Joy Is In The Ears That Hear.

Gradually, The Night Stumbled As If Stunned And Wandering Aimlessly Into An Overcast Day -- Limped Through The Wilderland Of Transition As Though There Were No Knowing Where The Waste Of Darkness Ended And The Ashes Of Light Began. The Low Clouds Seemed Full Of Grief -- Tense And Uneasy With Accumulated Woe -- And Yet Affectless, Unable To Rain, As If The Air Clenched Itself Too Hard For Tears. And Through The Dawn, Atiaran And Covenant Moved Heavily, Unevenly, Like Pieces Of A Broken Lament.

Despair And Bitterness Are Not The Only Songs In The World

It Is Wrong To Ask For More Than You Give Freely. In This Way, We Come To Resemble What We Hate.

Steven Erikson Is An Extraordinary Writer. I Read Gardens Of The Moon With Great Pleasure. And Now That I Have Read It, I Would Be Hard Pressed To Decide What I Enjoyed More: The Richly And Ominously Magical World Of Malaz And Genabackis; The Large Cast Of Sympathetically-rendered Characters; Or The Way The Story Accumulates To A Climax That Hits Like Machinegun Fire. My Advice To Anyone Who Might Listen To Me Is, Treat Yourself To Gardens Of The Moon. And My Entirely Selfish Advice To Steven Erikson Is, Write Faster.

We Need Metaphors Of Magic And Monsters In Order To Understand The Human Condition.