Hoid Quotes

Why hasn't anyone killed him yet?” “Dumb luck,” Wit said. “In that I’m lucky you’re all so dumb.

What did you put in the fire?" Kaladin said. "To make that special smoke?" "Nothing. It was just and ordinary fire." "But, I saw-" "What you saw belongs to you. A story doesn't live until it is imagined in someone's mind." "What does the story mean, then?" "It means what you want it to mean," Hoid said. "The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think , but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.

Enjoy memories, yes, but don't be a slave to who you wish you once had been.

All stories told have been told before. We tell them to ourselves, as did all men who ever were. And all men who ever will be. The only things new are the names.

Two blind men waited at the end of an era, contemplating beauty.

One of the great tragedies of life is knowing how many people in the world are made to soar, paint, sing, or steer—except they never get the chance to find out.

Even small actions have consequences. And while we can often choose our actions, we rarely get to choose our consequences.

I like visiting people in prison. I can say whatever I want to them, and they can’t do anything about it.

Can you feel it? Something just changed. I believe that’s the sound the world makes when it pisses itself.

In the land where everyone screams, everyone is also slightly deaf.

What do you know?” “Almost everything. That almost part can be a real kick in the teeth sometimes.” “What do you want, then?” “What I can’t have.” Wit turned to him, eyes solemn. “Same as everyone else, Kaladin Stormblessed.

Expectation. That is the true soul of art. If you can give a man more than he expects, then he will laud you his entire life. If you can create an air of anticipation and feed it properly, you will succeed.

Do you know how many grand romances would have avoided tragedy if the hero had thought, "You know, maybe I should ask her if she likes me first"?

For glory lit, and life alive, for goals unreached and aims to strive. All men must try, the wind did see. It is the test, it is the dream.

If bravery is the wind that makes us soar like kites, fear is the string that keeps us from going too far.

What you did tonight was clever,” Wit said. “You turned an attack into a promise. The wisest of men know that to render an insult powerless, you often need only to embrace it.

What is it we value? Innovation. Originality. Novelty. But most importantly...timeliness. I fear you may be too late, my confused, unfortunate, friend.

It might be said that Tress had a way with words. In that her words tended to get in her way.

If you want to create heroes, don't give them something to fight for. Give them someone to fight for.

We want to imagine that people are consistent, steady, stable. We define who they are, create descriptions to lock them on a page, divide them up by their likes, talents, beliefs. Then we pretend some—perhaps most—are better than we are, because they stick to their definitions, while we never quite fit ours. Truth is, people are as fluid as time is. We adapt to our situation like water in a strangely shaped jug, though it might take us a little while to ooze into all the little nooks. Because we adapt, we sometimes don’t recognize how twisted, uncomfortable, or downright wrong the container is that we’ve been told to inhabit.

Trauma doesn’t decrease with company, but it does grow easier to work through when you know someone else understands.

Yes, yes. Aim for the sun. That way if you miss, at least your arrow will fall far away, and the person it kills will likely be someone you don't know.

That is one of the great mistakes people make: assuming that someone who does menial work does not like thinking. Physical labor is great for the mind, as it leaves all kinds of time to consider the world. Other work, like accounting or scribing, demands little of the body—but siphons energy from the mind. If you wish to become a storyteller, here is a hint: sell your labor, but not your mind. Give me ten hours a day scrubbing a deck, and oh the stories I could imagine. Give me ten hours adding sums, and all you’ll have me imagining at the end is a warm bed and a thought-free evening.

Art - and all stories are art, even the ones about real people - is about what it does to you.

But after spending ages walking around with everyone piling bricks in your arms, it can throw you off balance when someone removes a brick to carry for you.

The part the stories leave out," Tress said as the Sorceress's runes formed into a vibrant wall, "is everything that comes before. You see, I've discovered that it's all right to need help. So long as you've lived your life as the kind of person who deserves to be rescued.

Do not let memory chase you… Enjoy memories, yes, but don’t be a slave to who you wish you once had been. Those memories aren’t alive. You are.

Everything is useless, intrinsically. Nothing has value unless we grant it that value.

I like to live every day like it's my last." Shallan nodded. "And by that I mean lying in a puddle of my own urine, calling for the nurse to bring me more pudding.

