TERMS STARTING WITH
TERMS ANYWHERE
Devapi (Sanskrit) Devāpi [from deva god + āpi friend] Friend of the god; a rishi mentioned in the Rig-Veda as the son of Rishti-shena. In the Mahabharata and the Puranas he is described as a son of King Pratipa of the Kurus, who resigns his kingdom and retires into the woods, where he is still alive, awaiting with the sage Maru, at Kalapa or Katapa, the coming of Maitreya Buddha, the avatara who will come at the close of the kali yuga, according to legend.
DOS/360 ::: (operating system) The operating system announced by IBM at the low end for the System/360 in 1964 and delivered in 1965 or 1966.Following the failure of OS, IBM designed DOS for the low end machines, able to run in 16KB(?) and 64KB memory.DOS/360 used three memory partitions, but it had no serious memory protection. The three partitions were not specialised, but frequently one was used for spooling punched cards to disk, another one for batch job execution and another for spooling disk to printers.With DOS/VS, introduced in 1970, the number of partitions was increased, virtual memory was introduced and the minimum memory requirements increased.Later they released DOS/VSE and ESA/VSE. DOS/360 successors are still alive today (1997) though not as popular as in the late 1960s.Contrary to the Hacker's Jargon File, GECOS was not copied from DOS/360. (1997-09-22)
DOS/360 "operating system" The {operating system} announced by {IBM} at the low end for the {System/360} in 1964 and delivered in 1965 or 1966. Following the failure of {OS}, IBM designed DOS for the low end machines, able to run in 16KB(?) and 64KB memory. DOS/360 used three {memory partitions}, but it had no serious {memory protection}. The three partitions were not specialised, but frequently one was used for {spooling} {punched cards} to {disk}, another one for {batch job} execution and another for spooling disk to printers. With DOS/VS, introduced in 1970, the number of partitions was increased, {virtual memory} was introduced and the minimum memory requirements increased. Later they released DOS/VSE and ESA/VSE. DOS/360 successors are still alive today (1997) though not as popular as in the late 1960s. Contrary to the Hacker's {Jargon File}, {GECOS} was not copied from DOS/360. (1997-09-22)
gweep /gweep/ To {hack}, usually at night, or one who does so. At {WPI}, from 1977 onward, gweeps could often be found at the College Computing Center punching cards or crashing the {PDP-10} or, later, the {DEC-20}. The term has survived the demise of those technologies, however, and is still alive in late 1991. "I'm going to go gweep for a while. See you in the morning." "I gweep from 8 PM till 3 AM during the week." "Gweep" originated as an onomatopeiac term, evoking the sound of the (once-ubiquitous) {Hazeltine 9000} terminals' bell on WPI campus. A gweep is one step above a {fweep}. [{Jargon File}] (1995-01-31)
heartbeat ::: 1. (networking) The signal emitted by a Level 2 Ethernet transceiver at the end of every packet to show that the collision-detection circuit is still connected.2. A periodic synchronisation signal used by software or hardware, such as a bus clock or a periodic interrupt.3. The natural oscillation frequency of a computer's clock crystal, before frequency division down to the machine's clock rate.4. A signal emitted at regular intervals by software to demonstrate that it is still alive. Sometimes hardware is designed to reboot the machine if it stops hearing a heartbeat. See also breath-of-life packet, watchdog.[Jargon File] (1996-03-12)
heartbeat 1. "networking" The signal emitted by a Level 2 Ethernet transceiver at the end of every {packet} to show that the collision-detection circuit is still connected. 2. A periodic synchronisation signal used by software or hardware, such as a {bus} clock or a periodic {interrupt}. 3. The "natural" oscillation frequency of a computer's clock crystal, before frequency division down to the machine's clock rate. 4. A signal emitted at regular intervals by software to demonstrate that it is still alive. Sometimes hardware is designed to reboot the machine if it stops hearing a heartbeat. See also {breath-of-life packet}, {watchdog}. [{Jargon File}] (1996-03-12)
Jīvaka. (T. 'Tsho byed; C. Qipo/Shubojia; J. Giba/Jubaka/Jubakuka; K. Kiba/Subakka 耆婆/戍博迦). A famous physician and lay disciple of the Buddha, declared foremost among laymen beloved by the people. The son of a courtesan, he was abandoned at birth on a dust heap. He was rescued by a prince who, when he was told the infant was still alive, gave him the name Jīvaka, meaning "Living" in Sanskrit and Pāli. As the adopted son of the prince, he was also known in Pāli as Jīvaka Komārabhacca, meaning Jīvaka who was "raised by the prince." (Alternatively, Komārabhacca may mean "master of pediatrics," as in the science of kaumārabhṛtya, the treatment of infants.) As a young man, Jīvaka studied medicine and soon became a renowned and wealthy doctor. It is said that his first patient gave him sixteen thousand coins, a pair of servants, and a coach with horses. King BIMBISĀRA of MAGADHA hired him as his royal physician and also assigned him to look after the health of the Buddha and his monks. Jīvaka continued to serve Bimbisāra's son AJĀTAsATRU, who murdered his father to usurp the throne, and it was Jīvaka who escorted the patricide before the Buddha, so he could repent from his crime. Jīvaka attended the Buddha on many occasions. He bandaged the Buddha's foot when it was injured by the rock hurled by DEVADATTA on GṚDHRAKutAPARVATA. Once, Jīvaka noted how the monks were pale and unhealthy in appearance and recommended that the Buddha require them to exercise regularly. He treated rich and poor alike and those who could not pay he treated without charge. So popular was Jīvaka that he could not treat all who came to him, yet he never neglected to serve the SAMGHA. For this reason, the poor and indigent began to enter the order simply to receive medical attention. When Jīvaka became aware of this trend, he recommended to the Buddha that persons suffering from certain diseases not be allowed to ordain. Jīvaka became a stream-enterer (SROTAĀPANNA) and is included in a list of good men assured of realization of the deathless. ¶ Jīvaka is also traditionally listed as ninth of the sixteen ARHAT elders (sOdAsASTHAVIRA), who were charged by the Buddha with protecting his dispensation until the advent of the next buddha, MAITREYA. Jīvaka is said to reside in Gandhamādana with nine hundred disciples. The Chinese tradition says that this Jīvaka was originally a prince in a central Indian kingdom, whose younger brother wanted to fight him for the throne. But Jīvaka told his brother that he thought only of the Buddha and had never wanted to be king. He then exposed his chest, and his younger brother saw a buddha image engraved over his heart. Realizing his brother's sincerity, he then dismissed his troops. Jīvaka thus earned the nickname "Heart-Exposing ARHAT" (Kaixin Luohan). In CHANYUE GUANXIU's standard Chinese depiction, Jīvaka sits slightly leaning on a rock. He has an aquiline nose and deep-set eyes, a high forehead, and bright eyes staring forward. He holds a fan in his left hand, and his right fingers are bent.
Leibniz, Gottfried Withelm: (1646-1716) Born in Leipzig, where his father was a professor in the university, he was educated at Leipzig, Jena, and Altdorf University, where he obtained his doctorate. Jurist, mathematician, diplomat, historian, theologian of no mean proportions, he was Germany's greatest 17th century philosopher and one of the most universal minds of all times. In Paris, then the centre of intellectual civilization (Moliere was still alive, Racine at the height of his glory), where he had been sent on an official mission of state, he met Arnauld, a disciple of Descartes who acquainted him with his master's ideas, and Huygens who taught him as to the higher forms of mathematics and their application to physical phenomena. He visited London, where he met Newton, Boyle, and others. At the Hague he came face to face with the other great philosopher of the time, Spinoza. One of Leibniz's cherished ideas was the creation of a society of scholars for the investigation of all branches of scientific truth to combine them into one great system of truth. His philosophy, the work "of odd moments", bears, in content and form, the impress of its haphazard origin and its author's cosmopolitan mode of large number of letters, essays, memoranda, etc., published in various scientific journals. Universality and individuality characterize him both as a man and philosopher.
Mi la'i mgur 'bum. (Mile Gurbum). In Tibetan, "The Hundred Thousand Songs of Milarepa", containing the collected spiritual songs and versified instructions of the eleventh-century Tibetan yogin MI LA RAS PA. Together with their brief narrative framing tales, the songs in this collection document the later period of Mi la ras pa's career, his life as a wandering hermit, his solitary meditation, subjugation of demons, and training of disciples. The work catalogues his songs of realization: expressions of his experiences as an awakened master, his reflections on the nature of the mind and reality, and his instructions for practicing the Buddhist path. The songs are composed in a vernacular idiom, abandoning the highly ornamental formal structure of classical poetry in favor of a simple and direct style. They are much loved in Tibet for their clarity, playfulness, and poetic beauty, and continue to be taught, memorized, and recited within most sects of Tibetan Buddhism. Episodes from the Mi la'i mgur 'bum have become standard themes for traditional Tibetan Buddhist plastic arts and have been adapted into theatrical dance performances (CHAMS). The number 100,000 is not literal, but rather a metaphor for the work's comprehensiveness; it is likely that many of the songs were first recorded by Mi la ras pa's own close disciples, perhaps while the YOGIN was still alive. The most famous version of this collection was edited and arranged by GTSANG SMYON HERUKA during the final decades of the fifteenth century, together with an equally famous edition of the MI LA RAS PA'I RNAM THAR ("The Life of Milarepa").
