Yumi And The Nightmare Painter Quotes

It’s a common mistake to assume that someone is weak because they are accommodating. If you think this, you might be the type who has no idea how much effort—how much strength—it takes to put up with your nonsense.

Never let something trivial, like a sense of humor, get in the way of a good joke.

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

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

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

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.

Like a man with diarrhea in a sandpaper factory, sometimes all available options are less than ideal.

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.

Don't force people to live up to your dreams of who they might be.

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

(Technically, I was a part owner of that noodle shop. What? Renowned interdimensional storytellers can’t invest in a little real estate now and then?)

Don’t assume fragility where you should see patience.

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.

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.

Giving someone a jibe, then having them internalize it, felt awful: the conversational equivalent of going for a comedic burp and accidentally inducing yourself to vomit.

She seemed sorry in the same way a tank commander might be apologetic after destroying your house. He might be in the wrong. But he was still in a tank.

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.

But…I always felt like I was standing on the other side of a large glass window. I could see the world passing beyond it, could even pretend I was part of it. But that barrier was still there. Separating me from everyone else.” He looked away. “That sounds stupid, doesn’t it?

Despite it all, that's still my instinct, she thought, listening to Painter eat. I know I've been lied to. Yet my training holds. It's a depressing fact. Abuse is a more effective form of captivity than a cell will ever be.

Make me pretty so they’ll be extra disturbed if my face ever unravels. And give me voluptuous curves, because they remind me of a graphed cosine. And also because boobs look fun.

But then again, there’s nothing intrinsically valuable about any kind of art. That’s not me complaining or making light. It’s one of the most wonderful aspects to art—the fact that people decide what is beautiful. We don’t get to decide what is food and what is not. (Yes, exceptions exist. Don’t be pedantic. When you pass those marbles, we’re all going to laugh.) But we absolutely get to decide what counts as art. If Yumi’s people wanted to declare that rock arrangements surpassed painting or sculpture as an artistic creation…well, I personally found it fascinating. The spirits agreed.

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.

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.

Smiles, like radiation, are made more potent by proximity.

Each yoki-hijo trained in an ancient and powerful art. A deliberate, wondrous artistry requiring the full synergy of body and mind. Geological reorganization on the microscale, requiring acute understanding of gravitational equilibrium. In other words, they stacked rocks.

Hello! Would you like to shake meat-appendages?

We shouldn’t be so afraid of showing inexperience. Cynicism isn’t interesting; it is often no more than a mask we place over tedium.

Carnival food,” he said, “has this strange property. Each bite you take tastes increasingly artificial, oily, and overly sweet. Until you get done, and (lowly) wonder why you ate all of that. It’s truly magnificent.

(He was right. If you’ve been wondering how they work, this is a big clue. Plants on Yumi’s world don’t really defy physics so much as they sneak past while physics is distracted by a nice drama on the viewer. Probably something involving pendulums. Physics loves those things.)

But she just felt…tired. And guilty over her lack of proper emotions. And more tired, because guilt of that sort is an immense burden. Heavier than the rocks she’d moved earlier. Then she felt ashamed. Because guilt has a great number of friends and keeps their addresses handy for quick summons.

It’s all right,” she whispered. “I know you’re trying. That’s what matters.” Pay attention. At times, this is what heroism looks like.

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

That’s because you’ve lived this so long,” he said. “It feels normal to you. It sometimes takes an outsider to point out how broken something is.

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.

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.

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.

Because art is, and always has been, about what it does to us. To the one shaping it and the one experiencing it.

Cynicism isn’t interesting; it is often no more than a mask we place over tedium.

Nightmares are a fluid terror. Once you get the briefest handle on one, it will change. Filling nooks in the soul like spilled water filling cracks in the floor. Nightmares are a seeping chill, created by the mind to punish itself. In this, a nightmare is the very definition of masochism. Most of us are modest enough to keep that sort of thing tucked away, hidden.

She was fascinated by the ways that normal people conversed, and joked, and talked over each other, and laughed, and... and it was like a performance, each of them with memorized lines. How did they know when to speak or when to stop? When to tell a joke and when to share some fact?