Some men, as they age, grow kinder. I am not one of those, for I have seen how the cosmere can mistreat the innocent - and that leaves me disinclined toward kindness. Some men, as they age, grow wiser. I am not one of those, for wisdom and I have always been at cross-purposes, and I have yet to learn the tongue in which she speaks. Some men, as they age, grow more cynical. I, fortunately, am not one of those. If I were, the very air would warp around me, sucking in all emotion, leaving only scorn. Other men...other men, as they age, merely grow stranger. I fear that I am one of those. I am the bones of a foreign species left drying on the plain that was once, long ago, a sea. A curiosity, perhaps a reminder, that all has not always been as it is now.

She felt less like a mere human being, and more like a human who was merely being.

Men often described the girl as having hair the color of wheat. Others called it the color of caramel, or occasionally the color of honey. The girl wondered why men so often used food to describe women’s features. There was a hunger to such men that was best avoided.

And then, Tress took the singular step that separated her from people in most stories. The act, it might be said, that defined her as a hero. She did something so incredible, I can barely express its majesty. 'I should consider this more,' Tress thought to herself, 'and not jump to conclusions.

Why do we tell stories? They are a universal human experience. Every culture I’ve ever visited, every people I’ve met, every human on every planet in every situation I’ve seen…they all tell stories. Men trapped alone for years tell them to themselves. Ancients leave them painted on the walls. Women whisper them to their babies. Stories explain us. You want to define what makes a human different from an animal? I can do it in one word or a hundred thousand. Sad stories. Exultant stories. Didactic morality tales. Frivolous yarns that, paradoxically, carry too much meaning. We need stories.

I’ll admit, Jasnah, that I empathize with your skepticism, but I don’t agree with it. I just think you've been looking for God in the wrong places.” “I suppose that you’re going to tell me where you think I should look.” “You’ll find God in the same place you’re going to find salvation from this mess,” Wit said. “Inside the hearts of men.” “Curiously,” Jasnah said, “I believe I can actually agree with that, though I suspect for different reasons than you imply.

Art is about feelings and emotion. It's about letting them escape, so they can be shared. It's about capturing a truth about yourself. Like you're ripping a hole in your chest and exposing your soul.

I only stare," he said. "when I see something too beautiful for my eyes to take in at once.

Most people never live, because they’re afraid of losing the years they have left…years that also will be spent not living. The irony of a cautious existence.

Plus, here’s the thing. A kiss doesn’t need to be good to be valuable. It doesn’t serve any real purpose. It’s valued solely because of the person you share it with. Things only have the value we give to them. And likewise, actions can be worth whatever we decide them to be worth. And so, to these two, that kiss was priceless.

Indeed, the path to a life without empathy is a long and painful one, full of bartered humanity sold at a steep discount.

What you saw belongs to you. A story doesn’t live until it is imagined in someone’s mind.” “What does the story mean, then?” “It means what you want it to mean,” Hoid said. “The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.

Fun tip: Being told 'I kept you in the dark to protect you' is not only frustrating, but condescending as well. It's a truly economical way to demean someone; if you're looking to fit more denigration into an already busy schedule, give it a try.

Oh, my lord, I know it, I do.” The beggar laughed. “I own the place, technically. Now, regarding those coins for old Hoid, my good lord…

El propósito del cuentacuentos no es decirte cómo pensar, sino plantearte dudas que te hagan reflexionar. Demasiado a menudo, lo olvidamos. -Hoid-

Well, this isn't the part of the story where you ask questions. So kindly keep them to yourself.

(And no, for those searching, Hoid does not make an appearance. Unfortunately, he needed to be somewhere else in the timeline at this point.)

This was art. Something the machine, however capable in the tech- nical details, could never understand. Because art is, and always has been, about what it does to us. To the one shaping it and the one expe- riencing it.

She remembered days of exhaustion when all she’d wanted was a kind word, a teardrop’s worth of empathy. Choice. She had a choice. 'You don’t have to be like her,' Yumi thought. 'You really don’t.' Such a novel idea, and so much harder to do than she would ever have assumed. Still, Yumi forced out the words. The ones akin to those she always wished she could have heard. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I know you’re trying. That’s what matters.

...Kaladin glanced over the pages. They had odd symbols on them, which made Kaladin nervous, but Wit insisted it wasn't actual writing. Merely marks on a paper representing sounds. It took Kaladin a few minutes to realize the joke.

No, my friend,” Wit said, standing up. “I’ve abandoned my real name. But when next we meet, I’ll think of a clever one for you to call me. Until then, Wit will suffice—or if you must, you may call me Hoid. Watch yourself; Sadeas is planning a revelation at the feast tonight, though I know not what it is. Farewell. I’m sorry I didn’t insult you more.

