Lir Quotes

You have only to begin, Lir. Mercy breeds mercy as slaughter breeds slaughter. We can’t expect the world to be better than we make it.

I love whom I love," Prince Lir repeated firmly. "You have no power over anything that matters.

Anna did say the wife of Lir had left her?” whispered Mary. “Yes,” said Caroline. “She said, ‘for now.

Wife of Lir eat horse.

Take it away,” she pointed at the green milk in a normal tone. “Anna and wife of Lir. Both must stay.

Lir said, "It is my right. A hero is entitled to his happy ending, when it comes at last." But Schmendrick answered, "This is not the end, either for you or for her.

My name is Kvothe, pronounced nearly the same as "quothe." Names are important as they tell you a great deal about a person. I've had more names than anyone has a right to. The Adem call me Maedre. Which, depending on how it's spoken, can mean The Flame, The Thunder, or The Broken Tree. "The Flame" is obvious if you've ever seen me. I have red hair, bright. If I had been born a couple of hundred years ago I would probably have been burned as a demon. I keep it short but it's unruly. When left to its own devices, it sticks up and makes me look as if I have been set afire. "The Thunder" I attribute to a strong baritone and a great deal of stage training at an early age. I've never thought of "The Broken Tree" as very significant. Although in retrospect, I suppose it could be considered at least partially prophetic. My first mentor called me E'lir because I was clever and I knew it. My first real lover called me Dulator because she liked the sound of it. I have been called Shadicar, Lightfinger, and Six-String. I have been called Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe the Arcane, and Kvothe Kingkiller. I have earned those names. Bought and paid for them. But I was brought up as Kvothe. My father once told me it meant "to know." I have, of course, been called many other things. Most of them uncouth, although very few were unearned. I have stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings. I burned down the town of Trebon. I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in. I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep. You may have heard of me.

Close your mouth, E'lir Kvothe, or I will feel obliged to put some vile tonic in it.

Me llamo Kvothe, que se pronuncia «cuouz». Los nombres son importantes porque dicen mucho sobre la persona. He tenido más nombres de los que nadie merece. Los Adem me llaman Maedre. Que, según como se pronuncie, puede significar la Llama, el Trueno o el Árbol Partido Mi primer mentor me llamaba E’lir porque yo era listo y lo sabía. Mi primera amante me llamaba Dulator porque le gustaba cómo sonaba. Me han llamado Kvothe el Sin Sangre, Kvothe el Arcano y Kvothe el Asesino de Reyes. Todos esos nombres me los he ganado. Los he comprado y he pagado por ellos. Pero crecí siendo Kvothe. Una vez mi padre me dijo que significaba «saber». He robado princesas a reyes agónicos. Incendié la ciudad de Trebon. He pasado la noche con Felurian y he despertado vivo y cuerdo. Me expulsaron de la Universidad a una edad a la que a la mayoría todavía no los dejan entrar. He recorrido de noche caminos de los que otros no se atreven a hablar ni siquiera de día. He hablado con dioses, he amado a mujeres y he escrito canciones que hacen llorar a los bardos. Quizá hayas oído hablar de mí.

I Keep a Wholesome Table." Manannan Mac Lir

But the Lady Amalthea and Prince Lir walked and spoke and sang together as blithely as though King Haggard's castle had become a green wood, wild and shadowy with spring. They climbed the crooked towers like hills, picnicked in stone meadows under a stone sky, and splashed up and down stairways that had softened and quickened into streams.

Where do you think stories come from, E'lir Kvothe? Every tale has deep roots somewhere in the world.

I care nothing for your intentions, E‘lir Kvothe, deceived or otherwise. All that matters is the reality of your actions. Your hand held the fire. Yours is the blame. That is the lesson all adults must learn.

Oh!... ja -- byłem błędny i sam chory: Ponętniejsze jest lir przeznaczenie: Są one dla prawd... czym w oknach sztory, Na których wstrzymują się promienie

I think this is the first time I have seen you speechless," Lir says with laughing eyes. "Had I only known, I would have removed my shirt sooner.

It’s—war doesn’t work like that. Winning doesn’t mean you were right and losing doesn’t mean you were wrong. All it means is that Lir hit us harder this time.

