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908 pages, Paperback
First published February 15, 2011
"I have enjoyed our long conversation. What's three and a half million words between friends?" – Steven Erikson
“It is not enough to wish for a better world for the children. It is not enough to shield them with ease and comfort. …if we do not sacrifice our own ease, our own comfort, to make the future's world a better one, then we curse our own children. We leave them a misery they do not deserve; we leave them a host of lessons unearned.”

“And now the page before us blurs.
An age is done. The book must close.
We are abandoned to history.
Raise high one more time the tattered standard
Of the Fallen. See through the drifting smoke
To the dark stains upon the fabric.
This is the blood of our lives, this is the
Payment of our deeds, all soon to be
Forgotten.
We were never what people could be.
We were only what we were.
Remember us.”

“You walk the steps of your life, and always that dream beckons, that dream waits. You don’t know if it can ever be made real. You don’t know that, even should you somehow stumble upon it, you won’t find it less than it was, less than it could have been – if only you could have kept that distance, kept it just outside arm’s reach. For ever shining. For ever unsullied by the all-to-real flaws of your own making.”
“There shall be a Book and it shall be written by my hand. Wheel and seek the faces of a thousand gods! None can do what I can do! Not one can give voice to this holy creations. But this is not bravado For this, my Book of the Fallen, the only god worthy of its telling is the crippled one. The broken one. And has it not always been thus?
I never hid my hurts.
I never disguised my dreams.
And I never lost my way.
And only the fallen can rise again.”
And now the page before us blurs.
An age is done. The book must close.
We are abandoned to history.
Raise high one more time the tattered standard
Of the Fallen. See through the drifting smoke
To the dark stains upon the fabric.
This is the blood of our lives, this is the
Payment of our deeds, all soon to be
Forgotten.
We were never what people could be.
We were only what we were.
Remember us.


"For this, my Book of the Fallen, the only god worthy of its telling is the crippled one. The broken one. And has it not always been thus?
I never hid my hurts.
I never disguised my dreams.
And I never lost my way.
And only the fallen can rise again.“