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It is purity of spirit that will keep corruption from the flesh

Mark Lawrence

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Mark Lawrence
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: January 28
Author
Novelist
the United States of America
Corruption
Flesh
Keep
Spirit
Purity

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Confusing the author and the character seems to be a popular and rather unsophisticated reaction to books.
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If the sins of the flesh ever got old I didn't ever want enough years on me to know it.
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If you must run, have something to run toward, so it feels less like cowardice.
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I may be running out of options, but running out isn't an option.
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You got responsibilities when you’re a leader. You got a responsibility not to kill too many of your men. Or who’re you going to lead?
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Questions for questions. You're a man who's spent time at court.
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I’ll tell you now. That silence almost beat me. It’s the silence that scares me. It’s the blank page on which I can write my own fears. The spirits of the dead have nothing on it. The dead one tried to show me hell, but it was a pale imitation of the horror I can paint on the darkness in a quiet moment.
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Sometime, It's easier to love someone with flaws you can forgive in return for them forgiving yours.
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I wanted to go home and if Hell rose up to stop me, it would make me desire it more.
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Hold to a thing long enough, a secret, a desire, maybe a lie, and it will shape you.
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For the longest time I studied revenge to the exclusion of all else. I built my first torture chamber in the dark vaults of imagination. Lying on bloody sheets in the Healing Hall I discovered doors within my mind that I'd not found before, doors that even a child of nine knows should not be opened. Doors that never close again. I threw them wide.
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In the end it seems we're just toys,easy to break and hard to mend
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I think maybe we die every day. Maybe we're born new each dawn, a little changed, a little further on our own road. When enough days stand between you and the person you were, you're strangers. Maybe that's what growing up is. Maybe I have grown up.
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Dark times call for dark choices. Choose me.
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Each day the memories weigh a little heavier. Each day they drag you down that bit further. You wind them around you, a single thread at a time, and you weave your own shroud, you build a cocoon, and in it madness grows.
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A man can reach into anything and turn it to his cause. It's not want, or desire, just certainty. Only be assured that whatever you reach into will reach into you in turn.
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And when pain bites, men bargain. Boys too. We twist and turn, we plead and beg, we offer our tormentors what he wants so that the hurting will stop. And when there is no torturer to placate, no hooded man with hot irons and tongs, just a burn you can't escape, we bargain with God, or ourselves, depending on the size of our egos.
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When you're in a dark place, and your light is going to run out before too long, you get on with things. It's a wonder to me how few people apply that same logic to their lives.
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Do you know why the leaves change colour?... Before a tree sheds a leaf it pumps it full of all the poison it can't rid itself of otherwise. That red there--that's a man's skin blotching with burst veins after an assassin spikes his last meal with roto-weed. The poison spreading through him before he dies.
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