Memories of Ice (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #3)

by Steven Erikson

Peace is the time of waiting for war. A time of preparation, or a time of wilful ignorance, blind, blinkered and prattling behind secure walls.

Soldiers are issued armour for their flesh and bones, but they must fashion their own for their souls. Piece by piece.’

Unfamiliar faces, gauging regard, every sense heightened in an effort to read the unknown. The natural efforts of society. Do we all possess a wish to remain unseen, unnoticed? Is the witnessing of our actions by others our greatest restraint?

‘A pointless, senseless death.’ ‘They’re all pointless and senseless, friend. Until the living carve meaning out of them.

‘Enough of that,’ Picker said. ‘There’s delicate ears present, lass. Look, you got Detoran all blushing in between punching Hedge senseless.’

What the soul can house, flesh cannot fathom.

We are all pushed into a world of madness, yet it must now fall to each of us to pull back from this Abyss, to drag ourselves free of the descending spiral. From horror, grief must be fashioned, and from grief, compassion.

no different from any other band of mercenaries: a collection of misfits and a scattering of professional soldiers. A column of coins offered no reliable backbone;

‘No advice. This is my Gathering, Kruppe. Leave me to it.’ ‘Of course, my dear. Humblest apologies. Please do resume your hesitation.’

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.

Of all the weapons we turn upon ourselves, guilt is the sharpest, Silverfox. It can carve one’s own past into unrecognizable shapes, false memories leading to beliefs that sow all kinds of obsessions.’

I can examine myself, my every feeling, until the Abyss swallows the world, yet come no closer to mastery of those emotions within me. For they are not static things; nor are they immune to the outside world – to what others say, or don’t say. And so they are in constant flux.’

Glass is sand and sand is glass!

The heart of wisdom is tolerance.

Diversity is worth celebrating, Humbrall Taur, for it is the birthplace of wisdom.’

We humans do not understand compassion. In each moment of our lives, we betray it. Aye, we know of its worth, yet in knowing we then attach to it a value, we guard the giving of it, believing it must be earned. T’lan Imass. Compassion is priceless in the truest sense of the word. It must be given freely. In abundance.