Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Joy is in the ears that hear.
Where do you get dreams like this?
In accepting the Gift you Honor the Giver
Futility is the defining characteristic of life.
The heart cherishes secrets not worth the telling
We didn't make the world. All we have to do is live in it.
Despair and bitterness are not the only songs in the world
I respect my limitations, but I don't use them as an excuse.
Any belief that puts itself beyond doubt nurtures its own collapse.
Everything dies, from the smallest blade of grass to the biggest galaxy.
He who waits for the sword to fall upon his neck will surely lose his head.
I had no intention of pursuing either the characters or the setting further.
We need metaphors of magic and monsters in order to understand the human condition.
It is the responsibility of the living to make meaningful the sacrifices of the dead.
I may not yet be as old as dirt, but dirt and I are starting to have an awful lot in common.
When you've tried all the salves in the world and they don't work, you start thinking about fire
It is wrong to ask for more than you give freely. In this way, we come to resemble what we hate.
Of the authors published under Ballantine's Adult Fantasy logo, only Evangeline Walton 'spoke' to me.
"And you require no answers", Foamfollower was laughing in his gladness, "You are sufficient to every question".
This you have to understand. There's only one way to hurt a man who's lost everything. Give him back something broken.
Part of him wanted to weep... but his purpose was rigid within him. He felt he could not bend to gentleness without breaking.
Stone and sea are deep in life Two unalterable symbols of the world Permanence at rest And permanence in motion Participants in the power that remains
Whatever the explanation, it's perfectly obvious that our educational system has nothing to do with education: it's a babysitting service designed to replicate the worst qualities of the parents.
There is no life which does not possess its own importance, no life which may not be touched by greatness at any time -- Yes, be touched by greatness and have a hand in it. (from The Mirror of Her Dreams)
The portal structure is simply a technique: it is neither necessary nor unnecessary, except as the writer and the story make it so. In the case of 'The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant,' it was absolutely necessary to my intentions.
For a variety of reasons, my books struck the marketplace like a thunderclap; and one of those reasons was that there were so few alternatives available. Readers who loved Tolkien, and who were not satisfied by Terry Brooks, had nowhere else to turn.
One word more, a final caution: Do not forget whom to fear at the last. I have had to be content with killing and torment; but now my plans are laid, and I have begun. I shall not rest until I have eradicated hope from the Earth. Think on that, and be dismayed!
However you look at it, in these books "power" tends to be an expression of the essential nature of the person or being whose power it is. On those occasions when we've seen Lord Foul act directly, he seems to exert the withering force of pure scorn. IMHO, that's pretty intense.
"Are you a storyteller, Thomas Covenant?" Absently he replied, "I was, once." "And you gave it up? Ah, that is as sad a tale in three words as any you might have told me. But a life without a tale is like a sea without salt. How do you live?" "I live." "Another?" Foamfollower returned. "In two words, a story sadder than the first. Say no more - with one word you will make me weep."
The story of Terisa and Geraden began very much like a fable. She was a princess in a high tower. He was a hero come to rescue her. She was the only daughter of wealth and power. He was the seventh son of the lord of the seventh Care. She was beautiful from the auburn hair that crowned her head to the tips of her white toes. He was handsome and courageous. She was held prisoner by enchantment. He was a fearless breaker of enchantments. As in all the fables, they were made for each other.
Gradually, the night stumbled as if stunned and wandering aimlessly into an overcast day -- limped through the wilderland of transition as though there were no knowing where the waste of darkness ended and the ashes of light began. The low clouds seemed full of grief -- tense and uneasy with accumulated woe -- and yet affectless, unable to rain, as if the air clenched itself too hard for tears. And through the dawn, Atiaran and Covenant moved heavily, unevenly, like pieces of a broken lament.
Steven Erikson is an extraordinary writer. I read Gardens of the Moon with great pleasure. And now that I have read it, I would be hard pressed to decide what I enjoyed more: the richly and ominously magical world of Malaz and Genabackis; the large cast of sympathetically-rendered characters; or the way the story accumulates to a climax that hits like machinegun fire. My advice to anyone who might listen to me is, Treat yourself to Gardens of the Moon. And my entirely selfish advice to Steven Erikson is, write faster.
Are you a person—with volition and maybe some stubbornness and at least the capacity if not the actual determination to do something surprising—or are you a tool? A tool just serves its user. It’s only as good as the skill of its user, and it’s not good for anything else. So if you want to accomplish something special—something more than you can do for yourself—you can’t use a tool. You have to use a person and hope the surprises will work in your favor. You have to use something that’s free to not be what you had in mind.