Rudra-Siva (Sanskrit) Rudra-Śiva Siva in the form of the regenerating god; also “the great Yogi, the forefather of all the Adepts — in Esotericism one of the greatest Kings of the Divine Dynasties. Called ‘the Earliest’ and the ‘Last,’ he is the patron of the Third, Fourth, and the Fifth Root-Races. For, in his earliest character, he is the ascetic Dig-ambara, ‘clothed with the Elements,’ Trilochana, ‘the three-eyed’; Pancha-anana, ‘the five-faced,’ an allusion to the past four and the present fifth race, for, though five-faced, he is only ‘four-armed,’ as the fifth race is still alive. He is the ‘God of Time,’ Saturn-Kronos, as his damaru (drum), in the shape of an hour-glass, shows; and if he is accused of having cut off Brahma’s fifth head, and left him with only four, it is again an allusion to a certain degree in initiation, and also to the Races” (SD 2:502n). See also RUDRA
When that period ends he passes again into unconsciousness, undergoes the second death, and all that is spiritual in him passes on to devachan, leaving the lower parts to pursue their own transmigrations. Aside from extremes of mental suffering which he would not otherwise have had to endure, the suicide is deprived of the full fruitage of bliss in devachan, for the latter is in direct ratio to the extent of earthly experiences and their spiritual quality. As he is still alive, his punishment is largely due to the very intensity of that life and to his longing to enjoy earthly contacts. If his life on earth was evil and sensual, this longing tempts them to find some living being or creature through whom he can make contacts that to him were pleasures — to live again by proxy, as it were. Many crimes, obsessions, and manias, such as dipsomania, find their explanation here. Mediums and sensitives are open doors to such contacts; and these suicided astral beings, who are often called earth-walkers and who in many cases actually astral reliquiae, having by their own act severed their connection for the time with their highest principles — the spiritual soul (buddhi) and inner god (atman) — deprived thus of the urge and counsel of these highest principles, too often rush into these “open doors,” and “by so doing, at the expiration of the natural term, they generally lose the monad for ever” (ML 109).
KEYS (10k)
2 Santoka Taneda
1 Matsuo Basho
1
NEW FULL DB (2.4M)
21 John Green
17 Anonymous
12 J K Rowling
9 Jojo Moyes
8 Viktor E Frankl
8 Terry Pratchett
8 Tahereh Mafi
7 Margaret Atwood
7 Lisa Kleypas
6 Thich Nhat Hanh
6 Stephen King
6 Sherrilyn Kenyon
6 Jennifer L Armentrout
6 Ilona Andrews
6 Haruki Murakami
6 Benjamin Franklin
5 Robert A Heinlein
5 Ian Fleming
5 Charles Bukowski
4 Sam Harris
1:It's drizzling.
Here I am,
still alive.
~ Santoka Taneda,#KEYS
2:It's drizzling. Here I am, still alive. ~ Santoka Taneda, 1882-1940, #KEYS
3:Journey's end - still alive, this autumn evening. ~ Matsuo Basho, 1644-1694, #KEYS
4:The worst part about a break up isn't the loss of a relationship. It's finding out that the person you once loved doesn't exist anymore. You start mourning the death of somebody who is still alive. It's painful and sobering…" ~, (continued on next tweet), #KEYS
*** WISDOM TROVE ***
1:When you feel pain, you know that you are still alive. ~ bruce-lee, @wisdomtrove 2:While they're still alive, people can become ghosts. ~ haruki-murakami, @wisdomtrove 3:In the morning it was morning and I was still alive. ~ charles-bukowski, @wisdomtrove 4:When we give up on our dreams, we die while still alive. ~ robin-sharma, @wisdomtrove 5:You're still alive. And that means you'll love and be loved... and in the end, nothing else really matters. ~ nicholas-sparks, @wisdomtrove 6:I wanted to say goodbye to someone, and have someone say goodbye to me. The goodbyes we speak and the goodbyes we hear are the goodbyes that tell us we´re still alive. ~ stephen-king, @wisdomtrove 7:Hope abides; therefore I abide. Countless frustrations have not cowed me. I am still alive, vibrant with life. The black cloud will disappear, The morning sun will appear once again In all its supernal glory. ~ sri-chinmoy, @wisdomtrove 8:Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in its spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance. ~ viktor-frankl, @wisdomtrove 9:This is really a crazy idea, you know. It probably won't work, but that will be interesting, too. You have to motivate yourself with challenges. That's how you know you're still alive. Once you start doing only what you've already proven you can do, you're on the road to death. ~ jerry-seinfeld, @wisdomtrove 10:Fear keeps us focused on the past or worried about the future. If we can acknowledge our fear, we can realize that right now we are okay. Right now, today, we are still alive, and our bodies are working marvelously. Our eyes can still see the beautiful sky. Our ears can still hear the voices of our loved ones. ~ thich-nhat-hanh, @wisdomtrove 11:A person who believes that Elvis is still alive is very unlikely to get promoted to a position of great power and responsibility in our society. Neither will a person who believes that the holocaust was a hoax. But people who believe equally irrational things about God and the bible are now running our country. This is genuinely terrifying. ~ sam-harris, @wisdomtrove 12:Success only means doing something sincerely and wholeheartedly. I think life is a process. Through the ages, the end of heroes is the same as ordinary men. They all died and gradually faded away in the memory of man. But when we are still alive, we have to understand ourselves, discover ourselves and express ourselves. In this way, we can progress, but we may not be successful. ~ bruce-lee, @wisdomtrove 13:In fact, "atheism" is a term that should not even exist. No one ever needs to identify himself as a "non-astrologer" or a "non-alchemist." We do not have words for people who doubt that Elvis is still alive or that aliens have traversed the galaxy only to molest ranchers and their cattle. Atheism is nothing more than the noises reasonable people make in the presence of unjustified religious beliefs. ~ sam-harris, @wisdomtrove 14:In reality, there is, perhaps, no one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive, and will every now and then peep out and show itself; you will see it, perhaps, often in this history; for, even if I could conceive that I had completely overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility. ~ benjamin-franklin, @wisdomtrove 15:Not my idea of God, but God. Not my idea of H., but H. Yes, and also not my idea of my neighbour, but my neighbour. For don't we often make this mistake as regards people who are still alive - who are with us in the same room? Talking and acting not to the man himself but to the picture - almost the précis - we've made of him in our own minds? And he has to depart from it pretty widely before we even notice the fact. ~ c-s-lewis, @wisdomtrove 16:Atheism is not a philosophy; it is not even a view of the world; it is simply an admission of the obvious. In fact, & 17:When someone's body can no longer perform its functions in the natural world in response to the thoughts and affections of its spirit (which it derives from the spiritual world), then we say that the individual has died. This happens when the lungs' breathing and the heart's systolic motion have ceased. The person, though, has not died at all. We are only separated from the physical nature that was useful to us in the world. The essential person is actually still alive. I say that the essential person is still alive because we are not people because of our bodies but because of our spirits. After all, it is the spirit within us that thinks, and thought and affection together make us the people we are. We can see, then, that when we die we simply move from one world into another. This is why in the inner meaning of the Bible, "death" means resurrection and a continuation of life. ~ emanuel-swedenborg, @wisdomtrove *** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***
1:Mama’s still alive today. ~ Kamel Daoud, #NFDB
2:Oh. I'm still alive. Yay. ~ Phil Foglio, #NFDB
3:You’re still alive for Grandma. ~ Adam Silvera, #NFDB
4:Physics Works, and I'm still alive! ~ Walter Lewin, #NFDB
5:I'm still alive, which is pretty cool. ~ Charlie Sheen, #NFDB
6:If you are still alive when you read this, ~ Bill Knott, #NFDB
7:I'm still alive. And I'm still fabulous. ~ Rachel Caine, #NFDB
8:It's always early, while you still alive. ~ Esi Edugyan, #NFDB
9:Still alive,” he muttered to himself. ~ Joe Abercrombie, #NFDB
10:Tarts and tadpoles!...The boy is still alive! ~ L Frank Baum, #NFDB
11:No one is dead as long as someone is still alive ~ John Green, #NFDB
12:Racism is still alive they just be concealing it ~ Kanye West, #NFDB
13:man named Webster Gray, still alive, somewhere, ~ John Grisham, #NFDB
14:People face death while they’re still alive. ~ Haruki Murakami, #NFDB
15:It's drizzling.
