Stephen R. Donaldson Quotes
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In accepting the Gift you Honor the Giver
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Any belief that puts itself beyond doubt nurtures its own collapse.
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We didn't make the world. All we have to do is live in it.
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Part of him wanted to weep... but his purpose was rigid within him. He felt he could not bend to gentleness without breaking.
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We need metaphors of magic and monsters in order to understand the human condition.
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It is the responsibility of the living to make meaningful the sacrifices of the dead.
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He who waits for the sword to fall upon his neck will surely lose his head.
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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.
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Despair and bitterness are not the only songs in the world
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Where do you get dreams like this?
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I respect my limitations, but I don't use them as an excuse.
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This you have to understand. There's only one way to hurt a man who's lost everything. Give him back something broken.
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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
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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.
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When you've tried all the salves in the world and they don't work, you start thinking about fire
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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)
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Everything dies, from the smallest blade of grass to the biggest galaxy.
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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.
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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.
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I had no intention of pursuing either the characters or the setting further.
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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.
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"And you require no answers", Foamfollower was laughing in his gladness, "You are sufficient to every question".
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"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."
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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.
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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!
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Futility is the defining characteristic of life.
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Joy is in the ears that hear.
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It is wrong to ask for more than you give freely. In this way, we come to resemble what we hate.
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I may not yet be as old as dirt, but dirt and I are starting to have an awful lot in common.
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The heart cherishes secrets not worth the telling
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