Words of Radiance (The Stormlight Archive, #2)

by Brandon Sanderson

“Mmmm,” Pattern said, his vibrations making the wood shake. “This . . . is not one of the things humans like to eat, then?” “Storms, no. Haven’t you been paying attention?” “I have,” he said with an annoyed zip of a vibration. “But it is difficult to tell! You consume some things, and turn them into other things . . . Very curious things that you hide. They have value? But you leave them. Why?” “We are done with that conversation,

Sigzil followed the direction that Kaladin was looking. “I wish I could see it,” he mumbled. “It would be a— Gah!” He jumped backward, pointing. “It looks like a little person!” Kaladin raised an eyebrow toward Syl. “I like him,” she said. “Also, Sigzil, I’m a ‘she’ and not an ‘it,’ thank you very much.” “Spren have genders?” Sigzil asked, amazed. “Of course,” she said. “Though, technically, it probably has something to do with the way people view us. Personification of the forces of nature or some similar gobbletyblarthy.”

“Perhaps a story for a child,” Wit said. “I will tell you one, to get you in the mood. A bunny rabbit and a chick went frolicking in the grass together on a sunny day.” “A chick . . . baby chicken?” Kaladin said. “And a what?” “Ah, forgot myself for a moment,” Wit said. “Sorry. Let me make it more appropriate for you. A piece of wet slime and a disgusting crab thing with seventeen legs slunk across the rocks together on an insufferably rainy day. Is that better?” “I suppose. Is the story over?” “It hasn’t started yet.”

What is a woman’s place in this modern world? Jasnah Kholin’s words read. I rebel against this question, though so many of my peers ask it. The inherent bias in the inquiry seems invisible to so many of them. They consider themselves progressive because they are willing to challenge many of the assumptions of the past. They ignore the greater assumption—that a “place” for women must be defined and set forth to begin with. Half of the population must somehow be reduced to the role arrived at by a single conversation. No matter how broad that role is, it will be—by nature—a reduction from the infinite variety that is womanhood. I say that there is no role for women—there is, instead, a role for each woman, and she must make it for herself. For some, it will be the role of scholar; for others, it will be the role of wife. For others, it will be both. For yet others, it will be neither. Do not mistake me in assuming I value one woman’s role above another. My point is not to stratify our society—we have done that far too well already—my point is to diversify our discourse. A woman’s strength should not be in her role, whatever she chooses it to be, but in the power to choose that role. It is amazing to me that I even have to make this point, as I see it as the very foundation of our conversation.

Amaram turned to Wit, a look of bafflement on his face. “You’re very good at that expression,” Wit noted. “A great deal of practice, I assume?” “This is the new Wit?” Amaram asked. “I mean,” Wit said, “I wouldn’t want to call Amaram an imbecile . . .” Dalinar nodded. “. . . because then I’d have to explain to him what the word means, and I’m not certain any of us have the requisite time.” Amaram sighed. “Why hasn’t anyone killed him yet?” “Dumb luck,” Wit said. “In that I’m lucky you’re all so dumb.