I don’t want to be a girl,” he said. “Oh hush,” Design said, quickly mopping the floor. “I’ve been pretending to be one for years now, so I’m an authority—and it’s really quite nice. Except for the sexism. But it’s hard to blame that on being a woman instead of on, you know, morons.

In storytelling, we pretend you can read all kinds of things from a furrowed brow or a fleeting expression. This is shorthand for a real phenomenon, but it’s more complex than we pretend. The longer you spend with a person, the more you know them. But beyond the obvious details like learning their favorite foods, we internalize the way that they react. The way that they express worry. For some, it’s the archetypal furrowed brow. For others it’s the way they linger, the way they won’t meet your eyes. It’s more than eyes, more than posture, more than brow. Human beings are bundles of emotion puppeting muscles like a marionette. We emote not only with our bodies, but with our very souls.

That said, you do need to learn to separate the story — and what it has done to you —from the individual who prompted it. Art —and all stories are art, even the ones about real people — is about what it does to you.

There’s an old joke that mentions lost items always being in the last place you look for them. It doesn’t say anything about memories though. Those, once lost, are the sorts of things you don’t even know to look for.

The people are the energy of a carnival. Excitement bleeds. It flows like rivers. Ask any carnie, and they’ll agree that there is a frantic current to a carnival. Yes, it’s completely fabricated. So is the electricity that powers a light bulb. Being artificial doesn’t mean it isn’t real—it only means it has a purpose. It’s this power of excitement that carnivals tap, feed upon, exploit. And for all that people call carnivals a scam or a con, they’re nothing of the sort. We go to them to be exploited. That’s part of the charm. While you’re there—among the dizzying overload of lights, chatter, excitement, sticky ground, and thronging people—you feel that there must be more than enough energy to go around. Human exhilaration is a renewable resource. And you can generate it with cheap stuffed animals and fried foods.

There is that carnival running to celebrate the trip to the star." "Great. We'll go there." "You don't know what a carnival is." "Are you coming with me?" He hesitated, then nodded. "Then," she said. "I don't particularly care what it is.

Contrary to what everyone had once assumed, the star wasn’t merely a spot of light in the sky. Telescopes revealed it was a planet. Occupied, according to their best guess, by other people. A place whose light somehow cut through the shroud.

It is more than calmness,” she clarified. “It is an utter rejection of all emotion, sensation, and individuality. You often start by fixating on something rhythmic, like your breathing or the deliberate stretching and relaxing of a muscle. Some find it helpful to vocalize a tone or a mantra. The goal is to empty your mind of all thought—abandoning even the initial focus that started the meditation.” “What’s the point of that?” She cocked her head, baffled. “To center yourself in the cosmere,” she said. “To wash your mind as you wash your body. To expel emotional refuse, as your body does with physical excrement. To be clean, down to your soul, and to renew.

Yet as Yumi thought about it, the word "home" conjured images of a cluttered little room with a futon, lit by the hion lights outside. It was alien, and yet it was the place where she'd learned what she actually liked. Dramas on the viewer. Clothing that was her own. Noodle soup, light on the salt, chicken broth with a single egg and a pinch of pepper.

One could make basically anything out of a spirit, provided it was willing and you could formulate the request properly.

To Torish people, using a spirit for light was as natural—and as common—as spheres are for you, and candles or lanterns are on other worlds.

I am the one that nightmares fear

Pay attention. At times, this is what heroism looks like.

But if you can’t be a gentleman, you can at least not be a creep. Painter closed his eyes.

A little success brews eagerness.

It’s all right,” she whispered. “I know you’re trying. That’s what matters.

Una persona es mas que sus experiencias, apiladas como piedras... Nuestros mejores momentos son la base en que nos apoyamos para tratar de alcanzar el cielo.

Soledad, incluso estando en grupo. Vergüenza y sus fieles compañeros: esos susurros que insisten en que no mereces atención ni amor.

An old joke notes that lost items tend to be in the last place one looks. Conversely, omens tend to appear in the first place people look for them.

