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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
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
Seem
Pays
Control
Mastery
Seems
Delusion
Soul
Souls
Fiddler
Ever
Indeed
Overwhelms
Humility
Prone
Species
Lone
Pay
Lest
More quotes by Steven Erikson
The harder the world, the fiercer the honour.
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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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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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I'll not deny I am impressed by your mastery of six warrens, Quick Ben. In retrospect, you should have held back on at least half of what you command. The man made to rise. But, Bauchelain, the wizard replied, I did.
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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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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.
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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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Shake your fist all you want but dead is dead
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For we are all bound in stories, and as the years pile up they turn to stone, layer upon layer, building our lives.
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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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If all we seek is an escape, what does that say about the world we live in? That village, that city, that life? We are desperate with our dreams. What - oh, what - does that say?
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Ah, Meese has brought us her finest goblets! A moment, whilst Kruppe sweeps out cobwebs, insect husks and other assorted proofs of said goblets' treasured value.
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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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Your brain works with all the subtlety of a malicious child.
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I have to feel what I'm writing, right down to the core.
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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 tiger is humbled by memories of prey.
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The only death I fear is dying ignorant.
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You must dismantle your sources, lest you do nothing but ape the prejudices of others
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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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