Life is risk. All who inhabit the Earth inhale peril with each breath.
These are the pale deaths which men miscall their lives: for all the scents of green things growing, each breath is but an exhalation of the grave. Bodies jerk like puppet corpses, and hell walks laug...
The purpose of life, Cirrus Kindwind had once assured him, is to choose, and to act upon the choice.
The idea that his wedding band was some kind of talisman nauseated him like the smell of attar.
That is Lord Foul’s way in all things—to force his foes to become that which they most hate, and to destroy that which they most love.
You did not cause his despair. Had you treated him with distrust, you would have achieved nothing but the confirmation of his distress. Distrust—vindicates itself.
The purpose of life—if it may be said to have purpose—is not ease. It is to choose, and to act upon the choice. In that task, we are not measured by outcomes. We are measured only by daring and effort...
But to himself he responded, Ashamed? Ashamed? His face contorted in a wild grimace. Beware! Outcast unclean!
There’s no such thing as failure. Sort of progress is better than nothing. Under the circumstances, it’s probably impressive. We can only do what we can.