Here I am,
still alive.
~ Santoka Taneda,#NFDB
16:I am still alive then. That may come in useful. ~ Samuel Beckett, #NFDB
17:shed your troublesome ego while you’re still alive ~ Wayne W Dyer, #NFDB
18:You're still alive. That means you're winning. ~ Rachel Cotterill, #NFDB
19:When you feel pain, you know that you are still alive. ~ Bruce Lee, #NFDB
20:Crying makes me know I'm still real and still alive. ~ Gigi Amateau, #NFDB
21:He was afraid, but fear meant he was still alive. ~ Neal Shusterman, #NFDB
22:Superman and Robinhood are still alive in Hollywood. ~ Don Williams, #NFDB
23:I thought, better to get out while I'm still alive. ~ George Hamilton, #NFDB
24:The worst part of my life is newspapers are still alive. ~ Paul LePage, #NFDB
25:While they're still alive, people can become ghosts. ~ Haruki Murakami, #NFDB
26:While they’re still alive, people can become ghosts. ~ Haruki Murakami, #NFDB
27:Complacency kills. Paranoia is the reason I’m still alive. ~ D J Molles, #NFDB
28:In London they don't like you if you're still alive. ~ Harvey Fierstein, #NFDB
29:In the morning it was morning and I was still alive. ~ Charles Bukowski, #NFDB
30:It's early yet. It's always early, while you still alive. ~ Esi Edugyan, #NFDB
31:When we give up on our dreams, we die while still alive. ~ Robin Sharma, #NFDB
32:While they are still alive, people can become ghosts. ~ Haruki Murakami, #NFDB
33:Drama is something that lets you know you're still alive. ~ Lorrie Morgan, #NFDB
34:I hope I'm still alive to see an expedition set off for Mars. ~ James Gunn, #NFDB
35:Your sister is still alive, Thel. Everyone is still alive. ~ David Simpson, #NFDB
36:The stigma of mental illness is still alive and well. ~ Kate Clifford Larson, #NFDB
37:Dracula —” He paused. “Dracula—Vlad Tepes—is still alive. ~ Elizabeth Kostova, #NFDB
38:Identity politics isn't old school! It's still alive and well. ~ Grace Dunham, #NFDB
39:Remember what dad said. You're still alive-- you still fight. ~ Bill Willingham, #NFDB
40:Sometimes you need to be touched to know you're still alive. ~ Cathie Pelletier, #NFDB
41:If Hitler’s still alive, I hope he’s out of town with a musical. ~ Larry Gelbart, #NFDB
42:I do not choose that my grave should be dug while I am still alive. ~ Elizabeth I, #NFDB
43:In South Dakota and Kansas there are some brother's still alive. We ~ David Beers, #NFDB
44:Sometimes hot sauce was the only way I knew I was still alive. ~ Michael Connelly, #NFDB
45:Blackjack wheezed and shuddered—still alive, but badly wounded. Her ~ Rick Riordan, #NFDB
46:The fact that I am still alive after 100,000 laps is my championship. ~ Jacky Ickx, #NFDB
47:Whenever I see a mountain, I remember God is still alive! ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah, #NFDB
48:Each beat told him he was still alive, at least for one more second. ~ Louis Sachar, #NFDB
49:Amid all that blood of the dying sun, the verde was still alive. ~ Alaya Dawn Johnson, #NFDB
50:Fear reminds us we're still alive. Regret will dig us an early grave. ~ Allison Morgan, #NFDB
51:He's not dead. He is still alive, and while he is alive, he is mine. ~ Paullina Simons, #NFDB
52:I am not an important person, can you guess why? Because I am still alive. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
53:Because maybe it's in the stories that the people we love are still alive. ~ Daisy Whitney, #NFDB
54:But I was still alive, and in my book, where there's life, there's hope. ~ Bryce Courtenay, #NFDB
55:Mrs. Gunness, the paper declared, was “now thought to be still alive.”[ ~ Harold Schechter, #NFDB
56:Still alive? (Randy) No. I’m a walking corpse. Can’t you tell? (Steele) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon, #NFDB
57:Gwen wasn’t sure if she was still alive, but if she wasn’t, what a way to go. ~ N J Walters, #NFDB
58:I’m still alive, I have time to build
My blood will outlast the rose. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,#NFDB
59:Still alive? (Randy)
No. I’m a walking corpse. Can’t you tell? (Steele) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,#NFDB
60:Because these words I write down are the only proof I have that I'm still alive ~ Tahereh Mafi, #NFDB
61:I believe pain is nature's way of saying, 'You're still alive, and life sucks.' ~ Bill Engvall, #NFDB
62:I wake up saying, I'm still alive; a miracle. And so I keep on pushing. ~ Jacques Yves Cousteau, #NFDB
63:I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realized, and I was still alive, ~ J K Rowling, #NFDB
64:Then he saw something which froze him in place. The cop. The cop was still alive. ~ Stephen King, #NFDB
65:We’re still alive and we’re still together. Plus, I have some killer weed. Want a hit? ~ Mark Tufo, #NFDB
66:Hell," he said with a grin. "It's early yet. It's always early, while you still alive. ~ Esi Edugyan, #NFDB
67:It all happened. It wasn't a dream.
And I'm still alive.
I guess that's something. ~ Barry Lyga,#NFDB
68:But what about people that never find love? Surely, they are still alive. Aren’t they? ~ Chris Dietzel, #NFDB
69:Ignore her. She hasn't been laid in, like, in a week. It's a wonder she's still alive. ~ Richelle Mead, #NFDB
70:You have to motivate yourself with challenges. That's how you know you're still alive. ~ Jerry Seinfeld, #NFDB
71:An ox carcass by Rembrandt seems so utterly butchered as to be agonisingly still alive. A ~ Simon Schama, #NFDB
72:His principle can be quite simply stated: he refuses to die while he is still alive. He ~ G K Chesterton, #NFDB
73:There's something to be said for hunger: at least it lets you know you're still alive. ~ Margaret Atwood, #NFDB
74:can I ask you a simple but complex question? Why are you still alive and living? ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah, #NFDB
75:One must pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while still alive. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, #NFDB
76:Some people were killed by their celebration of the fact that they were still alive. ~ Mokokoma Mokhonoana, #NFDB
77:Death came before the end of his story. When he was still alive it had already happened. ~ Marguerite Duras, #NFDB
78:The age of miracles has not past. The Miracle Worker is still ALIVE. His name is Jesus Christ! ~ T B Joshua, #NFDB
79:I’m still alive,” Gabriel pointed out. “Nick is also still alive, as is Merit. Everybody wave. ~ Chloe Neill, #NFDB
80:the worst thing that can happen to you is allowing yourself to die inside while you're still alive ~ Unknown, #NFDB
81:And why, Snape, is Harry Potter still alive, when you have had him at your mercy for five years? ~ J K Rowling, #NFDB
82:I could never write my memoirs, just because too many people are still alive and would be hurt. ~ Bruce Willis, #NFDB
83:The goodbyes we speak and the goodbyes we hear are the good byes that tell us we're still alive. ~ Stephen King, #NFDB
84:Maybe we're grass—our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. ~ John Green, #NFDB
85:Some people are still alive only because they find being dead more boring than being alive. ~ Mokokoma Mokhonoana, #NFDB
86:I’m not sure how he’s even still alive. They took out so much of his brain, he could be a politician. ~ J D Barker, #NFDB
87:I've always thought it was arrogant to write about yourself, particularly when you're still alive. ~ Russell Means, #NFDB
88:My phone doesn't ring and the doorbell doesn't either and I begin to wonder whether I am still alive. ~ Sara Baume, #NFDB
89:Oh, how I wish that Orwell were still alive, so that I could read his comments on contemporary events! ~ W H Auden, #NFDB
90:The sheik is, thank God, still alive and this hurts Bush who promised to his people to kill Osama. ~ Mohammed Omar, #NFDB
91:He was a secret agent, and still alive thanks to his exact attention to the detail of his profession. ~ Ian Fleming, #NFDB
92:It’s not over if you’re still here,” Chronicler said. “It’s not a tragedy if you’re still alive. ~ Patrick Rothfuss, #NFDB
93:One has to pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while one is still alive. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, #NFDB
94:You know you've been around when they start to remake your own movies when you're still alive. ~ Sylvester Stallone, #NFDB
95:Egos bruised. Pride shaken. Beliefs shamelessly debunked. But hey -- we're still alive and breathing!! ~ Arnold Arre, #NFDB
