Pantology

I am the one thing you can never kill. I am Hope.

A leader is often judged by how well he bears responsibility. As king, everything that happens in your kingdom—regardless of who commits the act—is your fault. You are even responsible for unavoidable events such as earthquakes or storms." "Or armies," Elend said. Tindwyl nodded. "Or armies. It is your responsibility to deal with these things, and if something goes wrong, it is your fault. You simply have to accept this." Elend nodded, picking up a book. "Now, let's talk about guilt," Tindwyl said, seating herself. "Stop cleaning. That isn't a job for a king." Elend sighed, setting down the book. "Guilt," Tindwyl said, "does not become a king. You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself." "You just told me everything that happens in the kingdom is my fault!" "It is." "How can I not feel guilty, then?" "You have to feel confident that your actions are the best," Tindwyl explained. "You have to know that no matter how bad things get, they would be worse without you. When disaster occurs, you take responsibility, but you don't wallow or mope. You aren't allowed that luxury; guilt is for lesser men. You simply need to do what is expected." "And that is?" "To make everything better." "Great," Elend said flatly. "And if I fail?" "Then you accept responsibility, and make everything better on the second try."

I have never known anyone else", Egwene said to him, "who will work so hard to avoid hard work, Matrim Cauthon". "You haven’t spent enough time around soldiers"

Egwene: "A little honest work wouldn’t kill you, Mat". Mat: "Now, you know that’s not true. Soldiering is honest work, and it gets men killed all the bloody time."

They don’t lie, not right out, but the truth an Aes Sedai tells you is not always the truth you think it is.

In my day, girls jumped when a Wise One said jump, and continued jumping until they were told to stop. As I am still alive, it is still my day. Need I make myself clearer?

Killing is as easy as dying, any fool can do either.

I will ask one more time. What do you want? Answer, or leave. By the door or a window; your choice.

A Warder once told me Trollocs call the Aiel Waste ‘the Dying Ground.’ I mean to make them give that name to the Two Rivers.

My name is Nynaeve ti al’Meara Mandragoran. The message I want sent is this. My husband rides from World’s End toward Tarwin’s Gap, toward Tarmon Gai’don. Will he ride alone?

He knew what it took to get into the histories. A man could get killed doing that sort of thing.

In his experience, old memories or new, there are only two times a woman admitted she was wrong: when she wanted something and when it snowed at midsummer.

I’ll not have you bleeding to death on me. That would be just like you, to die and leave me the work of burying you. You have no consideration.

"Women are like goats. It's like . . . Well, reasoning with a woman is like sitting down to a friendly game of dice. Only the woman refuses to acknowledge the basic bloody rules of the game. A man, he'll cheat you - but he'll do it honestly. He'll use loaded dice, so that you think you're losing by chance. And if you aren't clever enough to spot what he's doing, then maybe he deserves to take your coin. And that's that. A woman, though, she'll sit down to that same game and she'll smile, and act like she's going to play. Only when it's her turn to throw, she'll toss a pair of her own dice that are blank on all six sides. Not a single pip showing. She'll inspect the throw, then she'll look up at you and say, 'clearly I just won.' Now, you'll scratch your head and look at the dice. Then you'll look up at her, then down at the dice again 'But there aren't any pips on these dice' you'll say." 'Yes there are,' she'll say. 'And both dice rolled a one.' 'That's exactly the number you need to win,' you'll say. 'What a coincidence,' she'll reply, then begin to scoop up your coins. And you'll sit there, trying to wrap your head 'bout what just happened. And you'll realise something. A pair of ones isn't the winning throw! Not when you threw a six on your turn. That means she needed a pair of twos instead! Excitedly you'll explain what you've discovered. Only then do you know what she'll do?" "No idea, Mat." "Then she'll reach over and rub the blank faces of her dice. And then, with a perfectly straight face, she'll say, 'I'm sorry. There was a spot of dirt on the dice. Clearly you'll see they actually came up as twos!' And she'll believe it. She'll bloody believe it!" "Incredible." "Only that's not the end of it!" "I had presumed it wouldn't be Mat." "She scoops up all of your coins. And then every other woman in the room will come over and congratulate her on throwing that pair of twos! The more you complain, the more those bloody women will join in the argument. You'll be outnumbered in a moment, and each of those women will explain to you how those dice clearly read twos, and how you really need to stop behaving like a child. Every single flaming one of them will see the twos! even the prudish woman who has hated your woman from birth - since your woman's granny stole the other woman's granny's honeycake recipe when they were both maids - that woman will side against you." "They're nefarious creatures indeed." "By the time they're done, you'll be left with no coin, several lists worth of errands to run and what clothing to wear and a splitting headache. You'll sit there and stare at the table and begin to wonder, just maybe, if those dice didn't read twos after all. If only to preserve what's left of your sanity. That's what it's like to reason with a woman, I tell you."