Quotessence
Home / Quotes / Quote by Robin Hobb

Quote by Robin Hobb

“One part braggart to one part coward. He would fear everyone he did not control. And the next day he would fear those he controlled even more.”

Quote by Robin Hobb

Work

Royal Assassin

Browse quotes and source details for this work. more

Author

Robin Hobb
Robin Hobb

Robin Hobb is an American novelist renowned for her fantasy novels. Her works are known for their complex characters and in-depth historical backgrounds, which have won her a dedicated following. more

You May Also Like

“They combed my hair and pinned it up, hung rubies in my ears and around my neck, painted rouge on my lips and cheeks, and anointed my wrists and throat with musk. Finally they hustled me in front of the mirror. A gleaming, crimson-clad lady stared back at me. Until this day, I had worn only the plain black of mourning, even though Father had told us when we were twelve that we could dress as we pleased. Everybody thought that I did it because I was such a pious daughter, but I simply hated pretending that everything was all right. "You look like a dream." Astraia slid her arm around my waist, smiling tremulously at our reflections. Everybody said that Astraia was the very image of our mother, and certainly she could not have gotten her looks anywhere else: the plump, dimpled cheeks, the pouting lips, the snub nose and dark curls. But I might have been born straight out of my father's head like Athena: I had his high cheekbones, his aristocratic nose, his straight black hair. In a rare burst of kindness, Aunt Telomache had once told me that while Astraia was "pretty," I was "regal";”

“I, conversely, have been racing cars since the first ones rolled off the assembly line. I am arguably one of the best drivers in the world, and I am certainly the best driver in this motley crew.” He cleared his throat and drew himself up in absolute regal authority, “Besides, it is my bloody car. So, get in. The lot of you are making my head hurt.” —Prince Peter ben Korah”

“Past and pleasures are leaves of murm'ring that fall one over other, if nothing vernal to stand with or keep the load of despondency; but fulfill not whatever careers birth gave; yet seek or find.”

“maybe something is wrong with me I think I am right don't know what to write my letters are weird I have no aim, no focus goal less, go less, stop more I'm in it for the long run thw wrong one melody runs deep I feel it in the beat of the heart that weeps and the eyes that cry are not always to be believed the heart that weeps.”

“We mean to say that Symbolism and Decadence — the negative attitude to which is indisputable to everyone except the "participants" — are genetically connected with everything brilliant and sublime created by the "unbound personality" during this period of time, from the Renaissance up to the development of electrical engineering; contrariwise, the border which they cannot cross is laid down where man understood that he was always "bound." The great continent of history, the continent of real deeds, practical needs, and more than all that, of received religion and the established Church - that is whose shore this stinking monster can never crawl into, that is where we are fleeing to from it, that is where man can always save himself. Where the monastery wall rises this surge of the faithless waves of history — no matter how strong it may become and how far it may spread around — will stop and fall back. ("On Symbolists & Decadence")”

“The religion of this 'I', the poetry of this 'I', and the philosophy of the same 'I' that from Poggio and Felelfo to Byron and Goethe produced a number of works astonishing for their profundity and brilliance have finally exhausted its content; and in the poetry of Decadence we see the rapid falling away of the empty shell of this 'I'. We remarked previously about the exaggeration without the exaggerated object, and about the precious style without the subject of this preciosity, which characterize this poetry — this is so in regard to its form; in regard to its content Decadence is above all hopeless egoism. The world, as an object of love, of interest, even as the object of indignation or contempt, has disappeared from this "poetry”; the world has disappeared, not only as an object exciting some reaction in this vapid 'I', but also as a spectator and possible judge of this 'I'; it is not even present. ("On Symbolists And Decadence")”