Quotes from Andrzej Sapkowski

Men are psychologically unstable, too prone to emotions; not to be relied upon in moments of crisis.

May I warn you in advance," said Geralt, "that my swords are protected by powerful spells. Only witchers can touch them; others will have their vitality drained away. It mainly manifests in the loss of male potency. I'm talking about sexual enfeeblement. Absolute and permanent.

Give me my sword, Geralt.' He looked at her. Ciri stepped back involuntarily. She had never seen him with an expression like that before. 'If you had a sword, you might have to kill with it. Can you do it?' 'I don't know. Give me my sword.' 'Run. And don't look back.' Horses

don't try to charm me with your hard and insolent masculinity.

Time is like the ancient Ouroboros. Time is fleeting moments, grains of sand passing through an hourglass. Time is the moments and events we so readily try to measure. But the ancient Ouroboros reminds us that in every moment, in every instant, in every event, is hidden the past, the present and the future. Eternity is hidden in every moment. Every departure is at once a return, every farewell is a greeting, every return is a parting. Everything is simultaneously a beginning and an end.

Anyone,' Avallac'h wiped his hands on a rag, 'can foretell the future. And everyone does it, for it is simple. It is no great art to foretell it. The art is in foretelling it accurately.

Guard against disappointments, because appearances can deceive. Things that are really as they seem are rare. And a woman is never as she seems.

Night and day the streets resounded with music, song, and the clinking of chalices and tankards, for it is well known that nothing is such thirsty work as the acquisition of knowledge.

What were you doing? Good or bad?' 'I don't know,' said Geralt with effort. 'I don't know, Yurga. Sometimes it seems to me that I know. And sometimes I have doubts. Would you like your son to have doubts like that?' 'Why not?' the merchant said gravely. 'He might as well. For it's a human and a good thing.' 'What?' 'Doubts. Only evil, sir, never has any. But no one can escape his destiny.

Como muy bien has advertido, esto no es un cuento, sino la vida real. Terrible y malvada. Y por eso, maldita sea, vivámosla lo mejor y más decentemente posible. Limitemos la cantidad de los daños realizados a otros al mínimo indispensable.

Women don't need money. I mean what for? They don't drink, they don't play dice, and they're bloody women themselves.

For there are some… things… which there is no way of obtaining, even by magic. And there are gifts which may not be accepted, if one is unable to… reciprocate them… with something equally precious. Otherwise such a gift will slip through the fingers, melt like a shard of ice gripped in the hand. Then only regret, the sense of loss and hurt will remain…

If people pay for something they believe in it: whatever is paid for becomes real and legal. The more expensive, the better.

He was calm and cold. And killed calmly and coldly.

L'intolleranza e la superstizione sono sempre state prerogativa della parte più stupida del volgo e credo che non saranno mai estirpate, perché sono eterne quanto la stupidità stessa. Là dove oggi torreggiano le montagne un giorno ci saranno i mari, là dove oggi si agitano i mari un giorno ci sarà il deserto. Ma la stupidità rimarrà stupidità.

Geralt had discovered, many times, that all mechanisms are unreliable. They only worked when they ought not to work, and vice versa.

Time to ride, Dandelion." "Where to?" "Isn't it all the same?" "Yes, by and large. Let's go".

Take this and put it to your nose or you'll be covered in blood! Calmly, calmly, little one, just don't faint. I'm beside you. I'm beside you… daughter. Hold the handkerchief. I'll just conjure up some ice…

No, Dandelion stuck with his first version. And he never sang it. Never. To no one. Right before the dawn, while it was still dark, a hungry, vicious werewolf crept up to their camp, but saw that it was Dandelion, so he listened for a moment and then went on his way.

I can't bear the pointlessness of what we're doing. Because it is pointless. It's one great, enormous pointless pit of pointlessness.

Va'esse deireádh aep eigean, va'esse eigh faidh'ar. (Something ends, something begins.)

Coodcoodak, on his knees, was strangling Draig Bon-Dhu's bagpipes with his hands, while, with his head thrown back, he shouted over the monstrous sounds emerging from the bag, wailed and roared, cackled and croaked, bawled and squawked in a cacophony of sounds made by all known, unknown, domestic, wild and mythical animals.

Krew na twoich r?kach, Falka, krew na twej sukience P?o?, p?o?, Falka, za twe zbrodnie Sp?o? i skonaj w m?ce!

So long, Nenneke." "So long, Geralt. Look after yourself." The witcher's smile was surly. "I prefer to look after others. It turns out better in the long run.