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And over it all, the butterflies swarmed, like a million yellow-pettalled flowers dancing on swirling winds.
Steven Erikson
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Steven Erikson
Age: 65
Born: 1959
Born: October 7
Anthropologist
Archaeologist
Novelist
Writer
City of Toronto
Steve Rune Lundin
Steve Lundin
Wind
Butterflies
Millions
Winds
Like
Butterfly
Yellow
Flowers
Dancing
Million
Swarmed
Flower
Swirling
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It is one thing to lead by example with half a dozen soldiers at your back. It is wholly another with ten thousand.
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Such is the vastness of his genius that he can outwit even himself.
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Detachment is a flaw, not a virtue-don’t you realize that?
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The lesson of history is that no one learns.
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Never, dear gods. Never mess with mortals.
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War has its necessities...and I have always understood that. Always known the cost. But, this day, by my own hand, I have realized something else. War is not a natural state. It is an imposition, and a damned unhealthy one. With its rules, we willingly yield our humanity. Speak not of just causes, worthy goals. We are takers of life.
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None could guess my confusion, my host of deluded illusions and elusive delusions! A mantle of marble hiding a crumbling core of sandstone. See how they stare at me, wondering, all wondering, at my secret wellspring of wisdom...' Let's kill him,' Crokus muttered, 'if only to put him out of our misery.
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We are all lone souls. It pays to know humility, lest the delusion of control, of mastery, overwhelms. And, indeed, we seem a species prone to that delusion, again and ever again. ~Fiddler, pg. 558
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You’re loitering, citizen.” “Actually, I was hesitating.
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Shadow is ever besieged, for that is its nature. Whilst darkness devours, and light steals. And so one sees shadow ever retreat to hidden places, only to return in the wake of the war between dark and light.
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No purer artist exists or has ever existed than a child freed to imagine.
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There is no struggle too vast, no odds too overwhelming, for even should we fail - should we fall - we will know that we have lived.
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The heart of wisdom is tolerance.
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Tell me, Tool, what dominates your thoughts? The Imass shrugged before replying. I think of futility, Adjunct. Do all Imass think about futility? No. Few think at all. Why is that? The Imass leaned his head to one side and regarded her. Because, Adjunct, it is futile.
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Curious,” Bauchelain said. “What is it you wish us to do for you?” “Usurp the king,” Imid Factalo said. “Usurp, as in depose.” “Right.” “Depose, as in remove.” “Yes.” “Remove, as in kill.
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The stars, they are as the sun. Each star. Every star. And those spheres- they are worlds, realms, each one different yet the same.
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A story invites both writer and reader into a kind of superficial ease: we want to slide along, pleasingly entertained, lost in the fictional dream.
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A celebration of insignificance, Is that all we are in the end? And one day I’ll just be one more of those faces, frozen in death and wonder
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Shake your fist all you want but dead is dead
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The only consistent narrative we possess is one that we share with every other life-form: we are born, we live, and then we die.
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