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

by Steven Erikson

Nature has but one enemy. And that is imbalance.

Those legends and their tales of glory—they describe an age little different from our own. Aye, more heroes, greater deeds, but essentially the same, in the manner of how we lived. Indeed, it often seems that the very point of those tales is one of instruction, a code of behaviour,

‘How many of us bow before a god in the desperate hope that we can somehow shape our fate? Praying to that familiar face pushes away our terror of the unknown—the unknown being the future.

And therein resided the final truth. Anyone could become a killer. Anyone at all.

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

success breeds contempt for those very qualities that purchased it.’

No life’s path is bloodless.

It is the horror of war that, with each newly arrived generation, the nightmare is reprised by innocents.

And so, he faced only what every mortal faced. The solitude of death, and oblivion’s final gift that was indifference.

No matter how brief a child’s life, the love of the parents is a power that should not be denied.

‘Have you no means to defend yourself, then?’ ‘Against Icarium, no-one has, Karsa Orlong.’

its sources were formless, as only a child’s could be. The stigma of meaning ever comes later, like a brushing away of dust to reveal shapes in stone.

Age is no instant purchase of wisdom.

Shadow is ever besieged, for that is its nature. Whilst darkness devours, and light steals. And so one sees shadow ever retreat to hidden places, only to return in the wake of the war between dark and light.

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.’

I am a son who lives without hope of ever matching my father’s stride.