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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.

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
Sides
Rose
Fire
Ears
Lord
Blue
Flailing
Death
City
Crescendo
Soul
Streets
Howling
Walk
Hounds
Walks
Shattering
Cities
Arrived

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And over it all, the butterflies swarmed, like a million yellow-pettalled flowers dancing on swirling winds.
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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 civilization can easily drown in what it knows as in what doesn't know. Consider,' he continued, Gotho's Folly. Gotho's curse was in being too aware - of everything. Every permutation, every potential. Enough to poison every scan he cast on the world. It availed him naught, and worse, he was aware of even that.
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He was a man who would never ask for sympathy. He was a man who sought only to do what was right. Such people appear in the world, every world, now and then, like a single refrain of some blessed song, a fragment caught on the spur of an otherwise raging cacophony. Imagine a world without such souls. Yes, it should have been harder to do.
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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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The lesson of history is that no one learns.
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The art of illusion is grace itself.
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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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What matter the colour of the collar around a man's neck, if the chains linked to them were identical?
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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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I was needed, but I myself did not need. I had followers, but not allies, and only now do I understand the difference. And it is vast.
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With the Black Company series Glen Cook single-handedly changed the face of fantasy—something a lot of people didn’t notice and maybe still don’t. He brought the story down to a human level, dispensing with the cliché archetypes of princes, kings, and evil sorcerers. Reading his stuff was like reading Vietnam War fiction on peyote.
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Do mortal fools still measure the increments leading to their deaths, wagering pleasures against costs, persisting in the delusion that deeds have value, that the world and all the gods sit in judgment over every decision made or not made?
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Your brain works with all the subtlety of a malicious child.
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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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So you say, with your shiny hair and pouty lips - and those breasts - just wait till you start dropping whelps, they'll be at your ankles one day, big as they are - not the whelps, the breasts. The whelps will be in your hair - no, not the shiny hair on your head, well, yes, that hair, but only as a manner of speech.
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Ambition is not a dirty word. Piss on compromise. Go for the throat.
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I have to feel what I'm writing, right down to the core.
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The heart of wisdom is tolerance.
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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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