The Blade Itself (The First Law, #1)

by Joe Abercrombie

Once you’ve got a task to do, it’s better to do it than to live with the fear of it.

Simple but sharp — this line hit me like a truth dart.

‘The blade itself incites to deeds of violence’

Oof. This line is the title. It’s not just about weapons, it’s about how power and tools of violence change the person holding them. There’s a weight to it — like the blade carries its own will, and you’re just the hand. Hauntingly poetic.

If Glokta had been given the opportunity to torture any one man, any one at all, he would surely have chosen the inventor of steps.

Glokta’s dry, bitter humour is chef’s kiss. He’s in agony, but somehow still sarcastic and oddly endearing. This made me laugh and wince — perfect encapsulation of his character.

If Glokta had been given the opportunity to shake the hand of any one man, any one at all, he would surely have chosen the inventor of chairs. He has made my life almost bearable.

Glokta’s humour is so dry it could crack. There’s such bleak sincerity here — even gratitude feels like gallows humour. I love how Abercrombie uses pain and practicality to forge character.

Okay, who is this lunatic and how do I follow them forever? Potential favourite unlocked. That line is pure chaos in a sentence.

‘Did I talk? I talked until my throat was raw. I told them everything I could think of. I screamed every secret I’d ever heard. I babbled like a fool. When I ran out of things to tell them I made things up. I pissed myself and cried like a girl. Everyone does.’

This monologue wrecked me. Raw, unfiltered, and brutally human. The shame, the survival, the truth of it. Glokta isn’t just a tortured man — he is the aftermath.

I suppose some men just love the sound of their own voices.

Abercrombie’s one-liners are knives. Brutal and brilliant. I laughed out loud and immediately thought of ten real-life examples.

You carry on. That’s what he’d always done. That’s the task that comes with surviving, whether you deserve to live or not. You remember the dead as best you can. You say some words for them. Then you carry on, and you hope for better.

Can already tell this is what Abercrombie does best — stoic despair wrapped in hope. Gritty endurance. You survive not because you’re strong, but because you must.

You have to learn to love the small things in life, like a hot bath. You have to love the small things, when you’ve nothing else.

This line broke me softly. It’s not about luxury — it’s survival. A hot bath, a smile, a breath of relief — they’re all tiny rebellions in the face of pain. For Glokta, comfort isn’t taken for granted, it’s earned. And it’s these moments — fleeting, fragile — that keep him going. Heartbreaking, human, beautiful.

Hard words are for fools and cowards. Calder might have been both, but Logen was neither. If you mean to kill, you’re better getting right to it than talking about it. Talk only makes the other man ready, and that’s the last thing you want.

Logen’s code: less talk, more action. It’s such a stark contrast to the politics and schemes around him. Brutal honour is still a kind of honour.

There’s nothing like seeing another’s misery to make you forget your own,

Bleak. Honest. Very human. Abercrombie never shies from the ugliness of human nature — and this one stings a little too true.

But some things have to be done. It’s better to do them, than to live with the fear of them.

Echo of page 9 — fear is often worse than the act itself. Recurring theme. It’s grim advice, but it fits this world like a bloodied glove.

‘Manners? What does a King need with manners? A King takes what he wants!’

Power stripped of all its civility. This could’ve come from any tyrant in history. Absolutely chilling — and depressingly believable.

It reminds me of myself, in a way. We both were magnificent once, and we both have our best days far behind us.

This is so Glokta. Nostalgic, bitter, and oddly poetic. There’s tragedy in his self-awareness — and in how quietly he mourns what he once was.

Every man has his excuses, and the more vile the man becomes, the more touching the story has to be.

Oof. This one hits hard. The worse we get, the more we crave justification — both in fiction and in life. A masterclass in moral complexity.

you have to have fear to have courage.

A classic sentiment, but it lands with new weight here. In this world, courage isn’t loud — it’s just surviving the next step while trembling.

