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August 16 - August 31, 2025
Violence and destruction, both vital for life.
Curiosity is my greatest curse, but simple acknowledgement of a flaw does not correct it.
The Pannion Domin … why are we sparing a mole’s ass for some upstart zealots? These things burn out. Every time. They implode. The scroll scribblers take over – they always do – and start arguing obscure details of the faith. Sects form. Civil war erupts, and there it is, just one more dead flower trampled on history’s endless road
‘Experiences are the same. Between your two armies, indeed. But also … across the breadth of time. Among all who possess memories, whether an individual or a people, life’s lessons are ever the same lessons.’
Loyalty never survives a pinched stomach
Death and dying makes us into children once again, in truth, one last time, there in our final wailing cries. More than one philosopher has claimed that we ever remain children, far beneath the indurated layers that make up the armour of adulthood
Armour encumbers, restricts the body and soul within it. But it also protects. Blows are blunted. Feelings lose their edge, leaving us to suffer naught but a plague of bruises, and, after a time, bruises fade
Unworthy of you. Where resides the comforting knowledge of history’s vast, cyclical sweep, the ebb and flow of wars and of peace? 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.’
The harder the world, the fiercer the honour. Dancer
‘Cheat? Gods forbid! What hapless victims are witness to on this night of nights is naught but cosmic sympathy for worthy Kruppe!’ ‘Cosmic sympathy?’ Murillio snorted. ‘What in Hood’s name is that?’ ‘Euphemism for cheating,’ Coll grumbled.
‘With the proper perspective,’ the Tiste Andii said, ‘even a mortal life can seem long. Fulfilling. What I contemplate at the moment is the nature of happenstance. Men and women who, for a time, find themselves walking in step, on parallel paths. Whose lives brush close, howsoever briefly, and are so changed by the chance contact.’
Soldiers now and soldiers to the end of their days – none would dare leave to find peace. Solicitude and calm would unlock that safe prison of cold control – the only thing keeping them sane
‘Tell me, Talamandas,’ Quick Ben asked with veiled eyes, ‘is survival a right, or a privilege?’ ‘The latter, mortal. The latter. And it must be earned. I wish for the chance. For all my people, I wish for the chance.’
Absence of people – those outside the group … strangers – had diminished what he now understood to be a constant tension in his life. Perhaps in all our lives. 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?
‘It’s always the way, isn’t it? A civilization flowers, then a horde of grunting savages with close-set eyes show up and step on it. Malazan Empire take note.’
‘A pointless, senseless death.’ ‘They’re all pointless and senseless, friend. Until the living carve meaning out of them. What are you going to carve, Gruntle, out of Harllo’s death? Take my advice, an empty cave offers no comfort.’
The past hides restless truths, too, unpleasant truths as well as joyous ones. Once the effort of unveiling has begun … Sir, there is no going back.’
‘We’re dying of boredom, Corporal, that’s the problem.’ ‘If boredom was fatal there wouldn’t be a soldier alive on this whole world, Blend.
‘He’s new to responsibility, Captain. You’ll have to teach him.’ Teach him what? How to live beneath the burden of command? That’s something I can’t manage myself. I need only look into Whiskeyjack’s face to understand that no-one can – no-one who has a heart, anyway. We learn to achieve but one thing: the ability to hide our thoughts, to mask our feelings, to bury our humanity deep in our souls. And that can’t be taught, only shown.
Cold metal, stone, faintly lit rooms rising then falling like the passage of weak suns, the traverse of aeons, civilizations born, then dying, and all that lay between was naught but the illusion of glory.
If you can, dear friends, do not live through a siege.
They were hunters, and what resided within the soul of their quarry had no relevance. As with the antelope, the bhederin calf, the ranag, grace and wonder, promise and potential – reduced one and all to meat. Life’s final lesson, the only truthful one buried beneath a layered skein of delusions. Sooner or later, she now understood, we are all naught but food. Wolves or worms, the end abrupt or lingering, it mattered not in the least.
I think I have just made a dreadful mistake, for all my good intentions …’ ‘That’s often the case,’ he murmured, ‘with good intentions.’
Antsy grinned. ‘Hello, Capustan. The Bridgeburners have arrived.’
‘The void of lost faith is filled with your swollen self.’
On a field of battle, after the last heart has stilled, pain remains.
‘War has its necessities, Korlat, and I have always understood that. Always known the cost. But, this day, by my own hand, I have realized something else. 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. Servants of Hood, one and all.’
First in, last out. Motto of the Bridgeburners
What in Hood’s name are you hinting at, Draconus? This is Anomander Rake we’re talking about, damn it! If we were living in one of those bad fables with some dimwitted farmboy stumbling on a magical sword, well, then losing the weapon might be possible. But … Anomander Rake? Son of Darkness? Lord of Moon’s Spawn?
Diversity is worth celebrating, Humbrall Taur, for it is the birthplace of wisdom.’ ‘Your words?’ ‘No, the Imperial Historian, Duiker.’ ‘And he speaks for the Malazan Empire?’ ‘In the best of times.’ ‘And are these the best of times?’ Whiskeyjack met the warrior’s dark eyes. ‘Perhaps they are.’
Once more, betrayal, the dark-hearted slayer of faith.
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.