Humans are incredibly malleable. Despite my breadth of experience, I've never stopped being surprised at how durable human beings can be. They can survive in almost any environment. They can recover from debilitating loss. They can be crushed physically, mentally, emotionally- and still ask you how your day is going.

It is a great irony that society tends to look down on those who sell their bodies, but not on those who lease out their minds.

Tress, of course, underestimated the human mind’s ability to believe whatever the hell it wants.

My true advantage has never been my uncommon intellect. It’s been my ability to find the right people and stick close to them.

Abuse is a more effective form of captivity than a cell will ever be.

Now, you might say to me, “Hoid, this entire story has shown me the opposite. Lem’s family is always scrimping to survive.” And I would reply, “Please stop interrupting.

Hoid looked up, smiling. “I learned it many, many years ago from a man who didn’t know who he was, Your Majesty. It was a distant place where two lands meet and gods have died. But that is unimportant.

Art doesn't need to be good to be valuable. I've heard it said that art is the truly useless creation - intended for no mechanical purpose. Valued only because of the perception of the people who view it. The thing is, everything is useless, intrinsically. Nothing has value unless we grant it that value. Any object can be worth whatever we decide it to be worth.

You’d be surprised how common the name Doug is across worlds. Oh, some spell it ‘Dug’ or ‘Duhg’ but it’s always around. Regardless of local linguistics, parents eventually start naming their kids Doug. I once spent ten years on a planet where the only sapient sapient life was a group of pancake-like beings that expressed themselves through flatulence. And I kid you not, one was named Doug. Though admittedly it had a very distinctive smell when the word was “spoken”. Doug is the naming equivalent to convergent evolution. And once it arrives, it stays. A linguistic Great Filter; a wake up call. Once a society reaches peak Doug, it’s time for it to go sit in the corner and think about what it has done.

Sometimes the moments in our life pile up and become an unstoppable force that makes us change. But at other times they become a mountain impossible to surmount. Everyone misses shots now and then. But if you become known as the person who misses- if you internalize it -well, suddenly every miss becomes another rock in that pile. While every hit gets ignored. Eventually you become Ann: arm shaking, sweat pouring down your face, clutched by the invisible but very real claws of self-fulfilling determination. Then you start missing not because your aim is bad, or your eyesight is poor, but because your arm is shaking and sweat is pouring down your face. And because missing is what you do.

We want to imagine that people are consistent, steady, stable. We define who they are, create descriptions to lock them on a page, divide them up by their likes, talents, beliefs. Then we pretend some—perhaps most—are better than we are, because they stick to their definitions, while we never quite fit ours. Truth is, people are as fluid as time is. We adapt to our situation like water in a strangely shaped jug, though it might take us a little while to ooze into all the little nooks. Because we adapt, we sometimes don’t recognize how twisted, uncomfortable, or downright wrong the container is that we’ve been told to inhabit. We can keep going that way for a while. We can pretend we fit that jug, awkward nooks and all. But the longer we do, the worse it gets. The more it wears on us. The more exhausted we become. Even if we’re doing nothing at all, because simply holding the shape can take all the effort in the world. More, if we want to make it look natural.

Kaldıramayacağı bir silahı olan çocuktan korkmadığım gibi, düşünmeyen bir adamın aklından da asla korkmayacağım.

Hey, Hoid. Can I catch a ride up there with you?” "The new coachman shrugged, making room for Wayne on top of the carriage.

Hey, Hoid. Can I catch a ride up there with you?” The new coachman shrugged, making room for Wayne on top of the carriage.

What you saw belongs to you. A story doesn't live until it is imagined in someone's mind." "What does the story mean, then?" "It means what you want it to mean. The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.

Oh, my lord, I know it, I do.” The beggar laughed. “I own the place, technically. Now, regarding those coins for old Hoid, my good lord…” He pushed his hand forward farther, eyes staring sightlessly.

It was a two-pie type of predicament....It was also a half-pie type of predicament...Was it...perhaps...a three-pie predicament?

Try not to flirt with the girl," Wit whispered. "Young Adolin seems to be growing possessive. Or... what am I saying? Flirt with the girl, Kaladin. It might make the prince's eyes bulge.