‘if I’ve learned one thing from life, it’s that every man wants something. Every man has his price, yes? And we have deep pockets. You have only to name it. Only name it!

Corruption laid bare. Everyone has a price — and the system knows it. A brutally cynical truth, delivered with charm.

The more you learn, the more you realise how little you know. Still, the struggle itself is worthwhile. Knowledge is the root of power, after all.’

This line feels ancient — like a fable or a proverb. Knowledge as the true source of strength in a world full of brute force? Yes, please.

‘Life – the way it really is – is a battle not between good and bad, but between bad and worse’ Joseph Brodsky

The moral centre of grimdark, right here. No heroes, no villains — just degrees of ruin. And somehow, it makes the flickers of good mean even more.

Why do big men tend to have such little brains?

Snark level: elite. But beneath the sass, it reflects one of the series’ constant tensions — strength vs. intelligence, brute force vs. cunning. It’s a jab, but it’s also a warning.

The great wage secret wars for power and wealth, and they call it government. Wars of words, and tricks, and guile, but no less bloody for that. The casualties are many.’

This one could be pulled straight from today’s headlines. Politics as bloodless war — and yet still soaked in casualties. Chilling, prescient, perfect.

‘You can never have too many knives,’

Honestly? This line feels like the spirit of Abercrombie’s world in one sentence — cynical, funny, and quietly terrifying. A motto to live by in the Union (and maybe in parenting… just with emotional knives).

It’s better to do them than to live with the fear of them.

This echo of the earlier line gives it even more weight now — now that we know what these characters have had to face. Doing the hard thing is a survival tactic here, not bravery. Still hits.

I never saw a swordsman fly before.

This line gave me such a what just happened?! vibe. That shock — like something impossible just tore through the gritty realism — Abercrombie rarely does wonder, so when he does, it lands.

Why must every question answered raise ten more?

Bayaz and the First Law gang are the embodiment of “the more you know, the less you understand.” This line perfectly captures the feeling of chasing truth and getting buried deeper in shadows.

And this is the Inquisition? I had no idea the circus was in town. I wonder if they stand on each other’s shoulders? Or jump through flaming hoops?

Glokta’s sarcasm never misses. There’s something so brilliant about how he uses humour to cut through his trauma and the chaos around him. A circus made of violence and masks — spot on.

And to think. I sat in that very chair, being applauded and envied and clapped on the back after I won the Contest. Different men in the big clothes, different faces sweating in the heat, but nothing very much has changed. Was my grin really any less smug? Of course not. If anything I was worse. But at least I earned it.

He’s finally growing. This scene hit me because you can see the cracks in his arrogance — the start of realisation. He’s not who he thought he was, and he might even care. Progress!

‘My father used to say the seeds of the past bear fruit in the present.’

Oof. This line carries so much weight — about legacy, regret, and how we can never really outrun where we came from. In The First Law, the past doesn’t stay buried; it grows into everything the characters are now.

If I were to fall, at least I would die in the light.

This line feels like quiet bravery — not some grand heroic stand, but a wish to go down facing truth. In a world so full of shadow and betrayal, choosing the light — even for a moment — means everything.

‘He was always sorry. Don’t you remember? He’d hold us and cry afterwards. Always sorry. But it never stopped him the next time. Have you forgotten?’

This one hurt. Abuse wrapped in apology, pain masked by routine. There’s such a quiet, exhausted rage in these words. No glamour, just raw truth. Absolutely devastating.

I fucking pissed on it! I pulled up my shift, and I squatted down, and I pissed on him! And all the while I was thinking – I’ll be nobody’s dog any more!’

Raw, furious, defiant — this is reclaiming power in the most primal way. Not a clean victory, not a cinematic moment — just rage and resistance, and something finally snapping free. Ugly, honest, and unforgettable.

Most people never realise how full the world is of weapons.

Oof. This feels so layered — not just physical weapons, but words, secrets, people. In this world, everything and everyone is sharp if you look close enough.