There was no leisure to think.

My name is Kvothe, pronounced nearly the same as “Quothe.” Names are important as they tell you a great deal about a person. I’ve had more names than anyone has a right to. The Adem call me Maedre. Which, depending on how it’s spoken, can mean “The Flame,” “The Thunder,” or “The Broken Tree.” “The Flame” is obvious if you’ve ever seen me. I have red hair, bright. If I had been born a couple hundred years ago I would probably have been burned as a demon. I keep it short but it’s unruly. When left to its own devices, it sticks up and makes me look as if I have been set afire. “The Thunder” I attribute to a strong baritone and a great deal of stage training at an early age. I’ve never thought of “The Broken Tree” as very significant. Although in retrospect I suppose it could be considered at least partially prophetic. My first mentor called me E’lir because I was clever and I knew it. My first real lover called me Dulator because she liked the sound of it. I have been called Shadicar, Lightfinger, and Six-String. I have been called Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe the Arcane, and Kvothe Kingkiller. I have earned those names. Bought and paid for them. But I was brought up as Kvothe. My father once told me it meant “to know.

I thought you might stop by today,” he said with a brittle cheerfulness. “So I already checked the ledger. You’re not in the lists yet. You’ll have to stick with Tomes or come back later, after they’ve updated the books.” “No offense, but would you mind checking again? I’m not sure I can trust the literacy of someone who tries to rhyme ‘north’ with ‘worth.’ No wonder you have to hold women down to get them to listen to it.” Ambrose stiffened and his arm slid off the back of the chair to fall at his side. His expression was pure venom. “When you’re older, E’lir, you’ll understand that what a man and a woman do together—” “What? In the privacy of the entrance hall of the Archives?” I gestured around us. “God’s body, this isn’t some brothel. And, in case you hadn’t noticed, she’s a student, not some brass nail you’ve paid to bang away at. If you’re going to force yourself on a woman, have the decency to do it in an alleyway. At least that way she’ll feel justified screaming about it.” Ambrose’s face flushed furiously and it took him a long moment to find his voice. “You don’t know the first thing about women.” “There, at least, we can agree,” I said easily. “In fact, that’s the reason I came here today. I wanted to do some research. Find a book or two on the subject.” I struck the ledger with two fingers, hard. “So look up my name and let me in.

THE RETURN OF THE GODS Like a white bird upon the wind, the sail of the boat of Manannan mac Lir (Pronounced Mananarn mak Leer), the Son of the Sea, flew across the sparkling waves filled with the breeze that blew Westward to the Islands of the Blessed. The Sun Goddess above him smiled down with warmth upon her friend. The fish in the ocean danced for him beneath the turquoise water; the porpoises leapt above the waves to greet him. Upon the wind was a smell of sweetness, the smell of apple blossom in the Spring of the morning of the world. And in the prow of the boat sat Lugh (Pronounced Loo) the long-armed; strumming on his harp, he sang the Song of Creation. And as they drew closer to the green hills of Ireland, the holy land of Ireland, the Shee came out of their earth-barrow homes and danced for joy beneath the Sun. For hidden in a crane-skin sack at the bottom of the boat was the Holy Cup of Blessedness. Long had been her journeying through lands strange and far. And all who drank of that Cup, dreamed the dreams of holy truth, and drank of the Wine of everlasting life. And deep within the woods, in a green-clad clearing, where the purple anemone and the white campion bloomed, where primroses still lingered on the shadowed Northern side, a great stag lifted up his antlered head and sniffed the morning. His antlers seven-forked spoke of mighty battles fought and won, red was his coat, the colour of fire, and he trotted out of his greenwood home, hearing on the wind the song of Lugh. And in her deep barrow home, the green clad Goddess of Erin, remembered the tongue that she had forgotten. She remembered the secrets of the weaving of spells, She remembered the tides of woman and the ebb and flow of wave and Moon. She remembered the people who had turned to other Gods and coming out of her barrow of sleep, her sweet voice echoed the verses of Lugh and the chorus of Manannan. And the great stag of the morning came across the fields to her and where had stood the Goddess now stood a white hind. And the love of the God was returned by the Goddess and the larks of Anghus mac Og hovering above the field echoed with ecstasy the Song of Creation. And in the villages and towns the people came out of their houses, hearing the sweet singing and seeking its source. And children danced in the streets with delight. And they went down to the shore, the Eastern shore, where rises the Sun of the Morning, and awaited the coming of Manannan and Lugh, the mast of their boat shining gold in the Sun. The sea had spoken, the Eastern dawn had given up her secret, the Gods were returning, the Old Ones awakening, joy was returning unto the sleeping land.  

