No Purer Artist Exists Or Has Ever

A Civilization Can Easily Drown In What It Knows As In What Doesn't Know. Consider,' He Continued, Gotho's Folly. Gotho's Curse Was In Being Too Aware - Of Everything. Every Permutation, Every Potential. Enough To Poison Every Scan He Cast On The World. It Availed Him Naught, And Worse, He Was Aware Of Even That.

All They Get Around Here Is Stories. Stories Don't Make You Bleed. Stories Don't Make You Go Hungry, Don't Give You Sore Feet. When You're Young Smelling Of Pigshit And Convinced There Ain't A Weapon In All The Damn World That's Going To Hurt You, All Stories Do Is Make You Want To Be Part Of Them.

Death Cannot Be Struggled Against, Brother. It Ever Arrives, Defiant Of Every Hiding Place, Of Every Frantic Attempt To Escape. Death Is Every Mortal's Shadow, His True Shadow, And Time Is Its Servant, Spinning That Shadow Slowly Round, Until What Stretched Behind One Now Stretches Before Him.

Oh Yes, I Have Learned Much From Tremorlor, And So Assume A Like Strategy. Silence, A Faint Mocking Smile Suggesting I Know More Than I Do, An Air Of Mystery, Yes, And Fell Knowledge. None Could Guess My Confusion, My Host Of Deluded Illusions And Elusive Delusions!

The Wickans Know That The Gift Of Power Is Never Free. They Know Enough Not To Envy The Chosen Among Them, For Power Is Never A Game, Nor Are Glittering Standards Raised To Glory And Wealth. They Disguise Nothing In Trappings, And So We All See What We'd Rather Not, That Power Is Cruel, Hard As Iron And Bone, And Thrives On Destruction. ~ Deadhouse Gates