A Myrddraal has less cunning than a woman, and a Trolloc fights with more honor. And a goat has more sense.
Continuity provides stability, and stability brings prosperity.
At the end of time, when the many become one, the last storm shall gather its angry winds to destroy a land already dying. And at its center, the blind man shall stand upon his own grave. There he shall see again, and weep for what has been wrought.
Do you remember when we took that tame sport called swords and learned to kill with it, as the old volumes said men once had?
Some men,” she said, not raising her eyes from his hand, “choose to seek greatness, while others are forced to it. It is always better to choose than to be forced. A man who’s forced is never completely his own master. He must dance on the strings of those who forced him.
The bed was narrow, the woman’s elbows sharp and her feet icy despite thick blankets trapping the warmth of the small, tiled stove built in beneath the bed.
You tossed him aside for the White Tower. Why should you care if I pick him up?
It was always a mistake to choose a pillow-friend who did not wear the shawl. Especially if you were fool enough to let her take the lead.
You break your neck and I’ll see it mended just so I can break it again.
Across the nations the stories spread like spiderweb laid upon spiderweb, and men and women planned the future, believing they knew truth. They planned, and the Pattern absorbed their plans, weaving toward the future foretold.
Who are you? What do you want?” The black-clad man drew himself up arrogantly. “Once I was called Elan Morin Tedronai, but now – ” “Betrayer of Hope.
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.