Lady of the Lake (The Witcher, #7)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

I tell you that whoever believes in dreams is as one trying to catch the wind or seize a shadow. He is deluded by a beguiling picture, a warped looking glass, which lies or utters absurdities in the manner of a woman in labour. Foolish indeed is he who lends credence to dreams and treads the path of delusion. Nonetheless, whoever disdains and does not believe them at all also acts unwisely. For if dreams had no import whatsoever why, then, would the Gods, in creating us, give us the ability to dream?

‘Revenge,’ said the sorceress from Kovir, ‘is the delight of mediocre, weak and petty minds.’ ‘Perhaps,’ agreed Philippa, with an apparently indifferent smile. ‘But that doesn’t stop it being a delight.’

And if you don’t understand something, don’t act rashly under any circumstances. Be patient. Remember, time means nothing.’

Evolution didn’t give you a sufficiently folded brain to enable you to understand.

He knows that whoever has a queen is the real king, a real ruler. A real man. Whoever possesses a queen, possesses the kingdom.

Right now even children don’t believe that any winter is capable of endangering the world.’

‘Emperors pass,’ drawled Leuvaarden. ‘And corporations survive.

For whoever doesn’t overcome the cowardice inside themselves will die of fear to the end of their days.