Nothing good was going to come of this, Bottle knew, but he also recognized the necessity and so walked uncomplaining in Ebron's company as the cut across the round with its heaving, shouting throng locked in a frenzy of buying and selling and consuming - like seabirds flocking to a single rock day after day, reliving the same rituals that built up a life in layers of ...
well don't hedge now ... of guano. Of course, one man's shit was another man's... whatever.
There was a hidden privilege in being a solider, he decided. He had been pushed outside normal life, protected from the rigours of meeting most basic needs - food, drink, clothes,shelter: all of these were provided to him in some form or other.
And family, don't forget that. All in exchange for the task of delivering terrible violence; only every now and then to be sure, for such things could not be sustained over long periods of time without crushing the capacity for feeling, without devouring a mortal's humanity
In that context, Bottle reconsidered - with a dull spasm of anguish deep inside - maybe the exchange wasn't that reasonable after all. Less a privilege than a burden, a curse. Seeing the faces in this crowd flashing past, a spinning, whirling cascade of masks - each a faintly stunning alternative to his own - he felt himself not simply pushed outside, but estranged. Leaving him bemused, even perturbed, as he witnessed their seemingly mindless, pointless activities, only to find himself envious of these shallow, undramatic lives - wherein the only need was satiation. Possession, stuffed bellies, expanding heaps of coin.
What do any of you know about life? he wanted to ask.
Try stumbling through a burning city. Try cradling a dying friend with blood like tattered shrouds on all sides. Try glancing to an animated face beside you, only to glance a second time and find it empty, lifeless.A soldier knew what was real and what was ephemeral.
A soldier understood how thin, how fragile, was the fabric of life.
Could one feel envy when looking upon the protected, ignorant lives of others - those people who cloistered faith saw strength in weakness, who found hope in the false assurance of routine?
Yes, beacause once you become aware of that fragility, there is no going back. You lose a thousand masks and are left with but one, with its faint lines of contempt, its downturned mouth only a comment away from a sneer, its promise of cold indifference.Gods, we're just goign for a walk here. I don't need to be thinking any of this.
From: A dust of Dreams (A tale of the Malazan book of the Fallen ) page 262 Book #9 in a 10 part series by Steven Erikson.For some reason, books classified as Fantasy are automatically classified as something sub-par. Even below big brother Science Fiction. Neither will ever be classified as 'Literature'.
Sometimes you have to wonder why.