Stormlight Archive Wit Quotes

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

It will,” Wit said, “but then it will get better. Then it will get worse again. Then better. This is life, and I will not lie by saying every day will be sunshine. But there will be sunshine again, and that is a very different thing to say. That is truth. I promise you, Kaladin: You will be warm again.

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

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.

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.

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.

Too many scholars think of research as purely a cerebral pursuit. If we do nothing with the knowledge we gain, then we have wasted our study. Books can store information better than we can--what we do that books cannot is interpret. So if one is not going to draw conclusions, then one might as well just leave the information in the texts.

One can have a wit, but not a witless

That’s because Wit is an asshole,

Do you wish," Wit asked, "that you could go back to not being able to see?" "No," she whispered. "Then live. And let your failures be part of you.

All people are musicians" Wit countered. "The question is whether or not they share their songs.

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.

This lot won't suffer you forever.I wouldn't see you dead by their knives; I see a fine man within you Wit." "Yes, He tasted quite delicious.

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.

I am an artist,” Wit said. “I should thank you not to demean me by insisting my art must be trying to accomplish something. In fact, you shouldn’t enjoy art. You should simply admit that it exists, then move on. Anything else is patronizing.

I doubt any dragon ever had it so good anyway.

You know what first drew me to you, Kaladin?” Wit asked. “You did one of the most difficult things a man can do: you gave yourself a second chance.

That night, it rained on the other dogs, who slept outside in the cold barn, which leaked. But the little dog snuggled into a warm bed beside the fire, hugged by the farmer’s children, his belly full. And as he did, the dog sadly thought to himself, ‘I could not become a dragon. I am an utter and complete failure.’ The end.

To be human is to seek beauty, Shallan. Do not despair, do not end the hunt because thorns grow in your way.

Deal with your own stupid planet, you idiot. Don’t make me come over there and slap you around again.

Does the king know you're back?" "Nope! I'm trying to think of a properly dramatic way to inform him. Perhaps a hundred chasmfiends marching in unison, singing an ode to my magnificence." "That sounds… hard." "Yeah, the storming things have real trouble tuning their tonic chords and maintaining just intonation." "I have no idea what you just said." "Yeah, the storming things have real trouble tuning their tonic chords and maintaining just intonation.

Perhaps the question isn’t ‘What use is art?’ ” Wit mused. “Perhaps even that simple question misses the point. It’s like asking the use of having hands, or walking upright, or growing hair. Art is part of us, Kaladin. That’s the use; that’s the reason. It exists because on some fundamental level we need it. Art exists to be made.

...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.

This is a lot more satisfying," he said, "when I have intelligent life whom I can render awed, rapt with attention for my clever verbosity." The ugly lizard-crab-thing on the next rock over clicked its claw, an almost hesitant sound. "Your right, of course," Wit said. "My usual audience isn't particularly intelligent. That was also the obvious joke, however, so shame on you.

Tradition is the blind witness they use to condemn us,

I’m a storyteller,” Wit said, with a flip of his fingers. “I have the right to redefine words.” “That’s stupid.” “That’s literature.” “It’s confusing.” “The more confusing, the better the literature.” “That might be the most pretentious thing I’ve ever heard.” “Aha!” Wit said, pointing. “Now you’re getting it.

She studied him. Then the sword burst to mist, vaporizing. She lowered her arm. “I don’t have time for you. A storm is coming, a terrible storm. It will bring the Voidbringers to—” “Already here.” “Damnation. We need to find Urithiru and—” “Already found.” She hesitated. “The Knights—” “Refounded,” Wit said. “In part by your apprentice who, I might add, is exactly seventy-seven percent more agreeable than you are. I took a poll.” “You’re lying.” “Okay, so it was a rather informal poll. But the ugly lizard-crab-thing gave you really poor marks for—

Has no one done my son a service and assassinated you yet?" "No assassins yet," Wit said, amused. "I guess I've already got too much ass sass of my own."..."Oh really, Wit" she said. "I thought that kind of humour was beneath you." "So are you technically," Wit said, smiling, from atop his high-legged stool.

If you knew the history of that flute, it would make your brain flip upside-down. And by that, I mean that I would shove you off the carriage for having spied on me.

Wit grew distant, a faint smile on his lips. “Once. It wasn’t a full Ascension, but a mortal did give up the power once. It proved to be the wrong choice, but it was the most selfless thing I believe I’ve ever witnessed. So yes, Dalinar, it is possible. But not easy.

Wit dropped his bloody handkerchief before Ruthar. “How remarkable,” he said. “If you spend your life knocking people down, you eventually find they won’t stand up for you. There’s poetry in that, don’t you think, you storming personification of a cancerous anal discharge?

