“Are you … are you his spren? His god?” “No,” Kaladin said. “I’m his therapist.” Ishar blinked. “… What is that?” “I honestly have no idea,” Kaladin admitted.

The lumberman’s son found the only way to lose an unlosable contest. He didn’t show up.”

“That’s the sole originality we need. A story might have been told before, but you haven’t told it. Every idea might have been thought, but each is new again when you think them.

Originality is impossible but also unavoidable.

absorbed in his thoughts. They tried to turn dark, but he kept battering them back with positive thoughts, like soldiers fighting on his behalf. Reminders that he had succeeded in the past, and could succeed again. Reminders that an idea wasn’t true just because it entered his head.

May you have the courage someday to walk away. And the wisdom to recognize that day when it arrives.

Best speak to Midius—your Wit—about that. A fantodic man himself, that one.”

She kept drawing. Lines imitating life. Freezing it. But altering it at the same time, for you could never make an exact copy. That wasn’t the point. Every sketch was a picture of the artist as well: their perspective, their emphasis, their instinct reclaiming a moment otherwise lost

If hope doesn’t mean anything to you when you lose, then it wasn’t ever a virtue in the first place. It took me a long time to learn that, and I finally did so from the writings of a man who lost every belief he thought he had, then started over new.”