Manannan Mac Lir, God of the Sea,

I care nothing for your intentions, E’lir Kvothe, deceived or otherwise. All that matters is the reality of your actions. Your hand held the fire. Yours is the blame. That is the lesson all adults must learn.

The gods had nothing to do with my creation. It was the devil himself who gave me that. Along with many other traits and skills, love.

Two sects were said to be in the island--the Baalites, or fire adorers, and the Lirites, or devotees of water. O'Kearny tells us--"It is probable that very violent contentions we once carried on in Ireland by the partizans of the rival religions, who were accustomed to meet and decide the quarrels at the place set apart for battle." The Samhaisgs, were devoted to fire-worship, and the Swans to Lir worship.

He lay down and slipped into shallows, multicoloured waters of his sleep.

Magic, the elemental thing he himself had come to possess through the harp, had made him sensitive to another’s magic.

Lir blinked, and in the blink, had a sudden mental image of the sun’s golden face, cruel and snarling and maned by rays. And with an arrow shot through its forehead.

To begin with, he had accepted the omens and his own curiosity, and continued north in amused obedience to them. Now, the terrain itself put a spell on him, for it was beautiful.

When the woods absorbed him, he came to feel he was the only human in the whole of the landscape: enchanted, disoriented, free.

He went off into the forest lit by the glint of their smiles. Somehow he guessed, without turning, that their smiles went out the instant his back was turned.

Magic had come to him so naturally and cleanly through the harp, he had never properly credited any other sort.

Graves and other grim uncanny situations had always left him unmoved.

I have a choice, he told himself. I think I have a choice. But if I turn aside, I’ll always wonder what I turned aside from.

He was her future.

The Castle Called me. And now it wants me to do what you say, let you out into the world. I can feel the Castle wanting that, the wanting dripping down the walls of it, like its sweat.

Time slowed. He was thinking in colors and sensations now, not words. The curve of her breast. The shimmer of her skin. The way her breath caught when he touched her—there.

You’re going in the one on the far end.” I followed Lir’s point toward the predator speedboat. “Nice.” “Actually, it’s because they want you gone as quickly as possible. There’s some concern that if you manage to piss people off, some of that is going to splash on the people who took you across. The less time they have to spend with you, the more they can deny they had any idea who you were.” “Sounds fair,” I agreed.

My name is Kvothe, pronounced nearly the same as “Quothe.” Names are important as they tell you a great deal about a person. I’ve had more names than anyone has a right to. The Adem call me Maedre. Which, depending on how it’s spoken, can mean “The Flame,” “The Thunder,” or “The Broken Tree.” “The Flame” is obvious if you’ve ever seen me. I have red hair, bright. If I had been born a couple hundred years ago I would probably have been burned as a demon. I keep it short but it’s unruly. When left to its own devices, it sticks up and makes me look as if I have been set afire. “The Thunder” I attribute to a strong baritone and a great deal of stage training at an early age. I’ve never thought of “The Broken Tree” as very significant. Although in retrospect I suppose it could be considered at least partially prophetic. My first mentor called me E’lir because I was clever and I knew it. My first real lover called me Dulator because she liked the sound of it. I have been called Shadicar, Lightfinger, and Six-String. I have been called Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe the Arcane, and Kvothe Kingkiller. I have earned those names. Bought and paid for them. But I was brought up as Kvothe. My father once told me it meant “to know.” I have, of course, been called many other things. Most of them uncouth, although very few were unearned. I have stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings. I burned down the town of Trebon. I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in. I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep. You may have heard of me.

