The Slow Regard of Silent Things (The Kingkiller Chronicle, #2.5)

by Patrick Rothfuss

nothing good could come from wanting at the world.

Cruelty never helped the turning of the world.

Then, eyes closed, she brushed the smooth side of it soft across her lips. It was a tender, thoughtful motion. It was nothing like a kiss.

She knew of red. She’d had enough of screaming.

The proud, bright brazen gear was true enough, it pressed down hard against the thin frayed tatter world and made a dent.

Well, after that she would do her best. That was the only way. You did not want things for yourself. That made you small. That kept you safe. That meant you could move smoothly through the world without upsetting every applecart you came across. And if you were careful, if you were a proper part of things, then you could help. You mended what was cracked. You tended to the things you found askew. And you trusted that the world in turn would brush you up against the chance to eat. It was the only graceful way to move. All else was vanity and pride.

Like a wrist pinned hard beneath a hand with the hot breath smell of want and wine. . . .