Mat, a very wise woman once told me that time would heal my wounds, that time smoothed everything over. I didn’t believe her. Only.
If you shook hands with a Taren Ferry man, people said, you counted your fingers afterwards.
As sure as peaches are poison.
He has forgotten how to laugh except in bitterness; there are no tears left in him.
Mat walked stiffly to the hatch. Behind him, he heard Mallia. “He’s a cold one. I never heard that Andor employed assassins, but burn my soul, he is a cold one.
I’d run. But maybe you can’t run. Think of that, too.′ His yellow eyes seemed to look inward, and he sounded tired. ‘Sometimes you can’t run.
A man who thinks all day about the catch he missed because of stormy weather ends up wasting time when the sky is clear.
If you do not learn from your losses, you will be ruled by them.
Why, Perrin, you must know that I love you.” She stood there, watching his mouth work, then spoke slowly and carefully. “Like a brother, you great wooden-headed lummox! The arrogance of men never ceases to amaze me. You all think everything has to do with you, and every woman has to desire you.
Conan stared at the hand holding the pendant. The grim god of his Cimmerian northcountry, Crom, Lord of the Mound, gave a man only life and will. What he did with them, or failed to do, was up to him alone. Life and will.
Why? Rand thought with wonder. Because each time we live, we get to love again.
Limping to the foot of the bed, he lowered himself into the chest there and laid Callandor across his knees, bloody hands resting on the glowing blade. With that in his hands, even one of the Forsaken would fear him. In a moment he would send for Moiraine to Heal his wounds. In a moment he would speak to the Aiel outside, and become the Dragon Reborn again. But for now, he only wanted to sit, and remember a shepherd named Rand al’Thor.
The Elders always said I spoke an hour before I thought.
A young man chases shadows and runs from moonlight, and in the end he stabs himself in the foot with his own spear.
Callandor shone in his fist until it seemed he carried the sun. Dimly within him, fluttering like a candle flame in a storm, was the surety that holding Callandor, he could do anything. Anything.
If you ever meet a Malkieri,” Noal said, “you tell him Jain Farstrider died clean.
People never really changed, yet the world did, with disturbing regularity. You just had to live with it, or at least live through it. Now and then, with luck, you could affect the direction of the changes, but even if you stopped one, you only set another in motion.
Egwene strode around a frozen pillar of glass in her dream. It almost looked like a column of light. What did it mean? She could not interpret it.
I could wish somebody wanted to talk about something besides the weather. Everyone complains about it.
Leaders in stories never had to put up with this sort of thing.