“Live in the present, remember the past, and fear not the future, for it doesn't exist and never shall. There is only now.”
“Wise? No, I simply learned to think.”
“Those whom we most love are often the most alien to us.”
“Life is both pain and pleasure. If this is the price you must pay for the hours you enjoy, is it too much?”
“Avoid roasted cabbage, do not eat earwax, and look on the bright side of life!”
“Shall we dance,friend of my heart?"
We shall, little one.”
“I think it would dismay them to know what it takes to feed you. Not to mention that you could empty their cellars of beer and wine in a single night.' Eragon said.
I would never, Saphira sniffed. Maybe in two nights.”
“You cannot miss what you have never had.”
“I have a new name for pain.
The Obliterator. Because when you’re in pain, nothing else can exist. Not thought. Not emotion. Only the drive to escape the pain. When it’s strong enough, the Obliterator strips us of everything that makes us who we are, until we’re reduced to creatures less than animals, creatures with a single desire and goal: escape.
A good name, then.”
“The songs of the dead are the lamentations of the living.”
“They may fight with us, but they don't fight for us.”
“Only if you are afraid of looking foolish, and I would have looked far more foolish if I persisted with an erroneous belief.' Eragon said.
Why, little one, you just said something wise!'Saphira teased.”
“Half way down, he encountered Saphira, who had jammed her head and neck as far up the stair as she could, gouging the wood in her frenzy.
Little one. She flicked out her tongue and caught him on the hand with its rough tip. He smiled. Then she arched her neck and tried to pull back, but to no avail.
You're... He could not help it;he laughed even though it hurt. The situation was too absurd.”
“We are about to change history, said Saphira.
We’re throwing ourselves off a cliff without knowing how deep the water below is.
Ah, but what a glorious flight!
(Eragon to Saphira)”
“It is better to be taught to think critically than to be told on what to believe.”
“A good compromise leaves everyone angry.”
“When you can have anything you want by uttering a few words, the goal matters not, only the journey to it. ”
“Talking with her is always...'
Different? suggested Saphira.
“After a pause, he asked, 'What do you think of Nasuada's plans?'
'Mmm...she's doomed! You're doomed! They're all doomed!'She cackled, doubling over, then straightened abruptly. 'notice I didn't specify what kind of doom, so no matter what happens, I predicted it. How very wise of me.' She lifted the basket again, setting it on one hip. 'I supposed I won't see you for a while, so farewell, best of luck, avoid roasted cabbage, don't eat earwax, and look on the bright side of life!' And with a cheery wink, she strolled off, leaving Eragon blinking and nonplussed.”
“Magic is the art of thinking, not strength or language.”
“A negative outlook is more of a handicap than any physical injury.”
“Never ask an elf for help; they might decide your better off dead, eh?”
“He tapped one of the ivory spikes between his legs and said, 'There be as good a way to lose your manhood as ever I've seen'.”
“Lifaen beamed and cried, “Isn’t she glorious? See how her scales catch the light! No treasure in the world can match this sight.” Similar exclamations floated across the river from Narí.
“Bloody unbearable, that’s what it is,” muttered Orik into his beard. Eragon hid a smile, though he agreed with the dwarf. The elves never seemed to tire of praising Saphira.
Nothing’s wrong with a few compliments, said Saphira. She landed with a gigantic splash and submerged her head to escape a diving sparrow.
Of course not, said Eragon.
Saphira eyed him from underwater. Was that sarcasm?”
“Whatever you make, base it upon that which is most important to you. Only then will it have depth and meaning, and only then will it resonate with others.”
“There is a proper way to greet the sentinels in Ceris, certain patterns and forms that you must observe when presented to Queen Islanzadí, and a hundred different manners in which to greet those around you, if it’s not better to just remain quiet.”
“With all your customs,” Eragon risked saying, “it seems as though you’ve only made it easier to offend people.”
A smile flickered across her lips. “Perhaps.”
“If any honor existed in war, it was in fighting to protect others from harm”
“Evolution is a trajectory through multidimensional space, in which every step of the way has to represent a body capable of surviving and reproducing about as well as the parental type reached by the preceding step of the trajectory.”
“What is it about this book—essentially a military history of the first month of the First World War—which gives it its stamp and has created its enormous reputation? Four qualities stand out: a wealth of vivid detail which keeps the reader immersed in events, almost as an eyewitness; a prose style which is transparently clear, intelligent, controlled and witty; a cool detachment of moral judgment—Mrs. Tuchman is never preachy or reproachful; she draws on skepticism, not cynicism, leaving the reader not so much outraged by human villainy as amused and saddened by human folly. These first three qualities are present in all of Barbara Tuchman’s work, but in The Guns of August there is a fourth which makes the book, once taken up, almost impossible to set aside. Remarkably, she persuades the reader to suspend any foreknowledge of what is about to happen.”
“A short woman might be difficult to see on a crowded city street, particularly if she has disguised herself as a mailbox, and people keep putting letters in her mouth.”
“Halt," said the elegant diplomat, "when you asked me to marry you, did you think we could just sneak off to a glade in the woods with a few close friends and get it done?"
Halt hesitated. "Well, no...of course not."
As a matter of fact, that was exactly what he had thought. A simple ceremony, a few friends, some food and drink and then he and Pauline would be a couple. But he felt that it might not be wise to admit that right now.”
“She hands him his coffee; crosses to the doorway; motes of dust flutter nervously in her wake.”
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