Roger Zelazny

This thing with my moods, my thoughts — it comes and it goes. Even now, I feel some of my control slipping away.

“Thanks, Julian. I — You are a difficult man to understand.”
“Not so. I think the Corwin I hated must have died centuries ago. Ride now, man! If Brand shows up around here, I’ll nail his hide to a tree!”

“Mind if I ask why you put it there?”
“I’d be dead now if I hadn’t.”
“Pretty good reason.”

“How serious is this, Corwin?”
“It could be the end of everything,” I said. “I have to go now.”

“Why does he want so badly to attune it? So he can raise a few storms? Hell, he could take a walk in Shadow and make all the weather he wants.”

Yes, I believe Brand is somewhat mad. Looking back over the years, recalling his personality changes, his cycles of moods, it seems there was something of a schizoid pattern there.

If I’d the mind, a few more steps would send me along that celestial escalator into the place of dreams made real, walking neuroses and dubious prophecy, into a moonlit city of ambiguous wish fulfillment, twisted time, and pallid beauty.

The man was mad, leave it at that.

I wish that some time, long ago, something had not been said that was said, or something done that was not done. Something, had we known, which might have let him grow differently, something which would have seen him become another man than the bitter, bent thing I saw up there. It is best now if he is dead. But it is a waste of something that might have been.

If someone does something really rotten, there is a reason for it. Learn it, if you care, and you learn why he is a son of a bitch.