96:or maybe we’re grass—our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. ~ John Green, #NFDB
97:Women without love lose the light in their eyes, women without love die while they are still alive. ~ Elena Ferrante, #NFDB
98:But i doesn't much matter when you have just now realised, all the time later, that you are still alive. ~ John Green, #NFDB
99:Talking around the edge of a catastrophe. But wasn’t that what people did, if you were still alive? ~ Jeff VanderMeer, #NFDB
100:The first sign of corruption in a society that is still alive is that the end justifies the means. ~ Georges Bernanos, #NFDB
101:The only people I owe an apology to are my dead parents. Except my father because he's still alive. ~ Chelsea Handler, #NFDB
102:It's not like I'm such a shiny happy person either, you know? I'm a wreck too, I'm just... still alive. ~ Isaac Marion, #NFDB
103:The Progressive Blues Experiment, Johnny Winter... and Still Alive and Well is my favorite rock record ~ Johnny Winter, #NFDB
104:We're going to start walking again. We can't stand still, you know. Not as long as we're still alive. ~ Hiromu Arakawa, #NFDB
105:Every now and then there's a small scream from the part that thinks it's still alive. It will stop soon. ~ Stephen King, #NFDB
106:If every babe who cried were still alive, well, then, the world would be a very crowded place, indeed. ~ Kate DiCamillo, #NFDB
107:I’m not scared of dying. Not at all. The only thing I’m scared of is not living while I’m still alive. ~ James L Rubart, #NFDB
108:It's nice sometimes to open up the heart a little and let some hurt come in. It proves you're still alive. ~ Rod McKuen, #NFDB
109:Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive. ~ Robert Lowell, #NFDB
110:Stop whining about getting old. It's a privilege. A lot of people who are dead wish they are still alive. ~ Amy Poehler, #NFDB
111:Noble dragons don't have friends. The nearest they can get to the idea is an enemy who is still alive. ~ Terry Pratchett, #NFDB
112:Stop whining about getting old. It's a privilege. A lot of people who are dead wish they were still alive. ~ Amy Poehler, #NFDB
113:The BBC did a survey of the top 50 things to do before we die. Not while we're still alive, before we die. ~ Bill Bailey, #NFDB
114:Death turns all men into great lovers. Would that they were equally ardent while the body was still alive! ~ Anne Fortier, #NFDB
115:...photographs of girl-children; some gaudy moth or butterfly, still alive, safely pinned to the wall. ~ Vladimir Nabokov, #NFDB
116:The goodbyes we speak and the goodbyes we hear are the goodbyes that tell us we’re still alive, after all. ~ Stephen King, #NFDB
117:It's pleasant to hear these nice words while I'm still alive. I'd rather have the taffy than the epitaphy. ~ Chauncey Depew, #NFDB
118:All people go to Allah after their death, but the happy person is the one who goes to Allah while still alive. ~ Sayyid Qutb, #NFDB
119:Noble dragons don’t have friends. The nearest they can get to the idea is an enemy who is still alive. The ~ Terry Pratchett, #NFDB
120:She’s gone, but I feel her. In my soul, in every part of me that’s still alive. I won’t fail her. Not anymore. ~ Celia Aaron, #NFDB
121:You're still alive. And that means you'll love and be loved...and in the end, nothing else really matters. ~ Nicholas Sparks, #NFDB
122:It's a miracle that David Bowie, Lou Reed and Iggy Pop are actually still alive today, given how hard they lived. ~ Mick Rock, #NFDB
123:We were alive. I remember it that way. We were still alive, and we couldn't see how close we were to the end. ~ Nova Ren Suma, #NFDB
124:Funny how we'll do things for people after they're dead that we wouldn't do for them while they're still alive. ~ John G Hemry, #NFDB
125:.... "death turns all men into great lovers. Would that they were equally ardent while the lady was still alive! ~ Anne Fortier, #NFDB
126:It's nice when people are happy to hear that you're still alive, rather than feeling like "Oh, finally he's dead?" ~ Dave Grohl, #NFDB
127:The next time there’s something that you can’t live without, wait for a week and then see if you’re still alive. ~ Guy Kawasaki, #NFDB
128:Why I wake up in the morning is that I'm still alive, and I want to figure out whatever I can before it's over. ~ Gary Kraftsow, #NFDB
129:Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside while still alive. Never surrender. ~ Tupac Shakur, #NFDB
130:It's nice sometimes
to open up the heart a little
and let some hurt come in.
It proves you're still alive. ~ Rod McKuen,#NFDB
131:Life is never that simple. And the fact that it's not that simple to you means only one thing: You're still alive. ~ Carrie Ryan, #NFDB
132:We come here and communicate with the history. The history is not dead. The history is still alive in another form. ~ Zak Bagans, #NFDB
133:we must be thankful that we are all together. And we must believe that there is a reason we are still alive, ~ Tess Uriza Holthe, #NFDB
134:When I find a short-seller, I want to tear his heart out and eat it before his eyes while he is still alive. ~ Richard S Fuld Jr, #NFDB
135:It was strange to find them here, still alive, with their shared bits of past that suddenly counted for nothing. ~ Paolo Giordano, #NFDB
136:I would never get married while my father is still alive because I wouldn't want him to walk me down the aisle. ~ Chelsea Handler, #NFDB
137:In the morning it was morning and I was still alive.
Maybe I'll write a novel, I thought.
And then I did. ~ Charles Bukowski,#NFDB
138:It doesn't matter how many people I've killed. What matters is how I get along with the people who are still alive. ~ Bruce Willis, #NFDB
139:That is the bane of speakeasy life. You ring up your friend the next morning to find out whether he is still alive. ~ Deborah Blum, #NFDB
140:And the alcohol makes me not care that I’m painting stuff that would make even Bob Ross groan, were he still alive. ~ Ryan C Thomas, #NFDB
141:Saddam Hussein didn't kill 3,100 people on Sept. 11. Osama bin Laden did, and as far as we know he's still alive. ~ William J Clinton, #NFDB
142:Saints and sages are still alive. Great masters are still operating. It is up to you to find where they are. ~ Krishnananda Saraswati, #NFDB
143:Ali was the natural choice as he was the most respected Companion still alive and was related to Prophet in two ways ~ Firas Alkhateeb, #NFDB
144:All people go to God after their death, but the happy person is the one who goes to God while still alive." Sayyid Qutb . ~ Sayed Qutb, #NFDB
145:Goodbye
If you are still alive when you read this,
close your eyes. I am
under their lids, growing black.
~ Bill Knott,#NFDB
146:To be aware that you are still alive, that you are walking on this beautiful planet—that is a form of enlightenment. ~ Thich Nhat Hanh, #NFDB
147:You make me want to stab you.” “I have that effect on many people.” “How is it you’re still alive?” “I’m hard to kill. ~ Ilona Andrews, #NFDB
148:As a housewife, I feel that if the kids are still alive when my husband gets home from work, then hey, I've done my job. ~ Roseanne Barr, #NFDB
149:Murder HQ—and maybe Claudia Grey, if she was even still alive—could be anywhere from here to Logan, two hundred miles north. ~ Saul Black, #NFDB
150:My plan was just... you know - go to that address, kick ass and take your brothers back."
"How are you two still alive? ~ Liz de Jager,#NFDB
151:And I will go on kissing you till you are strong and gay and happy — and if they haven't died, they are still alive today. ~ Sigmund Freud, #NFDB
152:It’s almost as if the dead have no value unless we know that someone they are related to is still alive and mourning them. ~ Ilona Andrews, #NFDB
153:Tea and water give each other life,' the Professor was saying. 'The tea is still alive. This tea has tea and water vitality. ~ Jason Goodwin, #NFDB
154:Watching your sadness is worse than dying. Do not die while you are still alive, my love. Do not fear to live and love again. ~ Kate Danley, #NFDB
155:I got the thrill of being alive, being on a stupid speck of a planet in the middle of an infinity of nothing, but still alive. ~ Lauren Oliver, #NFDB
156:On the subject of wild mushrooms, it is easy to tell who is an expert and who is not: The expert is the one who is still alive. ~ Donal Henahan, #NFDB
157:You make me want to stab you."
"I have that effect on many people."
"How is it you're still alive?"
