Use of Weapons (Culture, #3)

by Iain M. Banks

A hole seemed to open somewhere inside him; his guts fell through it.

Love, she maintained, was a process, not a state. Held still, it withered.

Like slow waters from a broken dam, nebulous rollers of cloud swung down the canyon; they foundered persistently among the juts and cracks of the architecture, and seeped away like tired thoughts.

He tried to crawl away unobtrusively; he could see what was coming next; his life was going to flash before him. What an appalling thought.

He sometimes had to be reminded, he realized, that he still possessed the capacity to despise.

What is all your studying worth, all your learning, all your knowledge, if it doesn’t lead to wisdom? And what’s wisdom but knowing what is right, and what is the right thing to do?

achievement, however great it was, once time itself is dead?

he suspected the troops felt closer to somebody who spoke a different language but asked them questions than they did to somebody who shared their language and only ever used it to give orders.

a scene of entirely satisfactory chaos, outrage and confusion.