Duiker Quotes

Children are dying.' Lull nodded. 'That's a succinct summary of humankind, I'd say. Who needs tomes and volumes of history? Children are dying. The injustices of the world hide in those three words. Quote me, Duiker, and your work's done.' The bastard's right. Economics, ethics, the games of the gods - all within that single, tragic statement. I'll quote you, soldier. Be assured of that.

People and gorillas, horses and duikers and pigs, monkeys and chimps and bats and viruses: We’re all in this together.

Silence!” Korbolo snapped. He eyed Duiker. “You are the historian who rode with Coltaine.” The historian faced him. “I am.” “You are a soldier.” “As you say.” “I do, and so you shall die with these soldiers, in a manner no different-“ “You mean to slaughter ten thousand unarmed men and women, Korbolo Dom?” “I mean to cripple Tavore before she even sets foot on this continent. I mean to make her too furious to think. I mean to crack that façade so she dreams of vengeance day and night, poisoning her every decision.” “You always fashioned yourself as the Empire’s harshest Fist, didn’t you, Korbolo Dom? As if cruelty’s a virtue…

A rough, broken voice replied. 'There is value.' Everyone fell silent, turned to Duiker. The old man looked down once more at the cloth in his hands. The silence stretched. Duiker made no move. Picker began to turn back to her companions — when the man began speaking. 'Very well, permit me, if you will, on this night. To break your hearts once more. This is the story of the Chain of Dogs. Of Coltaine of the Crow Clan, newly come Fist to the 7th Army...

A chill crept over Duiker. Even wheeled hospitals carried with them that pervasive atmosphere of fear, the sounds of defiance and the silence of surrender. Mortality’s many comforting layers had been stripped away, revealing wracked bones, a sudden comprehension of death that throbbed like an exposed nerve.

Perhaps the most that can be said is that HCM had become a prisoner of his own creation, a fly in amber, unable in his state of declining influence to escape the inexorable logic of a system that sacrificed the fate of individuals to the "higher morality" of the master plan.

That’s a succinct summary of humankind, I’d say. Who needs tomes and volumes of history? Children are dying. The injustices of the world hide in those three words. Quote me, Duiker, and your work’s done.

Lost,” the captain repeated. “I am surely that.” “Yet you and I, Lull, we are lost late in our lives. Look upon the children, and despair.” “How to answer this? I must know, Duiker, else I go mad.” “Sleight of hand,” the historian said. “What?” “Think of the sorcery we’ve seen in our lives, the vast, unbridled, deadly power we’ve witnessed unleashed. Driven to awe and horror. Then think of a trickster—those you saw as a child—the games of illusion and artifice they could play out with their hands, and so bring wonder to your eyes.” The captain was silent, motionless. Then he rose. “And there’s my answer?” “It’s the only one I can think of, friend. Sorry if it’s not enough.” “No, old man, it’s enough. It has to be, doesn’t it?” “Aye, that it does.” “Sleight of hand.” The historian nodded. “Ask for nothing more, for the world—this world—won’t give it.” “But where will we find such a thing?” “Unexpected places,” Duiker replied, also rising. Somewhere ahead, shouts rose and the convoy resumed its climb once more. “If you fight both tears and a smile, you’ll have found one.

Dopo qualche istante, il capitano aveva sospirato. «Senti il bisogno di dare una risposta a questa tragedia, storico?» aveva chiesto. «Tutti quei volumi che hai letto sul pensiero di altri uomini e altre donne. Su altri tempi. Come risponde un uomo alla domanda su ciò che quelli della sua razza sono capaci di fare? Ognuno di noi, soldato o civile, arriva a un punto in cui ciò che ha visto lo cambia dentro? Irrimediabilmente e indefinitamente? E allora che cosa diventiamo? Meno umani o più umani? Abbastanza umani o troppo umani?» Duiker era rimasto in silenzio per un lungo minuto, gli occhi sul terriccio che circondava il masso su cui sedeva. Infine si era schiarito la gola. «Ognuno di noi ha la propria soglia, amico. Soldati o civili, non possiamo fare altro che prendere ciò che riusciamo prima di lanciarci... in qualcosa di nuovo. Come se il mondo intorno a noi fosse cambiato, mentre è cambiato solo il nostro modo di guardarlo. Un cambiamento di prospettiva, ma non una questione di capacità intellettuale: vediamo ma non proviamo emozioni, oppure piangiamo ma osserviamo la nostra sofferenza come se fossimo al di fuori di noi. Non è possibile dare una risposta, Lull. Più umano o meno umano... sta a te decidere.»

Historian." He turned his head, looked down at Nethpara. The nobleman was smiling. "You should have treated me with more respect. I suppose you see that now, although it's come too late for you." Nepartha didn't notice Duiker slip his boot from the stirrup. "For the insults you have committed upon my person...for the laying of hands on me, Historian, you shall suffer-" "No doubt," Duiker cut in. "And here's one last insult." He kicked out, the toe of his boot driving into the nobleman's flabby throat, then up.

