The Fall of Babel (The Books of Babel #4)

by Josiah Bancroft

We painted cavern walls to own the shadows with our palms. We carved the ground with county lines to legislate our qualms. We drew on heaven human shapes to stake the cosmic plot. Man would write upon his soul if pen could reach the spot. —Music for Falling Down Stairs by Jumet

Adam had learned long ago that the quality most essential to surviving the Tower was not luck, nor strength, nor wisdom. Even experience was not without disadvantage because as complacency dulled one’s vigilance, longevity inflated one’s sense of permanence. The Tower loathed nothing more than a smug survivor. No, the true patron of old fools and street urchins was elasticity. To survive, one had to be flexible.

Those who claim to be “ready for anything” are overpacked and invariably unprepared for the one obstacle every adventurer must eventually face—disappointment.

He had the look of a man who enjoyed scowling at babies and crossing his arms at fine art.

He recognized this and every waiting room for what they really were—a dam to the public that existed to assert the inhabitant’s supremacy.

Never was a line untangled by heaves and tugs. An unwanted knot requires a flexible stratagem to undo. One must give a little here to make some progress there. So it is with most of life’s snarls.

He was sure he could knock down ten of the golden-haired soldiers. Though ten would be hardly sufficient to subdue an army.

A lord once told me that wealth is squandered upon the poor, much as rain is wasted upon puddles. But who wants the rain to fall all in one place? Is that not what cleaves the levee, what drowns the valley, what empties the boneyards only to fill them again? More puddles, I say. Fewer floods.

Some of my crew are convinced an old rope will continue to hold purely because it has held for so long. As if a ship was buoyed by precedent. As if the past promised a future.

How had he sacrificed so much of himself and still given so little?

Anger that survives until morning is either righteous or insidious. Either way, it must be dealt with.

The only medicine for gout is moderation; the only cure for excess is charity.

Trust no man with a secret unless its preservation will enrich himself as well. The soul of discretion is not integrity but stock.

Perhaps we are not responsible for the crimes of our fathers, but make no mistake, we are beneficiaries of those crimes, which makes us answerable to its victims.

“A poet is just a tramp with a thesaurus,”

John’s fingernails rasped upon his stubbled cheek. “A classless headmaster, a poor crook, and a thirsty drunk. What a sorry lot of martyrs we shall make.” “Why waste good men when middling ones will do?” Goll said darkly.

never trust a modest man. Half of them are being coy about their usefulness, and the rest are actually useless.”

“You seem to have confused sincerity with modesty, Hodder Lely. The truth brags well enough without my help.”

Travelers who mistake inconvenience for catastrophe or confuse a detour for derailment only deplete their mettle. There is no need to embellish difficulty; hardship is quite content to embroider itself.

A king surrounded by toadies may feel secure, but so does the goose of the feast feel well fed by the butcher. Fawning should be punished the same as treason— with swift, unflinching execution— for it strikes at the sovereign’s eyes. Flattery blinds a man gradually, but forever.

An axe-head survives its handle, and a ship outlives many sails.

True conspiracies are inflexible and susceptible to discovery, but imaginary plots are ever evolving and, as a result, invulnerable. That is to say, conspiracies are perishable, paranoia is not.

It was possible to mourn the loss of potential—including his own—while celebrating the world that would survive them.

Pilgrims are encouraged to remember that the principal consumer of sheep is not wolves but shepherds.

“Edith, we never got along. If I had lived to be a hundred, I don’t believe we ever would have. But that’s all right. The truth is, I’ve gotten on famously with so many people I did not care for or admire or enjoy. And I love you.

When you think little of yourself, everyone else’s opinion of you becomes more important than your own.

And as anyone who has ever tumbled from an oak or magnolia knows: It’s not the fall that smarts; it’s all the interruptions.

Neglect never patched a crack, nor denial plugged a hole. Do not forget your imperfections; they have not forgotten you.

Do not race your postcards home. Dally long enough for word of your adventures to arrive before you. Let them announce you and lay the foundation for your legend.

“The reason we study and learn, the reason we take only what we need, is because we have all been given a great gift—the gift of civilization, the gift of understanding, the gift of mastery over our environment—