I go to the gods,” Rock said. He held up his finger. “There is one who lives here. One afah’liki. He is powerful god, but tricky. You should not have lost his flute.” “I … don’t think Wit is a god, Rock.

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.

You’ll find God in the same place you’re going to find salvation from this mess,” Wit said. “Inside the hearts of men.

Wit smiled. "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.

A bunny rabbit and a chick went frolicking in the grass together on a sunny day.” “A chick . . . baby chicken?” Kaladin said. “And a what?” “Ah, forgot myself for a moment,” Wit said. “Sorry. Let me make it more appropriate for you. A piece of wet slime and a disgusting crab thing with seventeen legs slunk across the rocks together on an insufferably rainy day. Is that better?

It won’t be like that for me,” Kaladin said. “You told me it would get worse.” “It will,” Wit said, “but then it will get better. Then it will get worse again. Then better. This is life, and I will not lie by saying every day will be sunshine. But there will be sunshine again, and that is a very different thing to say. That is truth. I promise you, Kaladin: You will be warm again.

I'm not strong enough, I've never been strong enough. You know better than I what your limits are, Wit said. It's not such a terrible thing, to be too weak. Makes us need one another.

The baking thing is an actual tradition,” Wit added. “I once visited a place where—if you lose a battle—your mother has to bake the other fellow something tasty. I rather liked those people.” “Pity you didn’t remain with them longer,” Dalinar said. “Ha! Well, I didn’t think it wise to stay around. After all, they were cannibals.

That’s stupid. The story is really long. He needs to hear the ending so he’ll know it’s worth listening all the way.” “That’s not how this works,” Wit said. “It needs drama. Suspense. Surprise.” “Surprises are dumb,” she said. “He should be informed if a product is good or not before being asked to commit. Would you like a similar surprise at the market? Oh, you can’t buy a specific food. You have to carry a sack home, cut it open, then find out what you bought. Drama. Suspense!” Wit gave Kaladin a beleaguered look. “I have bonded,” he said, “a literal monster.

You haven’t lost your wits, have you?” Lopen asked, eyeing the bones. “Because if you have, I’ve got a cousin who makes this drink for people who’ve lost their wits, and it might make you better, sure.” “If I’d lost my wits,” Kaladin said, walking over to a pool of still water to wash off the carapace helm, “would I say that I had?” “I don’t know,” Lopen said, leaning back. “Maybe. Guess it doesn’t matter if you’re crazy or not.” “You’d follow a crazy man into battle?” “Sure,” Lopen said. “If you’re crazy, you’re a good type, and I like you. Not a killing-people-in-their-sleep type of crazy.

The only 'unseemly' thing is to not channel your intelligence usefully.

Janala is a fool, just bright enough to be proud of the wits she has, but stupid enough to be unaware of how outmatched they are.

Tradition is the blind witness they use to condemn us, Teft,” Kaladin said. “It’s the pretty box they use to wrap up their lies. It makes us serve them.” Teft

Good. I worry about you sometimes, Dalinar.” “Worry? Why?” “Everyone says you’re dense,” he explained. “I fear you will believe them.” “Everyone?” “Mostly me,” Wit admitted.

I started to create a new persona. Formless. A... version of me, but..." How did she explain it? "A version of me with no face. A version of me who could do terrible things. I walked away from it, Wit, but that capacity is still inside me." "Shallan," he said, and she looked up, meeting his eyes. "If it weren't for that capacity, then what good would choices be? If we never had the power to do terrible things, the what heroism would it be to resist?

A whore joke, Wit? Is that the best you can manage?” Wit shrugged. “I point out truths when I see them, Brightlord Sadeas. Each man has his place. Mine is to make insults. Yours is to be in-sluts.

How remarkable," [Wit] said. "If you spend your life knocking people down, you eventually find they won't stand up for you. There's poetry in that, don't you think, you storming personification of a cancerous anal discharge?

Power is a knife,” Wit said, taking his seat. “A terrible, dangerous knife that can’t be wielded without cutting yourself. We joked about stupidity, but in reality most people aren’t stupid. Many are simply frustrated at how little control they have over their lives. They lash out. Sometimes in spectacular ways…

You told me it would get worse.” “It will,” Wit said, “but then it will get better. Then it will get worse again. Then better. This is life, and I will not lie by saying every day will be sunshine. But there will be sunshine again, and that is a very different thing to say. That is truth. I promise you, Kaladin: You will be warm again.

