And over it all, the butterflies swarmed, like a million yellow-pettalled flowers dancing on swirling winds. - Steven Erikson

There are times, Kruppe murmurs, when celibacy born of sad deprivation becomes a boon, nay, a source of great relief.

That is all faith is, you know. Pity for our souls.

So much had changed inside him. He was no believer in causes, not any more. Certainty was an illusion, a lie. Fanaticism was poison in the soul, and the first victim in its inexorable, ever-growing list was compassion. Who could speak of freedom, when one's soul was bound in chains?