The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon.

‘And so, does the destination matter? Or is it the path we take? I declare that no accomplishment has substance nearly as great as the road used to achieve it. We are not creatures of destinations.
It is the journey that shapes us. Our callused feet, our backs strong from carrying the weight of our travels, our eyes open with the fresh delight of experiences lived.
In the end, I must proclaim that no good can be achieved of false means. For the substance of our existence is not in the achievement, but in the method. The Monarch must understand this; he must not become so focused on what he wishes to accomplish that he diverts his gaze from the path he must take to arrive there.’

A man’s emotions are what define him, and control is the hallmark of true strength. To lack feeling is to be dead, but to act on every feeling is to be a child.

“When we are young,” Jasnah said, “we want simple answers. There is no greater indication of youth, perhaps, than the desire for everything to be as it should. As it has ever been.” Shallan frowned, still watching the men by the tavern over her shoulder. “The older we grow,” Jasnah said, “the more we question. We begin to ask why. And yet, we still want the answers to be simple. We assume that the people around us—adults, leaders—will have those answers. Whatever they give often satisfies us.”
“I was never satisfied,” Shallan said softly. “I wanted more.”
“You were mature,” Jasnah said. “What you describe happens to most of us, as we age. Indeed, it seems to me that aging, wisdom, and wondering are synonymous. The older we grow, the more likely we are to reject the simple answers. Unless someone gets in our way and demands they be accepted regardless.” Jasnah’s eyes narrowed. “You wonder why I reject the devotaries.”
“I do.”
“Most of them seek to stop the questions.”

“Money is behind every war,” Au-nak continued. “Religion is but an excuse. Or perhaps a justification.” “There’s a difference?” the ardent said, obviously taking offense at Au-nak’s tone. “Of course,” Au-nak said. “An excuse is what you make after the deed is done, while a justification is what you offer before.”

“It is time for us to fight,” he said, voice growing louder. “And we do so not because we seek the glory of men, but because the other options are worse. We follow the Codes not because they bring gain, but because we loathe the people we would otherwise become. We stand here on this battlefield alone because of who we are.” The members of the Cobalt Guard standing in a ring began to turn, one at a time, looking toward him. Beyond them, reserve soldiers—lighteyed and dark—gathered closer, eyes terrified, but faces resolute. “Death is the end of all men!” Dalinar bellowed. “What is the measure of him once he is gone? The wealth he accumulated and left for his heirs to squabble over? The glory he obtained, only to be passed on to those who slew him? The lofty positions he held through happenstance? “No. We fight here because we understand. The end is the same. It is the path that separates men. When we taste that end, we will do so with our heads held high, eyes to the sun.” He held out a hand, summoning Oathbringer. “I am not ashamed of what I have become,” he shouted, and found it to be true. It felt so strange to be free of guilt. “Other men may debase themselves to destroy me. Let them have their glory. For I will retain mine!”

What is it that men value in others?” The music played toward an audience of silent buildings, alleys, and worn cobblestones. The guards didn’t respond to him. They didn’t seem to know what to make of a black-clad, lighteyed man who entered the city just before evening fell, then sat on boxes beside the gates playing music. “Well?” Wit asked, pausing the music. “What do you think? If a man or woman were to have a talent, which would be the most revered, best regarded, considered of the most worth?”
“Er … music?” one of the men finally said.
“Yes, a common answer,” Wit said, plucking at a few low notes. “I once asked this question of some very wise scholars. What do men consider the most valuable of talents? One mentioned artistic ability, as you so keenly guessed. Another chose great intellect. The final chose the talent to invent, the ability to design and create great devices.” He didn’t play a specific tune on the enthir, just plucks here and there, an occasional scale or fifth. Like chitchat in string form.
“Aesthetic genius,” Wit said, “invention, acumen, creativity. Noble ideals indeed. Most men would pick one of those, if given the choice, and name them the greatest of talents.” He plucked a string. “What beautiful liars we are.” The guards glanced at each other; the torches burning in brackets on the wall painted them with orange light.
“You think I’m a cynic,” Wit said. “You think I’m going to tell you that men claim to value these ideals, but secretly prefer base talents. The ability to gather coin or to charm women. Well, I am a cynic, but in this case, I actually think those scholars were honest. Their answers speak for the souls of men. In our hearts, we want to believe in—and would choose—great accomplishment and virtue. That’s why our lies, particularly to ourselves, are so beautiful.”
He began to play a real song. A simple melody at first, soft, subdued. A song for a silent night when the entire world changed. One of the soldiers cleared his throat. “So what is the most valuable talent a man can have?” He sounded genuinely curious.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Wit said. “Fortunately, that wasn’t the question. I didn’t ask what was most valuable, I asked what men value most. The difference between those questions is both tiny and as vast as the world itself all at once.” He kept plucking his song. One did not strum an enthir. It just wasn’t done, at least not by people with any sense of propriety.
“In this,” Wit said, “as in all things, our actions give us away. If an artist creates a work of powerful beauty—using new and innovative techniques—she will be lauded as a master, and will launch a new movement in aesthetics. Yet what if another, working independently with that exact level of skill, were to make the same accomplishments the very next month? Would she find similar acclaim? No. She’d be called derivative.
“Intellect. If a great thinker develops a new theory of mathematics, science, or philosophy, we will name him wise. We will sit at his feet and learn, and will record his name in history for thousands upon thousands to revere. But what if another man determines the same theory on his own, then delays in publishing his results by a mere week? Will he be remembered for his greatness? No. He will be forgotten.
“Invention. A woman builds a new design of great worth—some fabrial or feat of engineering. She will be known as an innovator. But if someone with the same talent creates the same design a year later—not realizing it has already been crafted—will she be rewarded for her creativity? No. She’ll be called a copier and a forger.” He plucked at his strings, letting the melody continue, twisting, haunting, yet with a faint edge of mockery.
“And so,” he said, “in the end, what must we determine? Is it the intellect of a genius that we revere? If it were their artistry, the beauty of their mind, would we not laud it regardless of whether we’d seen their product before? “But we don’t. Given two works of artistic majesty, otherwise weighted equally, we will give greater acclaim to the one who did it first. It doesn’t matter what you create. It matters what you create before anyone else. “So it’s not the beauty itself we admire. It’s not the force of intellect. It’s not invention, aesthetics, or capacity itself. The greatest talent that we think a man can have?” He plucked one final string. “Seems to me that it must be nothing more than novelty.”