But listen. The lumberman’s son? In running, he lost the contest—but it didn’t matter. Because the next day, the barons launched a coup and executed the king.” Wit smiled

Wit was insulting each person as they stepped onto the island. “Brightness Marakal! What a disaster that hairstyle is; how brave of you to show it to the world. Brightlord Marakal, I wish you’d warned us you were going to attend; I’d have forgone supper. I do so hate being sick after a full meal. Brightlord Cadilar! How good it is to see you. Your face reminds me of someone dear to me.” “Really?” wizened Cadilar said, hesitating. “Yes,” Wit said, waving him on, “my horse. Ah, Brightlord Neteb, you smell unique today—did you attack a wet whitespine, or did one just sneeze on you? Lady Alami! No, please, don’t speak—it’s much easier to maintain my illusions regarding your intelligence that way. And Brightlord Dalinar.” Wit nodded to Dalinar as he passed. “Ah, my dear Brightlord Taselin. Still engaged in your experiment to prove a maximum threshold of human idiocy? Good for you! Very empirical of you.

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.

You think I’m a cynic,” Wit said. “You think I’m going to tell you that men claim to value these ideals, but secretly prefer base talents. The ability to gather coin or to charm women. Well, I am a cynic, but in this case, I actually think those scholars were honest. Their answers speak for the souls of men. In our hearts, we want to believe in—and would choose—great accomplishment and virtue. That’s why our lies, particularly to ourselves, are so beautiful.

Sadeas flushed, but kept his temper. “A whore joke, Wit? Is that the best you can manage?” Wit shrugged. “I point out truths when I see them, Brightlord Sadeas. Each man has his place. Mine is to make insults. Yours is to be in-sluts.

And so," he said, "in the end, what must we determine? Is it the intellect of a genius that we revere? If it were their artistry, the beauty of their mind, would we not laud it regardless of whether we've seen their product before? "But we don't. Given two works of artistic majesty, otherwise weighted equally, we will give greater acclaim to the one who did it first. It doesn't matter what you create. It matters what you create before anyone else. "So it's not the beauty itself we admire. It's not the force of intellect. It's not invention, aesthetics, or capacity itself. The greatest talent that we think a man can have?" He plucked one final string. "Seems to me that it must be nothing more than novelty.

It's interesting that the woman who wrote that treatise – the one you all practically worship in Alethkar –decided that all of the feminine tasks involve sitting around having fun while all the masculine ones involve finding someone to stick a spear in you. Telling, eh?

To be fair,” Wit said, leaning against the wall near the door, “a great number of things terrify me. I mean, have you considered—really considered—how insane it is that society entrusts you mortals with children? After … what, two decades of life, half of it spent in diapers?

The foolishness of men who care, Dalinar,” Wit said. “And the brilliance of those who do not. The second depend on the first—but also exploit the first—while the first misunderstand the second, hoping that the second are more like the first. And all of their games steal our time. Second by second.

The illusion without Lightweaving is superior, Design." "Because it's fake?" "Because the audience knows it's fake," Wit said. "When they watch and let themselves be amazed, they are joining in the illusion. They're giving you something vital. Something powerful. Something essential. Their belief.

There are no fair fights, Jasnah, Wit said. There's never been such a thing. The term is a lie used to impose imaginary order on something chaotic. Two men of the same height, age, and weapon will not fight one another fairy, for one will always have the advantage in training, talent, or simple luck.

Perhaps the question isn’t ‘What use is art?’” Wit mused. “Perhaps even that simple question misses the point. It’s like asking the use of having hands, or walking upright, or growing hair. Art is part of us, Kaladin. That’s the use; that’s the reason. It exists because on some fundamental level we need it. Art exists to be made.

Human taste is as varied as human fingerprints,” Wit said. “Nobody will like everything, everybody dislikes something, someone loves that thing you hate—but at least being hated is better than nothing. To risk metaphor, a grand painting is often about contrast: brightest brights, darkest darks. Not grey mush. That a thing is hated is not proof that it’s great art, but the lack of hatred is certainly proof that it is not.

Wit lingered, smiling at Dalinar. “I agree with her,” he whispered. “And on the topic of monarchs, I will have you know that I find you to be an endearing despot. You’re so pleasant, I almost don’t find it horrifying that I’m living among a people willing to trust a single man with near-absolute power over the lives of hundreds of thousands—while completely ignoring proper checks and balances upon his potential greed, jealousy, or ambition.

