Steven Erikson

The only death I fear is dying ignorant.

Do I want you to talk to me, old friend? Do I need your reminders, your wry confirmation that faith is for fools?

“Since when is speaking the truth presumptuous?”

“You are young, aren’t you?”

Play on, mortal. Every god falls at a mortal’s hands. Such is the only end to immortality.

Hunger for vengeance poisoned the soul.

The tiger is humbled by memories of prey.

He who would dominate must learn early that those resisting his command should be destroyed.

Nor would he recognize hope if it came to him. Too much a stranger, too long a ghost.

Prediction had become a privilege now lost to her. Never mind the outside world, she could not even guess her own actions, or the course of her thoughts.

Was this the true nature of emotion? she wondered. The great defier of logic, of control—the whims of being human. What lay ahead?

'They've had a long time to think,' Paran murmured. 'Sometimes, that's all there's needed. The heart of wisdom is tolerance. I think.'

“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.”

As for presumption, I honestly couldn’t care less. Truth can’t be danced around, not out here, not now, not ever again.