—Qué inoportuno eres, E’lir. ¿No ves que desentonas? Vuelve más tarde. —Giró de nuevo la cabeza, ignorándome. Di un resoplido y me incliné sobre el mostrador, estirando el cuello para leer lo que había escrito en la hoja de papel que Ambrose había dejado allí. —¿Que yo desentono? Por favor, pero si este verso tiene trece sílabas. —Di unos golpecitos con el dedo en la hoja—. Y no es verso yámbico. La verdad es que no sé si tiene alguna métrica. Ambrose giró la cabeza y me miró con irritación. —Cuidado con lo que dices, E’lir. El día que te pida ayuda para componer un poema será el día en que… —… será el día en que tengas dos horas libres —le interrumpí—. Dos horas largas, y eso será solo para empezar. «¿Así encuentra también bien el humilde tordo un suyo rumbo?» Mira, no sé por dónde empezar a corregir eso. No se aguanta por ninguna parte. —¿Qué sabrás tú de poesía? —dijo Ambrose sin molestarse en girar la cabeza. —Sé distinguir un verso que cojea cuando lo oigo —contesté—. Pero este ni siquiera cojea. La cojera tiene ritmo. Esto es como alguien cayendo por una escalera. Una escalera de peldaños irregulares. Con un estercolero al final. —Es un ritmo saltarín —me dijo con una voz tensa, ofendido—. Es lógico que no lo entiendas. —¿Saltarín? —Solté una risotada de incredulidad—. Mira, si viera «saltar» así a un caballo, lo sacrificaría por piedad, y luego quemaría su cuerpo para evitar que los perros lo mordisquearan y murieran.

Me llamo Kvothe, que se pronuncia «cuouz». Los nombres son importantes porque dicen mucho sobre la persona. He tenido más nombres de los que nadie merece. Los Adem me llaman Maedre. Que, según cómo se pronuncie, puede significar la Llama, el Trueno o el Árbol Partido. La Llama es obvio para todo el que me haya visto. Tengo el pelo de color rojo intenso. Si hubiera nacido hace un par de siglos, seguramente me habrían quemado por demonio. Lo llevo corto, pero aun así me cuesta dominarlo. Si lo dejo a su antojo, se me pone de punta y parece que me hayan prendido fuego. El Trueno lo atribuyo a mi potente voz de barítono y a la instrucción teatral que recibí a temprana edad. El Árbol Partido nunca lo he considerado muy importante. Aunque pensándolo bien, supongo que podríamos considerarlo al menos parcialmente profético. Mi primer mentor me llamaba E’lir porque yo era listo y lo sabía. Mi primera amante me llamaba Dulator porque le gustaba cómo sonaba. También me han llamado Shadicar, Dedo de Luz y Seis Cuerdas. Me han llamado Kvothe el Sin Sangre, Kvothe el Arcano y Kvothe el Asesino de Reyes. Todos esos nombres me los he ganado. Los he comprado y he pagado por ellos. Pero crecí siendo Kvothe. Una vez mi padre me dijo que significaba «saber». Me han llamado de muchas otras maneras, por supuesto. La mayoría eran nombres burdos, aunque muy pocos eran inmerecidos. He robado princesas a reyes agónicos. Incendié la ciudad de Trebon. He pasado la noche con Felurian y he despertado vivo y cuerdo. Me expulsaron de la Universidad a una edad a la que a la mayoría todavía no los dejan entrar. He recorrido de noche caminos de los que otros no se atreven a hablar ni siquiera de día. He hablado con dioses, he amado a mujeres y he escrito canciones que hacen llorar a los bardos. Quizá hayas oído hablar de mí.

Was it the force of what lay in the earth pushing him back?

The sense of dread came to him in steady pulses. If anything, it would be of assistance to him, for, as the dread increased, he would know he approached his goal accurately-whatever the goal was.

Pale and shiny as a fox’s coat in the moonlight, that hair of his.

Can’t you tell he’s near, the foxy? Can’t you feel it?

It appeared to him that no hint of the supernatural lingered, or maybe he had grown immune to it.

Aching, yet indifferent to it, Lir found himself in a deeper dark.

He had never supposed he liked her much. But liking her had nothing to do with what he felt for her. She was part of him, and he had not guessed it.

He wanted the harp to play coolness for her, and darkness. He wanted the harp to mix day into night.

