Stephen R. Donaldson Quotes

It may be that hope misleads. But hate—hate corrupts. I have been too quick to hate. I become like what I abhor.

Retribution—ah, my friend, retribution is the sweetest of all sweet dark dreams.

You know, where I come from, the people who did this to a forest would be called pioneers—a very special breed of heroes, since instead of killing other human beings they concentrate on slaughtering nature itself.

No one person has the right to withhold knowledge from another. No one is wise enough.

A good laugh, Covenant sighed morosely. Did I do a whole life’s laughing in that little time?

All you need to avoid despair is irremediable stupidity or unlimited stubbornness.

Abruptly Loerya joined the probing. “And if there is no Creator? Or if the creation is untended?”
“Then who is there to reproach us? We provide the meaning of our own lives. If we serve the Land purely to the furthest limit of our abilities, what more can we ask of ourselves?”

Dreaming is like—it’s like being a slave. Your dreams come out of all the parts of you that you don’t have any control over.

I was trying to give her something, make it up to her somehow. But that doesn’t work. When you’ve hurt someone that badly, you can’t go around giving them gifts. That’s arrogant and cruel.

I loved you before that. I love you now. I’m just an unconscionable bastard, and I used you, that’s all. Now I regret it.

Then why do you delay? Why do you fear?"
Because I am mortal, weak. The way is only clear—not sure. In my time, I have been a seer and oracle. Now I—I desire a sign. I require to see.

I would say that happiness lies in serving the Land. And I would say that there is no happiness in times of war.

Power was dreadful and treacherous. When it was not great enough to accomplish its wielder’s desires, it turned against the hands which held it.

The prevailing breeze from the Forest blew into his face, and for the first time in many days he was able to distinguish the tang of the season. He found that the autumn of the Land had turned its corner, traveled its annual round from joy to sorrow. The air no longer gleamed with abundance and fruition, with ripeness either glad or grim. Now the breeze tasted like the leading edge of winter—a sere augury, promising long nights and barrenness and cold.

Are you wise, Unbeliever?"
"Who knows? If I am—wisdom is overrated.