Historian." He (Duiker) turned his head, looked down at Nethpara (A nobleman). The nobleman was smiling. "You should have treated me with more respect. I suppose you see that now, although it's come too late for you." Nepartha didn't notice Duiker slip his boot from the stirrup. "For the insults you have committed upon my person...for the laying of hands on me, Historian, you shall suffer-" "No doubt," Duiker cut in. "And here's one last insult." He kicked out, the toe of his boot driving into the nobleman's flabby throat, then up.

Historian." He turned his head, looked down at Nethpara. The nobleman was smiling. "You should have treated me with more respect. I suppose you see that now, although it's come too late for you." Nepartha didn't notice Duiker slip his boot from the stirrup. "For the insults you have committed upon my person...for the laying of hands on me, Historian, you shall suffer-" "No doubt," Duiker cut in. "And here's one last insult." He kicked out, the toe of his boot driving into the nobleman's flabby throat, then up.

Seven Cities was an ancient civilization, steeped in the power of antiquity, where Ascendants once walked on every trader track, every footpath, every lost road between forgotten places. It was said the sands hoarded power within their susurrating currents, that every stone had soaked up sorcery like blood, and that beneath every city lay the ruins of countless other cities, older cities, cities that went back to the First Empire itself. It was said each city rose on the backs of ghosts, the substance of spirits thick like layers of crushed bone; that each city forever wept beneath the streets, forever laughed, shouted, hawked wares and bartered and prayed and drew first breaths that brought life and the last breaths that announced death. Beneath the streets there were dreams, wisdom, foolishness, fears, rage, grief, lust and love and bitter hatred. The historian stepped outside into the rain, drawing in lungfuls of clean, cool air as he once more wrapped cloak about him. Conquerors could overrun a city’s walls, could kill every living soul within it, fill every estate and every house and every store with its own people, yet rule nothing but the city’s thin surface, the skin of the present, and would one day be brought down by the spirits below, until they themselves were but one momentary layer among many. This is an enemy we can never defeat, Duiker believed. Yet history tells the stories of those who would challenge that enemy, again and again. Perhaps victory is not achieved by overcoming that enemy, but by joining it, becoming one with it.

Duiker said, a wave of sorrow flooding him.

Duiker’s imaginings were the product of fear, the all too human need to conjure symbolic meaning from meaningless events. Nothing more.

Along the track, no more than fifty long paces from Duiker’s position, a hapless squad of Malazan soldiers writhed on what were locally called Sliding Beds—four tall spears each set upright, the victim set atop the jagged points, at the shoulders and upper thighs. Depending on their weight and their strength of will in staying motionless, the impaling and the slow slide down to the ground could take hours.

It was then, Duiker saw as his mount picked a careful path through the bodies, that madness had truly arrived. Men had been gutted, their entrails pulled out, wrapped around women—wives and mothers and aunts and sisters—who had been raped before being strangled with the intestinal ropes. The historian saw children with their skulls crushed, babies spitted on tapu skewers.

We are all naught but twists of suffering in a river of pain.

Jesus of Nazareth (c. 6 BCE (BC)- c. 29 CE (AD) was a Palestine Jew who grew up in Galilee, an important center of the militant Zealots. Jesus's message was simple. He reassured his fellow Jews he did not plan to undermine their traditional religion. What was important was not strict adherence to the letter of the law but the transformation of the inner person: "So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets." God's command was simply to love God and one another: "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this: Love your neighbor as yourself." In his teachings, Jesus presented the ethical concepts-humility, charity, and brotherly love-that would form the basis of the value system of medieval Western civilization.

Children are dying.’ Lull nodded. ‘That’s a succinct summary of humankind, I’d say. Who needs tomes and volumes of history? Children are dying. The injustices of the world hide in those three words. Quote me, Duiker, and your work’s done.

Shit. I think I do.” “That’s why people have beat you up all your life. They think you’re not black enough.

No, you can see it in his eyes. I know he looks white but if you look at him closely you can see some coloured blood. He hates it, that’s why he’s so fucked up. I mean, imagine being nearly white but not quite. Know what I mean?

I know what fear is. I know what it means to be scared, to be always on the lookout. I know what it means to hear your own heartbeat. It means you are on your own. The world is watching you but only you can hear the music.

For all that scholars tried, Duiker knew there was no explanation possible for the dark currents of human thought that roiled in the wake of bloodshed. He need only look upon his own reaction, when stumbling down to where Nil and Nether stood, their hands gummed with congealing sweat and blood on the flanks of a mare standing dead. Life forces were powerful, almost beyond comprehension, and the sacrifice of one animal to gift close to five thousand others with appalling strength and force of will was on the face of it worthy and noble. If not for a dumb beast’s incomprehension at its own destruction beneath the loving hands of two heartbroken children.

So what, you live with homeless people?” “We have a home. It’s just not your normal kind of home with a kitchen and all that stuff but it’s still a home.

Blend walked into K’rul’s Bar and found it empty, save for the hunched figure of the historian, who sat at his chosen table, staring at the stained, pitted wood. She walked over and looked down at him. ‘Who died?’ Duiker did not look up. ‘Not who, Blend. More like what. What died? More, I think, than we’ll ever know.

Ride or die

To save a bitter old man who more than once denounced his written histories as deliberate lies. If I live to stand face to face with Duiker, I think I owe the man an apology.