"I'm hard to kill. ~ Ilona Andrews,#NFDB
158:God we must look so lame, but it doesn't much matter when you have just now realized, all the time later, that you are still alive. ~ John Green, #NFDB
159:So you think this is a trap then? the Count said. I think everything is a trap. which is why I am still alive. said the prince ~ William Goldman, #NFDB
160:Still as death, and Andrés felt as if it were up to him to make noise so that his sister would know they were still alive. ~ Benjamin Alire S enz, #NFDB
161:I’m writing my memoirs,” Obi announced. “And I’m going to update my online status from « It’s complicated » to « I’m still alive ». ~ Jack Campbell, #NFDB
162:The death of someone we know always reminds us that we are still alive - perhaps for some purpose which we ought to re-examine. ~ Mignon McLaughlin, #NFDB
163:You know," she says. "You're still alive. I don't know how many different ways I can try to tell you before it finally sinks in. ~ Courtney Summers, #NFDB
164:You kill me, Rose. Everyday is agony without you.Empty. Alone. I pine for you, wondering if you're even still alive. -Adrian to Rose ~ Richelle Mead, #NFDB
165:I think you forget that I'm still alive. It's like you don't expect me to keep on existing now that I'm not in your life every day. ~ Rachel Higginson, #NFDB
166:It was sad music. But it waved its sadness like a battle flag. It said the universe had done all it could, but you were still alive. ~ Terry Pratchett, #NFDB
167:The next time you think that there's something that you "can't live without", wait for a week and then see if you're still alive or not ~ Guy Kawasaki, #NFDB
168:When he lifts his arm to wrap around me, "I can finally make out the words of his tattoo:
pain is a reminder
you're still alive ~ E K Blair,#NFDB
169:You know, I can't stop thinking about you.
Oh really? Why you so obsessed about me?
Because..you're so full of shit yet still alive. ~ Toba Beta,#NFDB
170:He had long been indifferent to which side won; he wished only that one or the other would do so decisively while he was still alive. ~ Elizabeth Speller, #NFDB
171:When the love of your life dies, the problem is not that some part of you dies too, which it does, but that some part of you is still alive. ~ Jackie Kay, #NFDB
172:Dad, I don't know why I'm still alive...
Because God took pity on me, Kimberly. Because without you, I think I would've gone insane. ~ Lisa Gardner,#NFDB
173:Tell them I've two spare rooms here. It might not be as grand as the Bloxham, but everybody's still alive when they wake up in the morning. ~ Sophie Hannah, #NFDB
174:If you play a real character who's famous and still alive, it makes things easier if you have the luck to have a good relationship with them. ~ Daniel Bruhl, #NFDB
175:Sometimes, feeling the pain makes us remember that we're still alive. Sometimes, those things that hurt are also the things we treasure most, ~ Auryn Hadley, #NFDB
176:The expression on her face was one the trooper would never forget: it was the look of someone still alive who realizes she's already dead ~ Alan Dean Foster, #NFDB
177:The youngster in me is still alive and kicking. I was infected by music at a very young age, so it's always kept me younger than springtime. ~ Charles Lloyd, #NFDB
178:I’m not some preternatural bad ass. The whole reason I’m still alive is because I read all the manuals, not because I have magic murder powers. ~ Elliott Kay, #NFDB
179:It is on this beautiful day that we celebrate the Fuhrers birthday and thank him for he is the only reason why Germany is still alive today ~ Joseph Goebbels, #NFDB
180:having a rough morning?
place your hand over your heart
feel that?thats call a purpose
you are still alive for a reson
so dont give up ~ Anonymous,#NFDB
181:And sometimes you held somebody’s hand just to prove that you were still alive, and that another human being was there to testify to that fact. ~ Rainbow Rowell, #NFDB
182:Because she was seventeen, and still alive, against thousands of years' worth of odds.Because she knew enough to fear what the future would bring. ~ Lauren Kate, #NFDB
183:Eating natural foods, in their uncooked condition, when the cells are still alive, will bring an enormous sense of health and vitality to the system. ~ Sadhguru, #NFDB
184:I needed the reminder that I’m still alive and the world still contains magic and wonder, like Christmas trees and kisses from beautiful women. ~ RaeAnne Thayne, #NFDB
185:The tragedy in life to mourn over is the death of what lies within a person who is still alive. The death of a potential is a mess of destiny! ~ Israelmore Ayivor, #NFDB
186:You kill me, Rose," he said melodramatically. "Every day is agony without you. Empty. Alone. I pine for you, wondering if you're even still alive. ~ Richelle Mead, #NFDB
187:Eight grown Americans out of ten dread the coming of the Fourth, with its pandemonium and its perils, and they rejoice when it is gone-if still alive. ~ Mark Twain, #NFDB
188:I would switch roles with Madonna for a day. Or if Audrey Hepburn was still alive, Audrey Hepburn. I love Audrey Hepburn. She's one of my idols also. ~ Lindsay Lohan, #NFDB
189:Tahiti has been spoiled for many years, but Bali is one of the few cultures with origins in one of the great ancient cultures which is still alive. ~ Arthur Erickson, #NFDB
190:I'm still alive, and I don't lose sleep because I have done what I feel I needed to do, it was the right thing to do and I am not going to be afraid. ~ Edward Snowden, #NFDB
191:I need nothing but letters to live. Without them I would not exist.
Because these words I write down are the only proof I have that I’m still alive. ~ Tahereh Mafi,#NFDB
192:Naming a center after a person who is still alive can make it seem that an individual somehow on their own was able to accomplish what he accomplished. ~ Desmond Tutu, #NFDB
193:I am awake, I see the sun. I am going to give my gratitude to the sun and to everything and everyone because I am still alive. One more day to be myself. ~ Miguel Ruiz, #NFDB
194:I just wanted to sing, and I didn't want my music to be unique to the US. I wanted Africans to hear it and know that South African music was still alive. ~ Letta Mbulu, #NFDB
195:Some experience is helpful. "The Pianist" was a film that I could make with my eyes closed because I had lived it and everything was still alive in me. ~ Roman Polanski, #NFDB
196:The last time we met, he tortured me,” Ascanio said. He what? Could this get any worse? “You’re still alive,” Hugh said. “Clearly my heart wasn’t in it. ~ Ilona Andrews, #NFDB
197:Why is it we want so badly to memorialize ourselves? Even while we're still alive. We wish to assert our existence, like dogs peeing on fire hydrants. ~ Margaret Atwood, #NFDB
198:I must be so lucky, as I’d been using the boiler without the plastic ring for ages and me and Suzanne are still alive (I wish there was a sarcasm font). ~ Karl Pilkington, #NFDB
199:She was still real. She was still alive, She was as much a person as any other person; you're real, but not because of your body or because of your thoughts. ~ John Green, #NFDB
200:Shanti is already in the thick of it. She’s still alive, and from what I can tell, she’s fighting in the dirty, underhanded way only she could make glamorous. ~ K F Breene, #NFDB
201:Worrying about how you'll be remembered is pointless. Better to try to live your life in such a way that people will respect you while you're still alive. ~ Charles Cumming, #NFDB
202:You are the reality.
The sense of of worship, love, devotion and loyalty.
You are the purpose of life and existence.
That is why I am still alive. ~ M F Moonzajer,#NFDB
203:Coffins and coffins, enough for everyone on the shift, enough for everyone in Germany! The men are still alive, but they are already making their own coffins. ~ Hans Fallada, #NFDB
204:I am awake, I see the sun. I am going to give my gratitude to the sun and to everything and everyone because I am still alive. One more day to be myself. ~ Miguel Angel Ruiz, #NFDB
205:Long-term solutions are more attractive and cause much less controversy than short-term solutions, which will affect people who are still alive and voting. ~ George Friedman, #NFDB
206:Those who survived the San Francisco earthquake said, 'Thank God, I'm still alive.' But, of course, those who died, their lives will never be the same again. ~ Barbara Boxer, #NFDB
207:The Spanish PM rang me to say: 'I have the support of only 4 per cent of the people.' I said, 'Crikey, that's even less than think Elvis Presley is still alive.' ~ Tony Blair, #NFDB
208:As I get older... I start to realize that life ain't half bad. Each year, I'm amazed that I'm still alive. I don't take any of this for granted, I'm a lucky dude. ~ Dave Grohl, #NFDB
209:The obvious question: Was it better to die now or go on living ashamed of the fact that you were still alive? Why wasn't that on the SATs? Compare and constrast. ~ Jerry Stahl, #NFDB
210:Oshima told me people can't be in two places at once, but I think it's possible. In fact, I'm sure of it. While they're still alive, people can become ghosts. ~ Haruki Murakami, #NFDB
211:There's something very cool as an actor when you have an opportunity to play somebody who's real, whether they're still alive or not, but who has lived a life. ~ Dwayne Johnson, #NFDB
212:I'm more than the flesh and bone that defines me. More than the pain that consumes me and the madness radiating through me. I am a man. And I am still alive... ~ Christine Fonseca, #NFDB
213:All great music is contemporary. If it's still alive and kicking, then it's contemporary. If it fades away, it was a period piece. It had its moment, and that was it. ~ Steve Reich, #NFDB
214:He considered what he should do with the rest of his life. And he considered whether you ever found out if you had made the right decisions while you were still alive. It ~ Jo Nesb, #NFDB
215:You think this is a trap then?" the Count asked. "I always think everything is a trap until proven otherwise," the Prince answered. "Which is why I'm still alive. ~ William Goldman, #NFDB
216:If my parents were still alive, they would be very proud. They gave me a good start in life, the values that have driven me, and the confidence to believe in myself. ~ Alex Ferguson, #NFDB
217:I’m on his death list, too.” “Then why are you still alive?” asked Peter. “Because, contrary to widespread belief, Achilles is not a genius and he makes mistakes. ~ Orson Scott Card, #NFDB
218:I wanted to say goodbye to someone, and have someone say goodbye to me. The goodbyes we speak and the goodbyes we hear are the goodbyes that tell us we´re still alive. ~ Stephen King, #NFDB
219:How do you feel?" Lola asks.