The wrong people get far too much mileage out of things that sound nice,” Wit said. “Take it from a guy who is all too capable with a lie: nothing is easier to sell someone than the story they want to hear. The Passions are deeply insulting if you spare even a moment to consider. I once spoon-fed broth to a trembling child in a kingdom that no longer exists. I found her on a road leading away from a battlefield, after her parents—simple peasants—were slaughtered. Her elder brother lay dead a half mile behind, having starved. “You think that kid who starved didn’t want to eat? You think her parents didn’t want to escape the ravages of war badly enough? You think if they’d had more Passion, the cosmere would have saved them? How convenient to believe that people are poor because they didn’t care enough about being rich. That they just didn’t pray hard enough. So convenient to make suffering their own fault, rather than life being unfair and birth mattering more than aptitude. Or storming Passion.

The Way of Kings ‘Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination.’ “I feel each of the things you mention, Sadeas,” Dalinar said, eyes forward. “But I don’t always let them out. A man’s emotions are what define him, and control is the hallmark of true strength. To lack feeling is to be dead, but to act on every feeling is to be a child.” "But expectations were like fine pottery. The harder you held them, the more likely they were to crack." "Bitterness is repaid more often than kindness." "Sometimes we find it hardest to accept in others that which we cling to in ourselves." "Beards were like axehound pups. Boys dreamed of the day they’d get one, never realizing how annoying they could be." "Much like the aforementioned knife to the back, a clever gibe is most effective when it is unanticipated." "Each man has his place. Mine is to make insults. Yours is to be in-sluts.” - Wit roasting Sadeas!! "Kaladin was like a moldy crust on a starving man’s plate; not the first bite, but still doomed." "To speak of what might be is forbidden,” the voice said. “To speak of what was depends on perspective." "what is the point? We fight to get Shardblades, then use those Shardblades to fight to get more Shardblades. It’s a circle, round and round we go, chasing our tails so we can be better at chasing our tails." “‘Candle flames,’” Litima continued. The selection was from The Way of Kings, read from the very copy that Gavilar had once owned. “‘A dozen candles burned themselves to death on the shelf before me. Each of my breaths made them tremble. To them, I was a behemoth, to frighten and destroy. And yet, if I strayed too close, they could destroy me. My invisible breath, the pulses of life that flowed in and out, could end them freely, while my fingers could not do the same without being repaid in pain.’” “‘I understood in a moment of stillness,’” Litima read. “‘Those candle flames were like the lives of men. So fragile. So deadly. Left alone, they lit and warmed. Let run rampant, they would destroy the very things they were meant to illuminate. Embryonic bonfires, each bearing a seed of destruction so potent it could tumble cities and dash kings to their knees.'" 'I believe that my own morality—which answers only to my heart—is more sure and true than the morality of those who do right only because they fear retribution." "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.

The longer you live, the more you fail. Failure is the mark of a life well lived. In turn, the only way to live without failure is to be of no use to anyone (Wit, 97)

The longer you live, the more you fail. Failure is the mark of a life well lived. In turn, the only way to live without failure is to be of no use to anyone.

Aesthetic genius,' Wit said, 'invention, acumen, creativity. Noble ideals indeed. Most men would pick one of those, if given the choice, and name them the greatest of talents.' He plucked a string. 'What beautiful liars we are.

He poked the man in the shoulder again. “And so, dear sir, when I say that you are the very embodiment of repulsiveness, I am merely looking to improve my art. You look so ugly, it seems that someone tried—and failed—to get the warts off your face through aggressive application of sandpaper. You are less a human being, and more a lump of dung with aspirations. If someone took a stick and beat you repeatedly, it could only serve to improve your features. “Your face defies description, but only because it nauseated all the poets. You are what parents use to frighten children into obedience. I’d tell you to put a sack over your head, but think of the poor sack! Theologians use you as proof that God exists, because such hideousness can only be intentional.

All great art is hated,” Wit said. He shuffled in line—along with a couple hundred other people—one dreary step. “It is obscenely difficult—if not impossible—to make something that nobody hates,” Wit continued. “Conversely, it is incredibly easy—if not expected—to make something that nobody loves.

The King’s Wit was not a silly court fool such as one might find in other kingdoms. He was a sword, a tool maintained by the king. Insulting others was beneath the dignity of the king, so just as one used gloves when forced to handle something vile, the king retained a Wit so he didn’t have to debase himself to the level of rudeness or offensiveness.

I shall offer you this, Sadeas. If you can speak, yet say nothing ridiculous, I will leave you alone for the rest of the week.” “Well, I think that shouldn’t be too difficult.” “And yet you failed,” Wit said, sighing. “For you said ‘I think’ and I can imagine nothing so ridiculous as the concept of you thinking.

I shall offer you this, Sadeas. If you can speak, yet say nothing ridiculous, I will leave you alone for the rest of the week.” “Well, I think that shouldn’t be too difficult.” “And yet you failed,” Wit said, sighing. “For you said ‘I think’ and I can imagine nothing so ridiculous as the concept of you thinking.

