Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy, #1)

by Steven Erikson

Love had no limbs at all. It could neither run nor grasp, couldn’t even push away though it tried and tried. Left lying on the ground, unable to move, crying like an abandoned baby – people could steal it; people could kick it until it bled, or nudge it down a hillside or over a cliff. They could smother it, drown it, set it on fire until it was ashes and charred bone. They could teach it how to want and want for ever, no matter how much it was fed. And sometimes, all love was, was something to be dragged behind on a chain, growing heavier with each step, and when the ground opened up under it, why, it pulled a person backwards and down, down to a place where the pain never ended.

A soul made weary longed for sordid ends.

‘I do claim stupidity as an illness,’ Varandas said with a nod, ‘and have written a fine treatise arguing my point. Badly, of course.’

If self-pity was a depthless pool then she skirted its muddy, slippery bank on hands and knees, round and round. Awareness made no difference. Knowledge was useless.

The blind man paints history. The voiceless historian mimes the tale. The poet dispenses with music, dancing in discord. There is no rhythm to these brush-strokes. There is no beginning and no end to this tale. There is no beauty in the song. And this is how it is. My friends, this is how it is.