Being artificial doesn’t mean it isn’t real—it only means it has a purpose

Es difícil mantener el rumbo entre el recuerdo de lo que fuimos y la realidad de aquello en lo que nos hemos transformado.

una persona es más que sus experiencias, apiladas como piedras. Pero nuestros mejores momentos son la base en que nos apoyamos para tratar de alcanzar el cielo.

You might think that extreme. If so, have you perhaps never heard of religion?

She most certainly needed to avoid anything embarrassing—like smiling. Out of reverence for her station. The station, in return, did not notice. As is the case with many things that people revere.

La esperanza es algo grandioso, y tener héroes resulta esencial para la aspiración humana. (...) Dicho eso, sí que tenéis que aprender a separar la historia y la forma en que te ha afectado del individuo que le dio pie.

Design leaned forward across the bar, and he met her eyes. Which was difficult for him, considering her current posture. That said, you may have heard of her kind. I suggest, if you have the option, that you avoid trying to meet a Cryptic’s gaze. Their features—when undisguised—bend space and time, and have been known to lead to acute bouts of madness in those who try to make sense of them. Then again, who hasn’t wanted to flip off linear continuity now and then, eh?

Es un error habitual suponer que alguien es débil porque se muestra servicial. Si opináis así, es muy posible que seáis la clase de persona que no tiene ni idea de la cantidad de aguante, la cantidad de fuerza, que requiere soportar vuestras idioteces

Here, there was something almost intimate about kneeling. Spirits gathered in warm places. Or rather, warmth was a sign they were near. They were unseen as of yet. You had to draw them forth—but they wouldn’t come to the beck of just anyone. You needed someone like Yumi. You needed a girl who could call to the spirits. There were many viable methods, but they shared a common theme: creativity. Most self-aware Invested beings—be they called fay, seon, or spirit—respond to this fundamental aspect of human nature in one way or another. Something from nothing. Creation. Beauty from raw materials. Art. Order from chaos. Organization.

But then again, there’s nothing intrinsically valuable about any kind of art. That’s not me complaining or making light. It’s one of the most wonderful aspects to art—the fact that people decide what is beautiful. We don’t get to decide what is food and what is not. (Yes, exceptions exist. Don’t be pedantic. When you pass those marbles, we’re all going to laugh.) But we absolutely get to decide what counts as art.

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.

Her eyes went wide. “You have flying trees here?” “Not exactly,” he said. “But things sort of like that. Less magical, maybe, but also safe—so you get the exciting part without the dangerous part. But you get to pretend they’re still dangerous, so you can be afraid. In a fun way!” “Wonderful food that is also gross,” she said. “Experiences that are at once terrifying and not. Are all of your modern wonders self-contradictory?” **“Contradiction,” he said, “is the core of modern life.” He smiled at her. And he loved the way she smiled back.**

Now, you’ve probably caught on more quickly than Painter did here. You might be thinking at this point of the old adage that says having heroes is not worth it. There are variations on it all around the cosmere. Cynical takes that encourage you never to look up to someone, lest by turning your eyes toward the sky you leave your gut open for a nice stabbing. I disagree. Hope is a grand thing, and having heroes is essential to human aspiration. That is part of why I tell these stories. That said, you do need to learn to separate the story—and what it has done to you—from the individual who prompted it. Art—and all stories are art, even the ones about real people—is about what it does to you. The true hero is the one in your mind, the representation of an ideal that makes you a better person. The individual who inspired it, well, they’re like the book on the table or the art on the wall. A vessel. A syringe full of transformational aspiration. Don’t force people to live up to your dreams of who they might be. And if you’re ever in the situation in which Painter found himself, where your ideals are crumbling, don’t do what he did. Don’t make it slow. Walk away and patch the wound instead of giving the knife time to twist inside.

It’s often said that nothing fazes people in a big city, and that does tend to be true—to an extent. Big-city people tend to be unfazed by ordinary sorts of strangeness. You don’t give a second glance to the drunk wearing no pants since, well, that’s the third one this week.

Design leaned in toward Yumi and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “I don’t think Nikaro paid much attention to what I was saying. In his defense, he was staring at my butt the whole time.” Painter blushed something fierce. “That’s in my defense?” “Sure,” Design said, turning, “it’s an honest explanation. I mean, it is a remarkably nice butt, isn’t it?” “I didn’t think you’d noticed I’d been…looking,” Painter said, wilting. “Kid, women always notice. I’ve only been one for a few years, and even I know that.