The memories of another man. A dead man. My life began in Gurkhul, in the Emperor’s prisons. The memories since then are much more real. Stretched out in bed like a corpse after I came back, in the darkness, waiting for friends who never came.

This is so haunting. You can feel Glokta mourning who he used to be — not just the loss of health, but of identity. He’s become a ghost in his own life, and the loneliness of this hits so hard.

‘I did come. Twice. As soon as I learned that you were back, I came. Your mother turned me away at the gates of your estate. She said that you were too ill to take visitors, and that in any case you wanted nothing more to do with the army, and nothing more to do with me in particular. I came back again, a few months later. I thought I owed you that much. That time a servant came to see me off. Later I heard that you had joined the Inquisition, and left for Angland. I put you out of my mind . . . until we met . . . that night in the city . . .’ West trailed off. It took a while for his words to sink in, and by the time they had, Glokta realised that his mouth was hanging open. So simple. No conspiracy. No web of betrayal. He almost wanted to laugh at the stupidity of it. My mother turned him away at the gate, and I never thought to doubt that no one came. She always hated West. A most unsuitable friend, far beneath her precious son. No doubt she blamed him for what happened to me. I should have guessed, but I was too busy wallowing in pain and bitterness. Too busy being tragic. He swallowed. ‘You came?’ West shrugged. ‘For what it’s worth.’

That moment hit so hard. All the bitterness, pain, misunderstanding — and yet there’s still a sliver of something soft buried in it. Not forgiveness exactly, but a heartbeat.

‘Look, Ardee, I know you think I’m an ass and, well, I daresay I am, but I don’t plan always to be one. I don’t know why you even look at me, and I don’t know much about this sort of thing but, well . . . I think about you all the time. I hardly think about anything else any more.’ He took another deep breath. ‘I think . . .’ He glanced around again, just to check that no one was watching. ‘I think I love you!’

Sweet and awkward and surprisingly tender. In a world of swords and schemes, this was like someone trying to whisper over the sound of battle. Messy and honest.

All things come to an end.

Simple. Final. Feels like a funeral for everything we’ve been clinging to — hope, safety, peace. In this world, even the quiet truths hit like a hammer.

‘You fucking liar! You think to scare the Stone-Splitter with a name that’s not your own? I’ll carve a new arse in you, maggot! I’ll put the bloody cross on you! I’ll put you back in the mud you coward fucking liar!’

The Bloody-Nine unleashed. It’s like the voice shifts — primal, furious, something ancient and terrifying. This isn’t Logen anymore; it’s the monster inside him with no brakes. Chilling.

‘but I spent two years in the Emperor’s prisons. I daresay, if I had known I’d be there half that long at the start, I would have made a more concerted effort to kill myself. Seven hundred days, give or take, in the darkness. As close to hell, I would have thought, as a living man can go. My point is this – if you mean to upset me you’ll need more than harsh language.’

Glokta’s pain always sits just beneath the surface, but this moment lays it bare. It’s not just trauma — it’s endurance, it’s survival. And the fact he jokes? That’s heartbreak in disguise.

‘I know how you feel. I’m such a fool I knocked half my teeth out and hacked my leg to useless pulp. Look at me now, a cripple. It’s amazing where a little foolishness can take you, if it goes unchecked. We clumsy types should stick together, don’t you think?’

This hit hard. Self-loathing wrapped in wit, but it’s also a plea — for connection, for someone to see him. “We clumsy types should stick together” sounds funny until you feel the loneliness underneath.

Why do I do this? Why?

A rare crack in the mask. All the noise, all the posturing — and this is what’s underneath: emptiness, confusion, maybe even despair. Abercrombie gives us these perfect, awful silences.

So this is what freedom looks like.

Not triumph. Not joy. Just… quiet. Maybe even emptiness. This line is haunting because it shows that freedom doesn’t always feel good — sometimes, it’s just the absence of chains. And that’s still heavy.