"Like I've just had every single one of my organs harvested while I'm still alive."
"Good to know you're not overreacting," she says. ~ Cath Crowley,#NFDB
220:It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are still alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger for them. ~ George Eliot, #NFDB
221:You think this is a trap then?" the Count asked.
"I always think everything is a trap until proven otherwise," the Prince answered. "Which is why I'm still alive. ~ William Goldman,#NFDB
222:My mother phones daily to ask, "Did you just try to reach me?" When I reply no, she adds, "So, if you're not too busy, call me while I'm still alive," . . . and hangs up. ~ Erma Bombeck, #NFDB
223:You don't think you'll live past it and you don't really. The person you were is gone. But the half of you that's still alive wakes up one day and takes over again. ~ Barbara Kingsolver, #NFDB
224:Hold on,” Moms said, processing the information. “You’re saying he should have been dead based on your analysis, but he was still alive. And alive enough to attack us?” “Yes. ~ Bob Mayer, #NFDB
225:I can only hope she passed the message on, to someone still alive. The others are still out there, and they must be found. They must carry on, because I no longer can. ~ Victoria Aveyard, #NFDB
226:I guess I talk a lot of shit about Perry, but it's not like I'm such a shiny happy person either, you know? I'm a wreck too. I'm just ... still alive. A wreck in progress. ~ Isaac Marion, #NFDB
227:Paul the apostle recounted that Jesus appeared to more than 500 of His followers at one time, the majority of whom were still alive and who could confirm what Paul wrote. ~ Josh McDowell, #NFDB
228:This is your grave."
"Grave? You've got to be kidding. I'm still alive."
"Burying dead people isn't as much fun," Saeki said, feeling this was extremely obvious. ~ Otsuichi,#NFDB
229:Some people say it might be good for your career to die and then come back again. I have died many ways, car crashes, motorcycle crashes, etc. But, I am still alive. ~ Mark Paul Gosselaar, #NFDB
230:We crawled through time like roaches through the linings of walls, the neglected spaces and hours, foolishly happy that we were still alive even as we did everything to die. ~ Jesmyn Ward, #NFDB
231:And I am still alive-what though, my damnation is eternal. A man who deliberately mutilates himself is truly damned, is he not? I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am. ~ Arthur Rimbaud, #NFDB
232:He cared about the girl—maybe, partially, why not—but it was only because she was still alive. If she had been killed in the fight, would he have fussed over her empty body? ~ T L Shreffler, #NFDB
233:So we took out those 3 root canals when she had 3-6 months to live. And that was 6 years ago, and she is still alive today, and MRI can't find the tumour anymore. It went away. ~ Hal Huggins, #NFDB
234:What you have to know is that Marla is still alive. Marla's philosophy of life, she told me, is that she can die at any moment. The tragedy of her life is that she doesn't. ~ Chuck Palahniuk, #NFDB
235:Most cynics are really crushed romantics: they've been hurt, they're sensitive, and their cynicism is a shell that's protecting this tiny, dear part in them that's still alive. ~ Jeff Bridges, #NFDB
236:They were one flame made out of two people, with a love that had endured all the challenges and tragedies of life. But they were still standing, still alive, and still whole. ~ Danielle Steel, #NFDB
237:I wanted to be as authentic as possible because, first of all, Jean Shrimpton is still alive. And, she's interesting enough to be played accurately. I didn't need to add things. ~ Karen Gillan, #NFDB
238:I was up watching Meet Joe Black at four AM. I was hoping Brad Pitt would die, and he was still alive at seven forty in the morning! I actually felt sorry for once, for critics. ~ Rose McGowan, #NFDB
239:So… uh, you’re a Team Edward kind of guy?” He snorted. “No. I’m Team James or Team Tyler’s Van, but apparently neither of them won by the look of it. She’s still alive. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout, #NFDB
240:Afterward, there was that long, crowded pause in which everyone decides that although they are very shaken, and possibly upside down, they are, to their surprise, still alive. ~ Terry Pratchett, #NFDB
241:His mom lived in Long Island for ten years or so. God rest her soul. And, although, she's... wait... your mom's still... your mom's still alive. Your dad passed. God bless her soul. ~ Joe Biden, #NFDB
242:Man, I feel like hip-hop is - first of all, not even only with just GOOD Music, I gotta say - I think hip-hop is still alive in a strong way, man. I feel really enthused about hip-hop. ~ Common, #NFDB
243:The boundaries of my world had shrunk, but I was still alive, and as long as I could go on breathing and farting and thinking my thoughts, what difference did it make where I was? ~ Paul Auster, #NFDB
244:The nature of the love between a parent and child really is literally stronger than death. As long as either person in that relationship is alive, that relationship is still alive. ~ John Green, #NFDB
245:And when is it necessary to kill, she asked herself as she headed in the direction of the hallway, and she herself answered the question, When what is still alive is already dead. ~ Jos Saramago, #NFDB
246:I am living proof that the American dream still exists. It is still alive and well. There is only one trick, you have to be willing to roll up your sleeves and work very, very hard. ~ Paula Deen, #NFDB
247:After sex, after coffee, after everything there is to be said --
The hovering and beautiful alphabet as we form our first words after making love.
And somehow I'm still alive. ~ Carole Maso,#NFDB
248:I couldn’t believe this guy was still alive. A field mouse would most likely send him shrieking into the night. Bad example, that would probably send me shrieking into the night, too. ~ Mark Tufo, #NFDB
249:She is surprised that she is still alive in this moment, that she has survived meeting with these feelings, that she has not been engulfed and eaten alive by the enormity of the pain. ~ Sara Alexi, #NFDB
250:The battle against the Devil, which is the principal task of Saint Michael the Archangel, is still being fought today, because the Devil is still alive and active in the world. ~ Pope John Paul II, #NFDB
251:So...uh, you're a Team Edward kind of guy?'
He snorted. 'No. I'm Team James or Team Tyler's Van, but apparently neither of them won by the look of it. She's still alive. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,#NFDB
252:Admittedly, it is really our duty, as artists, to hold up a mirror to our own era; but, on the other hand, these works have lives of their own, and they're still alive today. ~ Dietrich Fischer Dieskau, #NFDB
253:I shot him in the knees. Both of them. But he should be still alive.”
All eyes turned in the direction of the villain.
Beckett’s flashed with anger.
“I’ll find out,” he said. ~ Debra Anastasia,#NFDB
254:Getting older, I realize I've had a very fortunate life. I've had a budget that's allowed me to do just about any silly little thing the mind could conjure up, and I'm still alive and here. ~ Rick Danko, #NFDB
255:I forced myself to admit that this was just another prison, and he was just another puppeteer, but at least, I was still alive. I would survive. Because that was what I was born to do. ~ Pepper Winters, #NFDB
256:I still hope to rescue my remaining children. It is a terrible curse to not even know if they are still alive. But I believe they are. I have to believe so; otherwise, I couldn’t go on. ~ Masaji Ishikawa, #NFDB
257:There was a great sense of community mainly among the women artists at the time because we felt left out. I still know most of the women that I knew then, the ones that are still alive. ~ Michelle Stuart, #NFDB
258:Whatever secrets the dead take with them, they should be allowed to keep. That's my new philosophy. Or put another way: the time to properly know someone is when he, or she, is still alive. ~ David Maine, #NFDB
259:Back when I was young and still alive there were almost too many gods. You could see them ripple in the water before the lake's ice melted in April, the loons and curlews giving them voice. ~ Jim Harrison, #NFDB
260:How do you feel Yossarian?"
"Fine. No, I'm very frightened."
"That's good," said Major Danby. "It proves you're still alive. It won't be fun."