–Estoy preparada para tus enseñanzas, maestro instructor. –¿Me llamas así porque me molesta? –Sí. –¿Lo reconoces? –¿Por qué si no iba a llamarte cosas que no te gustan? En fin, pensaba que era evidente.

No debiste enseñarme a leer. Habría sido una cautiva mucho mejor de ese modo.

¡Es lo peor que he hecho en la vida! ¡Ha sido maravilloso!

–¿Por qué crear algo triste? –He oído que la gente lo encuentra más realista. –¿Y lo es? ¿La tristeza es realista? –Antes pensaba que sí. Y Yumi, muchas cosas en la vida son tristes. Así que es realista por lo menos para algunas experiencias. Está bien que algunas historias sean felices y otras tristes. Esa parte sí que es realista.

A veces, cuanto más piensas en él, mejor final te parece. Puede ser el adecuado, aunque duela.

El trauma no mengua con la compañía, pero sí que se vuelve más llevadero cuando sabes que alguien más lo entiende.

¿Eran las palabras o el corazón lo que importaba en una plegaria? Tal vez los espíritus aceptarían las palabras de él y el corazón de ella.

They’ll find us,” she said, turning toward him again. “They’ll see where it lands.” He shook his head. “We’ll be fine.” “How do you know?” she asked. “Because this day is too perfect to be ruined now.

Then he folded his arms and gave her his best confident “I am a dark and mysterious warrior” look. She bowed her head. “You are the powerful spirit. Please forgive me for my attitude earlier. I was surprised, confused. I did not mean offense.” Wait. That had worked? Wow. What next?

Human beings are bundles of emotion peppering muscles like a marionette. We emote not only with our bodies but with our very souls.

They care about being safe," he said. "They care that someone is out there doing what I do. At the same time, we make them uncomfortable. We’re a reminder that things lurk at night, feeding on their nightmares.

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 experiencing it.

It was alien, and yet it was the place where she'd learned what she actually liked.

Could be a nightmare," Design said. "Taking the shape of a person - because you were thinking about them. Don't trust anything you see made from that darkness, kids.

She sat back on her heels and released a long, trailing sigh—exhaled like a eulogy. You know the sort.

The people lived as he once had, trying hard not to think about what was out there. Seething. Churning. Watching. These days, it was his job to confront it.

Three local spirit scribes settled on tall stools to sing songs that, best I can tell, the spirits never noticed. (I approve of the job nonetheless. Anything to gainfully employ more musicians. It’s not that we’re unable to do anything else; it’s more that if you don’t find something productive for us to do, we’ll generally start asking questions like, “Hey, why aren’t they worshipping me?”)

Stacking. You might not call it an art. You might find it the strangest idea. This is what Yumi’s people revere? This is what they consider the highest aesthetic achievement of their culture? This?

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.

— Наше тело — самый удивительный инструмент. Разве не странно, что люди тратят уйму времени, настраивая двигатель машины, пока он не заурчит как положено, а со своим телом не делают того же?

Она носила тесные платья, и многие художники были в нее влюблены. Видите ли, она настояла, чтобы ее маскировка была максимально сногсшибательной. Вот ее слова: «Сделай меня такой красивой, чтобы они вдвойне ошалели, если когда-нибудь увидят мое истинное лицо. И формы дай пообъемнее, пусть на график косинуса будут похожи. Да и вообще, сиськи — это круто».

It’s kind of fun. Oooh. I wonder if you’ll explode when you die.” “What?” Yumi yelped. “Highly unlikely,” Design said. “But possible!” She grinned. “This is awesome.

La euforia humana es un recurso renovable. Y puede generarse a base de peluches cutres y fritangas.

... todo es inútil por sí mismo. Nada tiene valor a menos que nosotros se lo concedamos. Todo objeto puede valer lo que sea que decidamos que vale.

El arte consiste en la intensión, Yumi. Un arcoiris no es arte, por muy hermoso que sea. El arte es creación. Creación humana.

It wasn't magic. But it was certainly magical.