Winds are changing,” Wit whispered. Dalinar glanced at him. Wit’s eyes narrowed, and he scanned the night sky. “It’s been happening for months now. A whirlwind. Shifting and churning, blowing us round and around. Like a world spinning, but we can’t see it because we’re too much a part of it.” “World spinning. What foolishness is this?” “The foolishness of men who care, Dalinar,” Wit said. “And the brilliance of those who do not. The second depend on the first—but also exploit the first—while the first misunderstand the second, hoping that the second are more like the first. And all of their games steal our time. Second by second.

Tradition is the blind witness they use to condemn us, Teft,” Kaladin said. “It’s the pretty box they use to wrap up their lies. It makes us serve them.

Wit smiled. “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.

fireplace poker—to one of the servants. The messenger stood up in a smooth motion. His refinement seemed a shield that rebuffed Father’s temper. Shallan envied him. “It appears I will get nowhere with this conversation,” the messenger said loudly. He looked at Father, but his tone seemed to imply that his words were for them all. “I came prepared for that inevitability. The highprince has given me authority, and I would very much like to know the truth of what happened in this household. Any lighteyes of birth who can provide witness will be welcomed.” “They need the testimony of a lighteyes,” Jushu said softly to his siblings. “Father is important enough that they can’t just remove him.” “There was one,” the messenger said loudly, “who was willing to speak to us of the truth. He has since made himself unavailable. Do any of you have his courage? Will you come with me and testify to the highprince of the crimes committed on these lands?” He looked toward

I hope to return. I’ll do so if I’m not killed. Probably will anyway.

It is obscenely difficult—if not impossible—to make something that nobody hates,” Wit continued. “Conversely, it is incredibly easy—if not expected—to make something that nobody loves.

We must tell the others what we learned from Wit, Ivory. Eventually, this secret must be known.

But now I’ve met you,” Amaram said, holding out a hand. “So the list is one smaller.” “Please,” Wit said, refusing the hand. “I wouldn’t want it to rub off on me.” “It?” “Whatever you’ve been using to make your hands look clean, Brightlord Amaram. It must be powerful stuff indeed.

Forgiveness. For herself. She gasped, pulling her finger back as if it had been bitten. “It’s terrible,” Wit said, stepping up beside her, “to have been hurt. It’s unfair, and awful, and horrid. But Shallan … it’s okay to live on.

a spren in the shape of a glowing ball of light, a strange symbol at the center. No one here recognized the variety of spren, but Wit called it a seon.

I began life as a thought, a concept, words on a page. That was another things I stole. Myself.

Expense?” Wit cut in. “Sadeas, I don’t believe you’ve ever paid me a sphere. Though no, please, don’t offer. I can’t take your money, as I know how many others you must pay to get what you wish of them.

Two what, Dalinar?” Wit said, eyes twinkling. “Eyes, hands, or spheres? I’d lend you one of the first, but—by definition—a man can only have one I, and if it is given away, who would be Wit then?

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

You’re not a monster, Shallan,” Wit whispered. “Oh, child. The world is monstrous at times, and there are those who would have you believe that you are terrible by association.

It’s terrible,” Wit said, stepping up beside her, “to have been hurt. It’s unfair, and awful, and horrid. But Shallan … it’s okay to live on.

It will,” Wit said, “but then it will get better. Then it will get worse again. Then better. This is life, and I will not lie by saying every day will be sunshine. But there will be sunshine again, and that is a very different thing to say. That is truth. I promise you, Kaladin: You will be warm again.” Kaladin nodded in thanks,

Do you wish,” Wit asked, “that you could go back to not being able to see?” “No,” she whispered. “Then live. And let your failures be part of you.

Wit turned away from his inspection of the hearth and chimney. “You want to change the world, Shallan. That’s well and good. But be careful. The world predates you. She has seniority.

You told me it would get worse.” “It will,” Wit said, “but then it will get better. Then it will get worse again. Then better. This is life, and I will not lie by saying every day will be sunshine. But there will be sunshine again, and that is a very different thing to say. That is truth.

True wit was controlled wit. It shouldn’t be allowed to run free, any more than an arrow should be loosed in a random direction.

What did you do, as a son, when the father you loved—the greatest man alive—started to lose his wits?

Find the balance, Wit had said. Accept the pain, but don’t accept that you deserved it.…

It will,” Wit said, “but then it will get better. Then it will get worse again. Then better. This is life, and I will not lie by saying every day will be sunshine. But there will be sunshine again, and that is a very different thing to say. That is truth. I promise you, Kaladin: You will be warm again