Derethil and his men set sail, and though the winds were still, they rode the Wandersail around the whirlpool, using the momentum to spin them out and away from the islands. Long after they left, they could see the smoke rising from the ostensibly peaceful lands. They gathered on the deck, watching, and Derethil asked Nafti the reason for the terrible riots.” Hoid fell silent, letting his words rise with the strange smoke, lost to the night. “Well?” Kaladin demanded. “What was her response?” “Holding a blanket around herself, staring with haunted eyes at her lands, she replied, ‘Do you not see, Traveling One? If the emperor is dead, and has been all these years, then the murders we committed are not his responsibility. They are our own.

You ever feel,” Wayne said, “like you wish life was like the stories?” “What do you mean?” Hoid asked. “There’s always a good ending in those stories. The ones my ma used to tell … they meant something. People, they were worth something.” “I think we live stories every day,” Hoid replied. “Ones that we will remember, and tell, and shape like clay to be what we need them to be.

Truth is, people are just as fluid as time is. We adapt to our situation like water in a strangely shaped jug, thought it might take us a little while to ooze into all the little nooks. Because we adapt, we sometimes don't recognize how twisted, uncomfortable, or downright wrong the container is we've been told to inhabit. We can keep going the way for a while. We can pretend to fit that jug, nooks and all. But the longer we do, the worse it gets. The more it weighs on us. The more exhausted we become. Even if we're doing nothing at all, because simply holding the shape can take all the effort in the world. More, if we want to make it look natural.

Now, most people would agree that humans are not telepathic. We can't directly send our thoughts or emotions into the minds of others. Nevertheless, you can hear my story and imagine the things I describe- the same as I picture them in my own mind. What is that, if not a form of telepathy?

Derethil and his men set sail, and though the winds were still, they rode the Wandersail around the whirlpool, using the momentum to spin them out and away from the islands. Long after they left, they could see the smoke rising from the ostensibly peaceful lands. They gathered on the deck, watching, and Derethil asked Nafti the reason for the terrible riots.” Hoid fell silent, letting his words rise with the strange smoke, lost to the night. “Well?” Kaladin demanded. “What was her response?” “Holding a blanket around herself, staring with haunted eyes at her lands, she replied, 'Do you not see, Traveling One? If the emperor is dead, and has been all these years, then the murders we committed are not his responsibility. They are our own.

He abandonado mi verdadero nombre. Pero, la próxima vez que nos veamos, pensaré en uno astuto para que me llames. Hasta entonces, Sagaz bastará... O si quieres, puedes llamarme Hoid. Ten cuidado: Sadeas planea una revelación en el banquete de esta noche, aunque no sé cuál es. Adiós. Lamento no haberte insultado más.

Slowly deteriorating every day, time itself marching them toward oblivion to the cadence of their beating hearts.

Even small actions have consequences. And while we can often choose our actions, we rarely get to choose our consequences.

Kui te mu küsimust pahaks ei pane, söör Tuul," sõnas September mõne aja möödudes. "kuidas sinna Haldjamaale pääseb? Varsti oleme me juba Indiast. Jaapanist ja Californiast üle lennanud ja jõuame tagasi minu maja juurde."Roheline Tuul kugistas naerda. "Ma usun, et see oleks tõesti nii, kui maakera oleks ümmargune.""Ma olen päris kindel, et see on ... ""Tead, sa pead lõpetama sedasorti tagurliku vanamoodsa mõtlemise. Konservatiivsus pole kuigi veetlev iseloomujoon. Haldjamaa on vägagi teaduslik paik. Meil käivad kõik parimad teadusajakirjad."Leebe Tuule Leopard tõi kuuldavale kerge möirge. Väikesed pilved hüppasid pahuralt tee pealt eest. "Maakera, mu kullake, on laias laastus trapets, mõnes mõttes romb, terake nagu hüperkuup ja läbinisti pahur, kui teda vastukarva silitada. Lühidalt, see on mõistatus, mu sügisene leid, nagu omavahel ühendatud hõbedased rõngad, mis su tädi Margaret Türgist kaasa tõi, kui sa üheksa olid.""Kuidas te mu tädi Margaretist teadsite?" hüüatas September, käega juukseid kinni hoides."Olin just samal ajal oma keskpäevast iili üles keerutamas. Tädi kandis musta seelikut, sina kollast ahvipärdikutega kleiti. Karmidel iilidel on hea mälu asjade peale, mida nad saputanud on.""See mõistatus ei erine väga palju neist rõngastest," ütles Roheline Tuul pilku üle rohekate prillide kergitades. "Me pöörame maakera lukust lahti ja siis pöörame uuesti lukku ja kui me seda teinud oleme, jõuame me järgmisele rõngale, mida nimetatakse Haldjamaaks. Sinna pole enam palju jäänud.

