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“They are simply different, child. Odd people are those who act erratically.
“Must someone, some unseen thing, declare what is right for it to be right? I believe that my own morality—which answers only to my heart—is more sure and true than the morality of those who do right only because they fear retribution.”
though keep in mind that channeling your capacities and stifling them are two separate things.
discover that her haste had been unnecessary. Jasnah wasn’t there.
Adolin did wish it, Dalinar knew. But he had refused
To be human is to want that which we cannot have.”
What was a prayer, if not creation? Making something where nothing existed.
abandoned thought and power in exchange for freedom.
“I,” she proclaimed, “am glad we are down here because the sun is far too bright up above, and it tends to give me a sunburn unless I wear a hat.
Contradictions. Those were what made people real.
their laughter somehow strong over the sounds of the storm.
How many more of my lies, she thought, hold me back from things I could accomplish? But she needed those lies. Needed them.
Power was an illusion of perception.
If you could explain something perfectly, then you’d never need art. That was the difference between a table and a beautiful woodcutting. You could explain the table: its purpose, its shape, its nature. The woodcutting you simply had to experience.
Lunamor didn’t push Renarin to talk. Some people you wanted to press, draw them out. Others you wanted to let move at their own pace. Like the difference between a stew you brought to a boil and one you kept at a simmer.
Why couldn’t he ever convince anyone peacefully? Why couldn’t he get people to listen without first pounding them bloody—or, conversely, shocking them with his own wounds?
It wanted so badly to be whole again.
Once the soul grows accustomed to the wound, it’s much harder to fix.”
It depicted Elhokar kneeling on the ground, beaten down, clothing ragged. But he looked upward, outward, chin raised. He wasn’t beaten. No, this man was noble, regal. “Is that what I look like?” he whispered. “Yes.” It’s what you could be, at least.
“Do you wish,” Wit asked, “that you could go back to not being able to see?”
But what if you pick the wrong thing to follow? Couldn’t you end up in the same place again? Can’t you just find evil, then destroy it?
Why was it that trying to stand tall should make you so much more likely to fall?
“Sometimes, a hypocrite is nothing more than a man who is in the process of changing.”
“You, always about dreams. My soul weeps. Farewell, weeping soul. My dreams … about, always, You.”
“Syl. What is the Fourth Ideal?” You know you have to figure that out on your own, silly. “It’s going to be hard, isn’t it?” Yes. You’re close.