Yossarian started out. "Yes it will. ~ Joseph Heller,#NFDB
261:He felt joy because he had felt this despair and deep disgust and had not succumbed to it; he laughed because the bird, that joyful source and the voice within him, was still alive after all. ~ Hermann Hesse, #NFDB
262:All the people we loved, who have died, are still alive in the past. The only thing that really separates us is time. It's a matter of perspective. That's what separates optimism and pessimism. ~ Diana Palmer, #NFDB
263:But at least when she has the beast in her she can see me. She can hear me. When she’s my mother I’m a ghost to her. Like my father, and my brother, except I’m still alive. I’m still here. ~ Melinda Salisbury, #NFDB
264:exterminating more than six billion souls. The million or so who were still alive were somehow immune, but they were carriers. As for the virus itself, it became known simply as the China Pandemic. ~ A R Shaw, #NFDB
265:So Connor stands there with secret anticipation each time there's a group of new arrivals, hoping beyond hope he'll find that self-righteous, self-important, pain-in-the-ass Lev still alive. ~ Neal Shusterman, #NFDB
266:Also, I suppose I wanted to say goodbye to someone, and have someone say goodbye to me. The goodbyes we speak and the goodbyes we hear are the goodbyes that tell us we're still alive, after all. ~ Stephen King, #NFDB
267:These things you did were like prayers; you did them and you hoped they would save you. And for the most part they did. Or something did; you could tell by the fact that you were still alive. ~ Margaret Atwood, #NFDB
268:Do not fear to live and love again, for watching your sadness was worse than death. Do not die while you are still alive, my love. I shall be waiting for you," he said. "Live and love for me... ~ Kate Danley, #NFDB
269:It's different to miss somebody when they're still alive. When they die it's like, 'Okay, I'm sad.' You're supposed to be sad. When they just go away, when they disappear, that's a different thing. ~ Jerry Stahl, #NFDB
270:Objects exist and if one pays more attention to them than to people, it is precisely because they exist more than the people. Dead objects are still alive. Living people are often already dead. ~ Jean Luc Godard, #NFDB
271:The human heart beats approximately 4,000 times per hour and each pulse, each throb, each palpitation is a trophy engraved with the words ‘you are still alive.’ You are still alive. Act like it. ~ Rudy Francisco, #NFDB
272:What could never be endured, it turned out, was the last swathe of time before sleep came, the path from larger day to huger night, a little death when the mind was still alive and fluttering. Thus ~ Martin Amis, #NFDB
273:Do you think there's such a thing as a ghost who masquerades as a person? Do you believe that there are people whose bodies are still alive here on earth but whose souls are already in hell? ~ Ann Marie MacDonald, #NFDB
274:I wish Howard Ashman was still alive so I could just meet him and tell him his words are magic. It's so fun to say. He has such great alliteration and paints the most vivid images with his lyrics ~ Tituss Burgess, #NFDB
275:Comedy is still alive, and there are still funny people. Jews are still overrepresented in comedy and psychiatry and underrepresented in the priesthood. That immigrant Jewish humor is still with us. ~ Robert Klein, #NFDB
276:He even learned to crave the pain. It meant he was still alive, still surviving. If he could handle the pain, control his reaction to it, make it work for him instead of against him, then he was free ~ C J Roberts, #NFDB
277:I laugh, and it's laughter, not light, that casts out the darkness building within me, that reminds me I am still alive, even in this strange place where everything I've ever known is coming apart. ~ Veronica Roth, #NFDB
278:So if she was still alive after everything, what was she living for? To be terrified of life outside her front door? To hide behind a computer screen and miss out on the best gifts she’d been given? ~ Lenora Worth, #NFDB
279:Who I believed myself to be was a hopeless case. I would wake up in the mornings and notice I was still alive and breathing and hate God, hate myself, hate life, and contemplate ways of killing myself. ~ Byron Katie, #NFDB
280:Yet she was still alive and she was here. Looking at herself in the mirror. And for the first time in her life, she respected what she saw. Bowing to her reflection, she said softly, “Pleased to meet you. ~ J R Ward, #NFDB
281:You fall in love with it a little. Depression. It’s an abusive romance. It hurts like hell but you don’t want it to stop, because at least hurt is a feeling. At least it reminds you you’re still alive. ~ Leah Raeder, #NFDB
282:It's still alive, the stubborn little thing. What shall we do with it?
Strangle it. We]ll register it as a stillbirth. Don't wipe its face. Illegal babies aren't entitled to have their mucus removed. ~ Ma Jian,#NFDB
283:I know he’s right; so much has changed, while at the same time, whatever we had so many years ago is still alive, like a living, breathing thing. It had changed with time, but is still familiar. ~ Aurora Rose Reynolds, #NFDB
284:I thought of inviting you to my other club but you know how it is. Lunching there is a useful way of reminding people that you're still alive, but the members will come up and congratulate you on the fact. ~ P D James, #NFDB
285:The walls inside were charred from some ancient fire, blackened and lichened and weathered hard, smelling faintly of a smoke so old there may be no one still alive who could possibly remember the flame. ~ Jean Hegland, #NFDB
286:A bird awoke in his chest, and it cautiously spread its wings, amazed to find that it was still alive. It wanted out. It wanted to burst from his chest, taking his heart with it, and soar up into the sky. ~ Nina George, #NFDB
287:If you think about your and my grandchildren, this is what really worries me. I don't want them - if I'm still alive by then - to say, 'Why didn't you do something about it?', when you could have done. ~ Prince Charles, #NFDB
288:I realized it in waves and we held on to each other crying and I thought, God we must look so lame, but it doesn't matter much when you have just now realized, all the time later, that you are still alive. ~ John Green, #NFDB
289:Flattered as I am that you count me among the beautiful people, Barrons, allow me to point out that I’m still alive. I encountered the Gray Man and I’m still here, just as pretty as always, dickhead. ~ Karen Marie Moning, #NFDB
290:You should be dead," he said, his voice full of wonder. "How is it that you're still alive?" Jaw clenched, I worked at his grip on me, trying to get my fingers between him and my wrist. "I work hard at it. ~ Kim Harrison, #NFDB
291:Hope abides; therefore I abide. Countless frustrations have not cowed me. I am still alive, vibrant with life. The black cloud will disappear, The morning sun will appear once again In all its supernal glory. ~ Sri Chinmoy, #NFDB
292:Imagine if [Juliet] woke up and he was still alive, but..." She swallowed, waiting out a tremor in her voice. "But [Romeo] had killed her whole family. And burned her city. And killed and enslaved her people. ~ Laini Taylor, #NFDB
293:And as I pondered this in my pork-induced demi-doze, a soft and sibilant voice that had not been fed and so was not at all sleepy whispered one sly question in my inner ear: Was she still alive when he did it? ~ Jeff Lindsay, #NFDB
294:What were you supposed to do, talking to a hologram of a dead man, when a younger version of that man was still alive? Should you offer condolences?
Jordan decided that really wasn't necessary. ~ Margaret Peterson Haddix,#NFDB
295:You have such a big responsibility. This person is still alive. You would think that they think highly of themselves and their accomplishments and what they've done. You can only hope to bring justice to that. ~ Stephan James, #NFDB
296:You can run but you can't hide... but I can try. I feel air catch in my lungs and I get a cramp in my side and this pain, this wonderful physical pain that I can place, reminds me that after all I am still alive. ~ Jodi Picoult, #NFDB
297:For reasons of national security and out of consideration for some people still alive I have omitted certain material. Some of this material cannot be made available for many years, perhaps for many generations. ~ Harry S Truman, #NFDB
298:You should be dead," he said, his voice full of wonder. "How is it that you're still alive?"
Jaw clenched, I worked at his grip on me, trying to get my fingers between him and my wrist. "I work hard at it. ~ Kim Harrison,#NFDB
299:David [Bowie] quietly tells me, ‘You know, I’ve had so much sex and drugs that I can’t believe I’m still alive,’ and I loudly tell him, ‘You know, I’ve had SO LITTLE sex and drugs that I can’t believe I’m still alive. ~ Morrissey, #NFDB
300:I consider myself one of the most fortunate of men, to have lived at a time when some of the old Haidas and their peers among the Northwest Coast peoples were still alive, and to have had the privilege of knowing them. ~ Bill Reid, #NFDB
301:If you exist tomorrow as you do today, that is a miracle! It means that thousands of bad things which may happen did not happen and you are still alive! Existence is always a miracle in this universe of chaos! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan, #NFDB
302:We have demolished the credibility of the gods and rubbed out their old names, but the psychic factors to which those names point are still alive. The gods are far from dead, they are merely hidden from our awareness. ~ David Tacey, #NFDB
303:One girl, actually, in the UK — it was a really small show in Wales — a girl came up to me and said that because of one of my songs she was still alive. She’d decided not to commit suicide. It was a really emotional moment. ~ Lights, #NFDB
304:You kept your cool. You waited for your opportunity. You pretended to the point of acceptance and trust. You’re risking your life right now to go back for that girl. You are innocent, And it’s why you’re still alive. ~ J A Redmerski, #NFDB
305:If your parents are still alive, call them today and ask them to describe the day you were born. Write the details down here, on the following pages. Tell the story every year on your birthday until you know it by heart. ~ Amy Poehler, #NFDB
306:Hope abides; therefore I abide.
