“i think translation can be much harder than original composition in many ways. the poet is free to say whatever he likes, you see – he can choose from any number of linguistic tricks in the language he’s composing in. word choice, word order, sound – they all matter, and without any one of them the whole thing falls apart. that’s why shelley writes that translating poetry is about as wise as casting a violet into a crucible. so the translator needs to be translator, literary critic, and poet all at once – he must read the original well enough to understand all the machinery at play, to convey its meaning with as much accuracy as possible, then rearrange the translated meaning into an aesthetically pleasing structure in the target language that, by his judgment, matches the original. the poet runs untrammeled across the meadow. the translator dances in shackles.”

The crows are a sort of subgroup of the dregs. They were formed when Brekker was recruited to put together a team to break into the Fjerdan Ice Court. Have fun navigating Ketterdam. No mourners, no funerals.

she was scared of tiny spiders, but not of plummeting to her death from a set of monkey bars. go figure.

“even strength has to bow down to wisdom sometimes”

“I had taken the long way around, but I was finally home. To stay.”

❝ In my most wretched hours, I believe you will never come back. Why would you, save for your ambition? You have always known exactly what I am and seen all my failings, all my weaknesses and scars. I flattered myself that at moments you had feelings for me other than contempt, but even were that true, they would make but a thin gruel beside the feast of your other, greater desires. And yet my heart is buried with you in the strange soil of the mortal world, as it was drowned with you in the cold waters of the undersea. It was yours before I could ever admit it, and yours it shall ever remain.❞