He was touched by her wonder. Obviously, she truly never had seen a dawn before in her life. Why was that faintly chilling?

Lir, minstrel trained, noted at once this was a tale, a narrative ballad, handed down generation to generation. But a true tale?

Lir accepted that the thing had garnered influence over him before, but then he had been unprepared. He would have to resist.

Brother my brother,” said Wild-Eye, “ask for your harp and see if you die. And later, under the ground, recalled what I taught you of the building of harps.

If you know the right story, you can navigate your way through all worlds.

While she was awake, the monster was trapped inside her, but the power It could exert, though trapped, he had experienced. But she must be told. And he must make the best job telling this story that any harper with a story, and trained to give value to each word, had ever done.

It truly wasn’t fear. It was merely that he knew the moment was coming when all disbelief must be suspended. The moment when he would confront the impossible.

When he had finished, she was a lost child, looking at him dumbly.

The resolution he had glimpsed in her formerly was now guilty and earnest.

He struck a chord, coldly curious what would happen, and if the demonic force would take over his will on this occasion.

Odd to recall that not so long ago he had been rejoicing in the carelessness of his wandering minstrel’s life and his lack of burdens.

What’s Hell?” inquired Wild-Eye. “You should visit before you pass judgment on a place. And have you never heard it said, the Dark One is a gentleman?

He felt a brief loathing, touching her, though she was blameless, could not prevent, but no matter.

The forest was swirling with something that appeared to be sheer sorcery made visible.

It is the Castle that’s to blame, not the girl.

The influence which made her vulnerable to sunlight, indifferent to food; made her attract assistance on one hand, murder on the other.

The trained voice went to every corner of the marketplace.

This was not the Lilune he had met before. The alteration was abrupt, but not unnatural. Events had caught her up: the chorus she had escaped in her Castle, the terror of freedom; the sun, the river, the chest. Not least the court which had pampered and turned on her. And last, worst terror of all, the terror that she herself was. For obviously she believed what he related. It came to him that maybe he had alerted in her some ancestral memory lingering in her blood, enabling her to glimpse those others who had suffered the affliction before her.

If you’re valiant enough to ask for that, you’re so much more worth saving.

Sleep by day, but stay awake at night. Resist. Come, you’re tough enough, my lady, aren’t you, if you beg for death rather than inflict evil?

Recall the yellow gem that shrivelled to an acorn. Recall how I lessoned you in the making of your harp, that lesson which you have never forgotten, nor ever will.

E’lir Kvothe, would you like to study here at the Medica?” “Very much so, Master Arwyl,” I said honestly.

He was sorry for her, but he didn’t like her. Then insane hags had locked her in chains, striving to keep her their property forever. He had to rescue her. And yet he couldn’t shake off the knowledge he didn’t relish her company.

In Ireland, our sea-god, Manannan Mac Lir, is also the god of the otherworld, riding his chariot over the waves in the wake of his magical horses. They carry men off, do those horses—over the water and into the mist, to the land where the living can’t go.

Beg me, Sersa. Succumb to the Underworld.

Somehow, the thin bright notes of the harp would find the song, and when the moment was ripe, Lir would begin to sing it.

The man in the street reacted to his voice, for the voice of Lir had music in it.

The sight of the Castle struck inside him like a solitary chord.

The cypress shadow pooled like ink and from the middle of the ink there glared back at him an enormous brassy face.

The harp was a part of him. It was as if he had left his right hand, or a fragment of his soul behind him.

They also probably did not think that magic powers should be attributed to so good a man as Manawyddan, but he belonged to the mightiest kingly house in the Four Branches, and of these royal houses Sir John Rhys said: “. . . the kings are mostly the greatest magicians of their time . . . the ruling class in these stories . . . had their magic handed down from generation to generation.” So I have felt free to de-whitewash Manawyddan and have him perform several of the magic tricks attributed to his Irish counterpart, Manannan mac Lir.

looking my best helps convince me that I will not feel this way forever, that I am not defined by what I feel, Sersa.

You must learn patience, E’lir Kvothe. A moment in the mind is worth nine in the fire.

Manannán mac Lir.

