Steven Erikson

The last act of an historian, priest, is to live through history. It is the bravest act of them all, because it faces, unblinking, the recognition that all history is personal, and that every external truth of the world is but a reflection of our internal truths – the truths that shape our behaviours, our decisions, our fears, our purposes and our appetites. These internal truths raise monuments and flood sewers. They lift high grand works as readily as they fill graves. If you blame one appetite you blame all of our appetites. We all swim the same river.

I cannot help what I am – and that is the first lie, the one I uttered to myself long ago.

To grieve is the gift of the living — a gift so many of our kin have long lost

Don't worry. I am like most people. I can keep my eyes and still see nothing.

Against a broken heart, even absurdity falters.
Because words fall away.
A dialogue of silence.
That deafens.

Conviction is a fist of stone at the heart of all things. Its form is shaped by sure hands, the detritus quickly swept from view. It is built to withstand, built to defy challenge, and when cornered it fights without honour. There is nothing more terrible than conviction.

And in the city on all sides, the howling of the Hounds rose in an ear-shattering, soul-flailing crescendo. The Lord of Death had arrived, to walk the streets in the City of Blue Fire.

Rake was an atmosphere, a heart-thudding, terror-threaded presence no-one could ignore, much less escape. Violence, antiquity, sombre pathos, and darkest horror – the Son of Darkness was a gelid eddy in immortality’s current,

What matter the colour of the collar around a man’s neck, if the chains linked to them were identical?

It’s true,’ he said, ‘I have never believed in single answers, never believed in this…this divisive clash of singularity. Power may have ten thousand faces, but the look in the eyes of every one of them is the same.’ He glanced over to see Scillara and Felisin staring at him. ‘There’s no difference,’ he said, ‘between speaking aloud or in one’s own head – either way, no-one listens.

money’s just an idea, it has power. Only it’s not real power. Just the promise of power. But that promise is enough so long as everyone keeps pretending it’s real. Stop pretending and it all falls apart.

There had been times-he was almost certain-when he'd known unmitigated joy, but so faded were they to his recollection that he had begun to suspect the fictional conjuring of nostalgia. As with civilizations and their golden ages, so too with people: each individual ever longing for that golden past moment of true peace and wellness.
So often it was rooted in childhood, in a time before the strictures of enlightenment had afflicted the soul, when what had seemed simple unfolded its complexity like the petals of a poison flower, to waft its miasma of decay.

In the empty eyes of this child, he’d seen the withering of his own soul. The reflection had been unblemished, with no imperfections to challenge the truth of what he saw.

War is not a natural state. It is an imposition, and a damned unhealthy one. With its rules, we willingly yield our humanity.

— all these Dark Lords intent on creating wastelands packed with enslaved victims ... for what?