Steven Erikson
Pseudonym of Steve Rune Lundin, a Canadian archaeologist, anthropologist and novelist.
"Keep a watch out, fools! There are things out there and you know what happens when things arrive!"
Killers among your kind, among my kind, are just that - the savagery of beasts mated with intelligence, or what passes for intelligence. They dwell in a murky world, sir, confuse and fearful, stained dark with envy and malice. And in the end, they die as they lived. Frightened and alone, with every memory of power revealed as illusion, as farce.
An item that passes without provenance, pursued by many who thirst for its cold kiss, on which life and all that lay within life are often gambled. Alone, a beggar's crown. In great numbers, a king's folly. Weighted with ruin, yet blood washes from it beneath the lightest rain, and to the next no hint of its cost.
"Oh," the figure settled back down, "those reasons. Well, yes. Clever, even. But still profoundly stupid."
An army that waits is soon an army at war with itself.
Wise words are like arrows flung at your forehead. What do you do? Why, you duck of course.
The tiger is humbled by memories of prey.
If one could always choose the right question, then every answer could be as obvious.
The dead never interupt...They but arrive.
Memories belong in the soil, in stone, in wind. They are the land's unseen meaning, such that touches the soul of all who would look - truly look - upon it. Touches, in faintest whisper, old, almost shapeless echoes - to which a mortal life adds its own.
'If by our sacrifice - yours and mine,' said Onos T'oolan, 'the pain of one life can be ended; if, by our deaths, this one can be guided home ... we will judge this a worthy cause.'
'Just so,' agreed the King. 'So accept the escort, Adjunct, or I shall hold my breath until I achieve a most royal shade of purple.'
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. No more than that. As for the rest, kick through the bones and wreckage for they are what remain, what lasts until all turn to dust.
'Now, it's just occurred to me that we're missing something crucial. Ah, yes, an artist! Bugg, have we a court artist? We need an artist! Find us an artist! Nobody move!'
"I mean the only thing us dead soldiers got in common is that none of us was good enough or lucky enough to survive the fight. We're a host of failures."
'We are sickened by the unknown, but knowledge can prove poisonous.'
From the sun-drenched south slopes of Gris, where grow the finest grapes this world has seen. Is mine an informed opinion, you are wondering? Most assuredly so, lass, since I hold a majority interest in said vineyards —
'They've had a long time to think,' Paran murmured. 'Sometimes, that's all there's needed. The heart of wisdom is tolerance. I think.'
'If dreams of flying are the last hope of freedom, I will pray for wings with my last breath.'
Compassion existed when and only when one could step outside oneself, to suddenly see the bars from inside the cage.