That is the sadness, you see. In all the years and all that was to come - all that they did to us - they forgot what truly mattered. In writing and retelling our deaths, they forgot to tell that we ever truly lived.

But those are just stories,” I protested. He gave me an amused look. “Where do you think stories come from, E’lir Kvothe? Every tale has deep roots somewhere in the world.

Lir would always be the burning core of her anger. “No one matters as much as Lir.

If Lir didn’t want us coming after his brothers,” she said, savoring the dark edge of her rage, “he should have left ours alone.

Her brother. Was he even that anymore? It was the word he’d used for Lir, and if he had truly done what Remi claimed, then perhaps he was more Lir’s than Caledonia had ever wanted to believe. Once, she’d had hope that she could win him back, but now, knowing this, that hope was all but gone.

He addressed me in that universal tongue of ours which is one of the many superiorities which we enjoy over men: —you poor humanities, born on different banks of a river, or opposite sides of a plain, jabber jargons mutually unintelligible to each other, and on a public mart or at a lir national stand bewildered amidst a score of unknown tongues spoken by your next door neighbor. But place a Labrador dog with a Pyrenean dog, let one of Poland meet one of Peru, and lo! you behold them intelligible to one another at once, able to exchange converse by a freemasonry to which the widest-spread of your brotherhood is as naught. For our race being too wise ever to * build either a Babel or a Babylon, no curse of confusion rests on us; and though scattered all over the world, we are yet even as one great nation.

Miracles are made of wings you forgot were on your back.

Meu nome é Kvothe, com pronúncia semelhante à de "Kuoth". Os nomes são importantes, porque dizem muito sobre as pessoas. Já tive mais nomes do que alguém tem o direito de possuir. Os ademrianos me chamam de Maedre, o que, dependendo de como é falado, pode significar "A Chama", "O Trovão" ou "A Árvore Partida". "A Chama" é óbvio, se algum dia você já me viu. Tenho o cabelo ruivo, vermelho vivo. Se tivesse nascido há uns 200 anos, é provável que tivessem me queimado na fogueira como demônio. Eu o mantenho curto, mas ele é rebelde. Deixado ao natural, fica espetado e faz com que eu pareça estar pegando fogo. "O Trovão" é um nome que atribuo à voz forte de barítono e a uma longa formação no palco, em idade precoce. Nunca pensei em "A Árvore Partida" como muito significativo. Mas, em retrospectiva, suponho que poderia ser considerado ao menos parcialmente profético. Meu primeiro mentor me chamava de E'lir, porque eu era inteligente e sabia disso. Minha primeira amada de verdade me chamava de Duleitor, porque gostava desse som. Já fui chamado de Umbroso, Dedo-Leve e Seis-Cordas. Já fui chamado de Kvothe, o Sem-Sangue; Kvothe, o Arcano; e Kvothe, o Matador do Rei. Mereci esses nomes. Comprei e paguei por eles. Fui chamado de muitas outras coisas, é claro. Grosseiras, na maioria, embora pouquíssimas não tenham sido merecidas. Já resgatei princesas de reis adormecidos em sepulcros. Incendiei a cidade de Trebon. Passei a noite com Feluriana e saí com minha sanidade e minha vida. Fui expulso da Universidade com menos idade do que a maioria das pessoas consegue ingressar nela. Caminhei à luz do luar por trilhas de que outros temem falar durante o dia. Conversei com deuses, amei mulheres e escrevi canções que fazem os menestréis chorar. Vocês devem ter ouvido falar de mim.

The fresco on one large wall was indeed the marvel Julian had promised. It was a Pre-Raphaelite portrayal of the Children of Lir, those four siblings cursed to remain swans for nine hundred years. Despite a ragged crack that was making its way down the plaster, the fresco was as pulsing with life as though one was actually looking out on a placid freshwater lake. When Marjan turned away from the painted wall, she saw its real-life inspiration outside the window. There, through floor-length panes, stood a pond complete with a flock of those gracious birds, the white-necked swans.

The unicorn was there as a star is suddenly there, moving a little way ahead of them, a sail in the dark. Molly said, “If Lir is the hero, what is she?” “That’s different. Haggard and Lir and Drinn and you and I - we are in a fairy tale, and must go where it goes. But she is real. She is real.