had yet to see. And the people bought in a frenzy, day after blessed day. Our civilization thrives on stupidity . And it only took a sliver of cleverness to tap that idiot vein and drink deep of the riches. Comforting, if slightly depressing. The way of most grim truths.

If the dead could speak, Clip, what would they tell you?' 'Little, I expect, beyond complaints about this and that.' 'Perhaps, then, that is all you deserve.' 'Oh, I lack honour, do I?' 'I am not sure what you lack,' Silchas Ruin replied, 'but I am certain I will comprehend before we are done.

Bravado usually is ignorance,' Bottle snapped back.

Feelings lose their edge, leaving us to suffer naught but a plague of bruises, and, after a time, bruises fade.

And what is that true sense? Why, it is the insanity of belief. And now you make us believe. With you. In you. And in your madness, which you so insist upon sharing. You taste bitter, human. You taste of your world.

They're not dream worlds, Feather Witch. They're real. In those places, we are the ghosts.

Kruppe hastens with proper welcome to this grand company to already beloved Scillara of the Knowing Eyes and other assorted accoutrements of charm Kruppe would dearly wish to knowingly eye, if not for the dastardly demands of decorum. Welcome, cries Kruppe, even as he slumps back - oof! - exhausted by his enthusiasm and dimpled with desire.

Memories and revelations settle in like poisons, never to be expunged.

We are gods in our dreams. Disaster strikes when we come to believe the same is true in our real lives.

Even worse, introspection – for him at least – was a funnel in sand, a spider waiting at the bottom. And Coll well knew he was quite capable of devouring himself.

In that Malazan Book of the Fallen, the historians will write of our suffering, and they will speak of it as the suffering of those who served the Crippled God. As something…fitting. And for our seeming fanaticism they will dismiss all that we were, and think only of what we achieved. Or failed to achieve. And in so doing, they will miss the whole fucking point. Fallen One, we are all your children.

Words knit the skein between and among women. And the language of gesture and expression, all merging to fashion a tapestry that, as every woman understood, could tear in but one direction, by deliberate, vicious effort. A friendship among women knew but one enemy, and that was malice. Thus, the more words, the tighter the weave.

the hot west wind that blew like sand whispering across stone.