A story doesn't live until it is imagined in someone's mind... the purpose of the storyteller is not to tell you how to think but to give you questions to think upon." -Hoid

—Lo que viste te pertenece a ti. Una historia no vive hasta que es imaginada en la mente de alguien. -Hoid

if you must, you may call me Hoid.

—¿Nos ayudas, Diseño? —estaba preguntando Pintor—. ¿Puedes encontrar una manera de arreglar lo que nos ha pasado? —No lo sé —dijo Diseño—. Estas cosas… no se me dan demasiado bien. La persona que os interesa para este asunto es Hoid. Es un grano en el culo, ya sea espectacular o no, pero comprende la teoría realmática mejor que nadie a quien conozca. (Es bonito que te valoren).

It was delivered by Hoid the cabin boy. (Yes, that’s me. What tipped you off? Was it perhaps the name?)

A mí me encantaba, dijo Aux. Antes de… Nómada exhaló con fuerza y apretó los párpados. No fue culpa tuya. —Le dije que sí a Hoid. Y te vinculé a ti. No sabías qué consecuencias tendría ninguna de las dos cosas. —Permití que la Esquirla del Amanecer nos consumiera, Auxiliar. Le permití alimentarse de ti. Rescaté un poco. Esta parte de mi mente. El último fragmento de mi alma.

Kui te leiate kellegi, kellest kinni hoides te võite maailma eest silmad sulgeda, siis on teil vedanud. Isegi kui see kestab vaid ainsa minuti või päeva.

What does the story mean, then?” “It means what you want it to mean,” Hoid said. “The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.” Kaladin

Hoid,

A story doesn’t live until it is imagined in someone’s mind.” “What does the story mean, then?” “It means what you want it to mean,” Hoid said. “The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.

This is Hoid,” Lightsong said. “Master storyteller. I believe you had some questions you wished to ask…

What did you put in the fire?” Kaladin said. “To make that special smoke?” “Nothing. It was just an ordinary fire.” “But, I saw—” “What you saw belongs to you. A story doesn’t live until it is imagined in someone’s mind.” “What does the story mean, then?” “It means what you want it to mean,” Hoid said. “The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.

Se la entregó Hoid el grumete. (Sí, ese soy yo. ¿Cómo te has dado cuenta? ¿Ha sido por el nombre, quizá?).

It means what you want it to mean,” Hoid said. “The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.

Until then, Wit will suffice—or if you must, you may call me Hoid.

Kelsier dropped a coin and launched himself into the air. As he landed on a rooftop, he caught a glimpse of Hoid scuttling over to pluck the coin off the ground. Hoid didn’t have any trouble locating it, despite his “weak eyesight.” Kelsier smiled, then kept moving. Hoid hadn’t mentioned Kelsier’s tardiness, but Kelsier’s next appointment would not be so forgiving.

Eligió a un informador en el otro lado del espectro, un mendigo llamado Hoid. [...] Canturreaba para sí, como sus instructores le decían que estaría haciendo. Vin vaciló. No sabía decir qué era, pero algo la molestaba.

What does the story mean, then?” “It means what you want it to mean,” Hoid said. “The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.

Hoid said.

He'd dusted off his old beggar's costume - well, it was supposed to be dirty, so he'd more dusted onto it - for an appearance here and there. However, he wanted to be gainfully occupied. And stay close to some important, relevant people who tended to look poorly on someone who could fill a garden with good topsoil merely by shivering

Together they enjoyed the silent presence of one another, drinking in the moment. It’s said that everything you eat, even the air you breathe, becomes part of you. The axi that make up the matter you take in come to make up you instead. I, however, find that the moments we take into our souls as memories are far more important than what we eat. We need those moments as surely as the air, and they linger. Potent. Yes, a person is more than their experiences, stacked up like stones. But our best moments are the foundations we use to reach for the sky. - Hoid

Indeed, the path to life without empathy is a long and painful one, full of bartered humanity sold a steep discount. -Hoid

Painful or passionate, surreal or sublime, we cherish those little rocks with the ever-smoothing touch of a recycled proxy living. In doing so, we make of our memories the gods in which we judge our current lives.