House of Chains (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #4)

by Steven Erikson

Hatred is a most pernicious weed, finding root in any kind of soil. It feeds on itself.’

Form an opinion, say it often enough and pretty soon everyone’s saying it right back at you, and then it becomes a conviction, fed by unreasoning anger and defended with weapons of fear. At which point, words become useless and you’re left with a fight to the death.’

One day, perhaps, you will see for yourself that regrets are as nothing. The value lies in how they are answered.’

They are human, after all, and it is human nature to transform loss into a virtue. So that it might be lived with, so that it might be justified.

What matter the colour of the collar around a man’s neck, if the chains linked to them were identical?

The past is all patterns, and those patterns remain beneath our feet, even as the stars above reveal their own patterns—for the stars we gaze upon each night are naught but an illusion from the past.’

‘Innocence is only a virtue, lass, when it is temporary. You must pass from it to look back and recognize its unsullied purity. To remain innocent is to twist beneath invisible and unfathomable forces all your life, until one day you realize that you no longer recognize yourself, and it comes to you that innocence was a curse that had shackled you, stunted you, defeated your every expression of living.’

Love changes, aye, in the manner of growing to encompass as much of its subject as possible. Virtues, flaws, limitations, everything—love will fondle them all, with child-like fascination.’

The heart is neither given nor stolen. The heart surrenders.’