Steven Erikson Quotes

Destiny is a lie. Destiny is justification for atrocity. It is the means by which murderers armour themselves against reprimand. It is a word intended to stand in place of ethics, denying all moral context.

Desire for goodness, Mister Reese, leads to earnestness. Earnestness in turn leads to sanctimonious self-righteousness, which breeds intolerance, upon which harsh judgment quickly follows, yielding dire punishment, inflicting general terror and paranoia, eventually culminating in revolt, leading to chaos, then dissolution, and thus, the end of civilisation.”

He slowly turned, looked down upon Emancipor.
“And we are creatures dependent upon civilisation. It is the only environment in which we can thrive.”

Emancipor frowned.
“The desire for goodness leads to the end of civilisation?”

“Precisely, Mister Reese.”

“But if the principal aim is to achieve good living and health among the populace, what is the harm in that?”

Bauchelain sighed.

“Very well, I shall try again. Good living and health, as you say, yielding well-being. But well-being is a contextual notion, a relative notion. Perceived benefits are measured by way of contrast. In any case, the result is smugness, and from that an overwhelming desire to deliver conformity among those perceived as less pure, less fortunate — the unenlightened, if you will. But conformity leads to ennui, and then indifference. From indifference, Mister Reese, dissolution follows as a natural course, and with it, once again, the end of civilisation.

When one does not know what one seeks, caution is the surest armour.

For we are all bound in stories, and as the years pile up they turn to stone, layer upon layer, building our lives.

Do you know its meaning, Caladan?'
'Pur Rakess Calas ne A'nom. Roughly, Strength in Standing Still.'
'A'nom', said the Son of Darkness, frowning.
'Perhaps,' the Azathanai said, 'as a babe, you were quick to stand.'
'And Rakess? Or Rake, as you would call me?'
'Only what I see in you, and what all others see in you. Strength.'
'I feel no such thing.'
'No one who is strong does.

How does a mortal make answer to what his or her kind are capable of? Does each of us, soldier or no, reach a point when all that we’ve seen, survived, changes us inside? Irrevocably changes us. What do we become, then? Less human, or more human? Human enough, or too human?

Corporal Clasp crawled up beside him. ‘That’s one of those Fuckeral’s, isn’t it?

It's our nature, isn't it? Again and again, we cling to the foolish belief taht simple solutions exist

Everyone was broken inside. It was just that some were more broken than others, and when they were broken bad inside, it was all they could do to keep the outside looking normal.

And now the page before us blurs.
An age is done. The book must close.
We are abandoned to history.
Raise high one more time the tattered standard
Of the Fallen. See through the drifting smoke
To the dark stains upon the fabric.
This is the blood of our lives, this is the
Payment of our deeds, all soon to be
Forgotten.
We were never what people could be.
We were only what we were.

Remember us.

I don’t like being retired. It’s like announcing an end to your worth, whatever that worth was, and the longer you go on, the more you realize that that worth wasn’t worth anything like you once thought it was, and that just makes it worse.

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 that understands the meaning of peace. In life, not in death.

Stones make no splash on a frozen lake.

This is Quick Ben’s game, O Elder. The bones are in his sweaty hands and they have been for some time. Now, if at his table you’ll find the Worm of Autumn, and the once Lord of Death, and Shadowthrone and Cotillion, not to mention the past players Anomander Rake and Dessembrae, and who knows who else, well – did you really believe a few thousand damned Nah’ruk could take him down? The thing about Adaephon Delat’s game is this: he cheats.

Pogroms need no reason, sir, none that can weather challenge, in any case. Difference in kind is the first recognition, the only one needed, in fact. Land, domination, pre-emptive attacks — all just excuses, mundane justifications that do nothing but disguise the simple distinction. They are not us. We are not them.