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Carlot dan Eider leaned forward to a conspiratorial distance, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. “Who will be the next king of the Union, do you suppose? Will it be Brock? Isher? Will it be someone else?”
churlish
You must be fucking joking.
People would far rather be handed an easy lie than search for a difficult truth, especially if it suits their own purposes.
“What happened?” asked Dogman. “They all got killed, and their heads cut off and put in a sack, and the sack was buried in the pit they used to shit in.”
He was gradually starting to realise that the more powerful a man became, the fewer choices he really had.
If you want to be a new man you have to stay in new places, and do new things, with people who never knew you before. If you go back to the same old ways, what else can you be but the same old person?
But you can’t truly hate a man without loving him first, and there’s always a trace of that love left over.
“Just once. Just once I’d like to get the help before I’m at the point o’ getting killed.” “Better’n after.”
A curse we all have to bear. Round and round in circles we go, clutching at successes that we never grasp, endlessly tripping over the same old failures. Truly, life is the misery we endure between disappointments.
