“Men died as she watched, and they didn't care about what they had fought for.”

“Men had always told Kaladin that he fought like nobody else. He’d felt it on the first day he’d picked up a quarterstaff, though Tukks’s advice had helped him refine and channel what he could do. Kaladin had cared when he fought. He’d never fought empty or cold. He fought to keep his men alive.”

“She didn't care about anything, or maybe she cared too much.”

“He'd just have to lie there and die, watched over by strange stars who didn't know him, didn't care for him.It was very sad, really.”

“Do women always care about the size of their stomachs?""Til the day they die, son.""Will they ever know that we don't really care?""Do men always think everything is about them?" she mocks."Til the day they die, Gram." I wink at her.”

“Arrow let the slow pulse of the vibrating strings flood into her. She felt the lament raise a lump in her throat, fought back tears. She inhaled sharp and fast. Her eyes watered, and the notes ascended the scale. The men on the hills, the men in the city, herself, none of them had the right to do the things they'd done. It had never happened. It could not have happened. But she knew these notes. They had become a part of her. They told her that everything had happened exactly as she knew it had, and that nothing could be done about it. No grief or rage or noble act could undo it. But it could all have been stopped. It was possible. The men on the hills didn't have to be murderers. Then men in the city didn't have to lower themselves to fight their attackers. She didn't have to be filled with hatred. The music demanded that she remember this, that she know to a certainity that the world still held the capacity for goodness. The notes were proof of that. ”