The Scrivener's Bones (Alcatraz, #2)

by Brandon Sanderson

In layman’s terms, this law states that some things simply have to happen. If there’s a red button on a console with the words don’t push taped above it, someone will push it. If there’s a gun hanging conspicuously above Chekhov’s fireplace, someone is going to end up shooting it (probably at Nietzsche). And if there’s a stern woman telling you what to do—yet at the same time calling you “my lord”—you’re going to simply have to figure out how far you can push her.

I never got used to that feeling. It’s kind of like getting punched in the face by your own mortality. And mortality has a wicked right hook.

The biggest problem is, the adults have one of the most effective recruitment strategies in the world. Give them enough time, and they’ll turn any kid into one of them.

There’s nothing worse than having people look up to you—because the more they expect, the worse you feel when you fail them.

Confusion, after all, is the true universal language.

After all, there is only one thing more frustrating than finding a pile of gold, then having it snatched away from you. And that’s being told that at least you learned something from the experience.

Writers—particularly storytellers like myself—write about people. That is ironic, since we actually know nothing about them. Think about it. Why does someone become a writer? Is it because they like people? Of course not. Why else would we seek out a job where we get to spend all day, every day, cooped up in our basement with no company besides paper, a pencil, and our imaginary friends? Writers hate people. If you’ve ever met a writer, you know that they’re generally awkward, slovenly individuals who live beneath stairwells, hiss at those who pass, and forget to bathe for weeklong periods. And those are the socially competent ones.

“Anyway, I can tell you that growing up learning how to lead doesn’t make any difference. A lifetime of training only makes you understand how inadequate you are.”

The person who won the battle wasn’t necessarily the one with the biggest army or the best weapons—it was the one who understood the most about the situation.