This first book’s for everyone, though almost no one wants it or would know how to read it.
Sometimes he opened books and found words that had defeated him the first time he had seen them, and that he had then written down and learned. It delighted him. He felt like a fox that had tracked th...
But here’s the problem you’re not addressing. While yes we can both agree the sudden recovery of this footage smells not a little, and that we appear to be bits of tinfoil-on-string to some malevolent...
That, she says, is what I am. I am what’s been sent for.
I paid it nuts, Billy. What would you think I'd pay a squirrel?
Easiest way is to bend over and say ‘car.
Woof, the dogman Nazi said.
Why’s there a pharos here? he said. You don’t put a lighthouse where no one’s going to go. You put it somewhere dangerous where they have to go.
There are parts where even individual trees are crosshatched, where Ul Qoman children and Besz children clamber past each other, each obeying their parents' whispered strictures to unsee the other.
The early days of revolution were remarkable for how submerged and scattered that hard right was. Most of its high-profile figures had left the country or been arrested after February. Only the errati...
So long as it fated, fate didn’t care what it fated.
Same weather over here as back home, I said.
Oratees are addicts. Strung out on an Ambassador’s Language.
I do not dream, der Grimnebulin. I am a calculating machine that has calculated how to think. I do not dream.
I didn’t tell the story to ask for help because I knew there was no help.
He hurled another vast pot of unstable thaumaturgic compound at the militia. It fell short, but burst with such violence that it splashed onto and over the shields, mixing with the distillate and send...
He didn’t know what if anything it was his mother got from his father’s company.
A haggard man used one of the huts as a home. He lay on a sagging mattress, his head on his pack, surrounded by rubbish - paper, porcelain shards, food remains and unidentifiable debris. His hand was...
If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t take him for part-ghost—but you’d know he wanted to be somewhere else.
If the fucking Scar exists, whispered the Brucolac, still without turning, and if they get us there and by some gods-fucked miracle we survive, then they’ll still destroy us. We are not an expeditiona...