Countless frustrations have not cowed me.
I am still alive, vibrant with life.
The black cloud will disappear,
The morning sun will appear once again
In all its supernal glory. ~ Sri Chinmoy,#NFDB
307:I’d always escaped into books, but now reading had become something more. It allowed me to be somewhere else, to feel something else, not just the numbness that overtook my body and made me wonder if I was still alive. ~ Demitria Lunetta, #NFDB
308:Vinyl is the real deal. I've always felt like, until you buy the vinyl record, you don't really own the album. And it's not just me or a little pet thing or some kind of retro romantic thing from the past. It is still alive. ~ Jack White, #NFDB
309:I would not be happy if I could not become a monk. They call it the beginner's mind - the deep intention, the deepest desire that a person may have. And I can say that until this day, this beginner's mind is still alive in me. ~ Nhat Hanh, #NFDB
310:…the longer I think about it the more it seems to me that we who are still alive are unreal in the eyes of the dead, that only occasionally, in certain lights and atmospheric conditions, do we appear in their field of vision. ~ W G Sebald, #NFDB
311:Things come up in life and we don't feel like we can ever live through them, but if we're still alive afterwards, we get through it. It's that thing where what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I think that's beautiful. ~ Austin Butler, #NFDB
312:George Jean Nathan, the critic and editor. Nathan, according to the Earthling concept of time, had died back in 1958. According to the Tralfamadorian concept, of course, Nathan was still alive somewhere and always would be. ~ Kurt Vonnegut, #NFDB
313:It makes us feel and see things in ways that normal people don’t. You don’t question it or try to understand it. You just accept it for the gift it is. So if she believes he’s still alive, give her the benefit of the doubt. ~ Ednah Walters, #NFDB
314:I've managed to bring the backlog down to a mere sixty-eight years," she announced with some small sense of achievement. "I hope to be able to start marking the papers of pupils who are still alive by the end of the decade. ~ Jasper Fforde, #NFDB
315:No one has proved to me that my husband isn’t still alive somewhere in Southeast Asia. So, as far as I’m concerned, if even one man is alive, we own him more than this – than presuming him dead for the sake of tidying paperwork. ~ A S King, #NFDB
316:Tea and water give each oter life,' the Professor was saying. 'The tea is still alive. This tea has tea and water virality,' he added. '... Afterwards, the taste still happens... It rises like velvet... It is a performance. ~ Jason Goodwin, #NFDB
317:One of the gravestones in the cemetery near the earliest church has an anchor on it and an hourglass, and the words In Hope. In Hope. Why did they put that above a dead person? Was it the corpse hoping, or those still alive? ~ Margaret Atwood, #NFDB
318:The new system of sending down a small group of families was the easiest solution. If they were still alive when the other ships got there, it was assumed safe. If they weren’t, the planet was X-ed from the habitable planet list. ~ K B Wagers, #NFDB
319:Feeling attractive didn't come until I was 29... What is it about a woman being in her late 30s that brings out the "Oh, my gosh, are you worried?" questions? Worried? What about? Thirty-eight, 39, 40, 50! Great! Still alive! ~ Kate Beckinsale, #NFDB
320:I know you’ve done that. I watched you fight with that man and stab him, but what does it feel like? Not just stabbing, but killing someone.”
“Feels good. Feels like you’re still alive and your enemy is dead.” - Cage Match ~ Bonnie Dee,#NFDB
321:I think there's something about the impermanence of life these days that makes it necessary to etch ink into our skin" he says. "It reminds us that we've been marked by the world, that we;re still alive. That we'll never forget. ~ Tahereh Mafi, #NFDB
322:But, miraculously, something of her former life remained, her last link to the person she had been before she had become so utterly alone. A part of Tariq still alive inside her, sprouting tiny arms, growing translucent hands. ~ Khaled Hosseini, #NFDB
323:It occurs to me that even though Zoya and I are both still alive, my life is already over. She will be taken from me soon and there will be no reason for me to continue without her. We are one person, you see. We are GeorgyandZoya. ~ John Boyne, #NFDB
324:And I declared that the dead, who had already died, are happier than the living, who are still alive. But better than both is the one who has never been born, who has not seen the evil that is done under the sun. (Ecclesiastes 4:2-3) ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
325:OJ Simpson was in a different kind of courtroom this week attempting to regain custody of his two children. In order to prove to the court how much he loves his kids, OJ pointed out quote 'Hey, they're still alive, aren't they?' ~ Norm MacDonald, #NFDB
326:You’ve had three months of training, which is barely enough to get you in the Army, never mind the Nightstalkers. But you’ve already worked with the team. And you’re still alive, so that’s a pretty good test that you’ve passed. Twice. ~ Bob Mayer, #NFDB
327:But I thought you had already killed yourself. Oh, perhaps I read something wrong. Unfortunately, I've already sent some flowers to your mother."
"Yes, I know. Thank you very much. Um... so, it turns out that I'm still alive. ~ Kerstin Gier,#NFDB
328:That’s what I told myself – Well, you’re still alive. I think all of us said the same each morning when we woke up – Well, I’m still alive. But the truth is, we weren’t. What we were – it wasn’t dead, but it wasn’t alive either. ~ Mary Ann Shaffer, #NFDB
329:Even in the worst time of life, if you are still breathing, that means you are still alive. If you are still here, you haven't accomplished what is still to be accomplished. The most important part of your life is still ahead of you. ~ Andy Andrews, #NFDB
330:Otherwise, it would have been much easier to just shoot you and be done with it.” I disagreed. The fact that I was still alive after so many combat tours was a testament to exactly how hard it is to “just shoot me and be done with it. ~ Rachel Bach, #NFDB
331:I think if you knew them well enough, if you'd listened to them closely enough while they were still alive, you might be able to imagine what they would tell you even now. So the smart thing to do is, pay attention while they're living. ~ Anne Tyler, #NFDB
332:I was thinking, Ursula said . . . that the difference between a story and a painting or photograph is that in a story you can write, He's still alive. But in a painting or a photo you can't show 'still.' You can just show him being live. ~ Susan Sontag, #NFDB
333:Because I've died many deaths, mostly over you, and I'm still alive. Trying to have a relationship with you is like trying to rescue someone from Hades. Only a fool would keep going back to get a woman who fights him every step of the way. ~ Colleen Houck, #NFDB
334:The old memories were making him angry, boiling up inside of him. That was good. It meant he was still alive. Dead men couldn’t fight. Only living men, fuming at injustice and enraged at the loss of their fellows, fought, and won wars. “Cap’n, ~ Nick Webb, #NFDB
335:Part of it is, I think, just to let people know you've got a record out there and that you're still alive requires more work than it used to, because the traditional radio, bug chains of record stores, all of that, that doesn't exist anymore. ~ Steve Earle, #NFDB
336:An old, old formula came to mind, from back when I was very young indeed. “I am a soldier.” I said it first in the language I had spoken then, then repeated myself in Sleepy’s own Dejagoran dialect. “I’ve been distracted before. I’m still alive. ~ Glen Cook, #NFDB
337:How do you forget something? You just walk away from it, those who are still alive. There are so few clearings in our hearts and minds, so few places where something can't grow on top of whatever happened to us before, and this is love too. ~ Daniel Handler, #NFDB
338:In the end, only Leif believed that you were still alive. He thought you might be hiding somewhere, playing a game. As the rest of us grieved, Leif searched the jungle for you day after day.” “When did he finally stop?” I asked. “Yesterday. ~ Maria V Snyder, #NFDB
339:To honor with hymns and panegyrics those who are still alive is not safe; a man should run his course and make a fair ending, and then we will praise him; and let praise be given equally to women as well as men who have been distinguished in virtue. ~ Plato, #NFDB
340:[Aristotle] was the most eminent of all the pupils of Plato.... He seceded from Plato while he was still alive; so that they tell a story that [Plato] said, " Aristotle has kicked us off, just as chickens do their mother after they have been hatched. ~ Plato, #NFDB
341:How do you forget something? You just walk away from it, those who are still alive. There are so few clearings in our hearts and minds, so few places where something can't grow on top of whatever happened to us before, and this is love too. ~ Daniel Handler, #NFDB
342:I slipped into a state beyond my usual grief and restlessness and anxiety and despair – one of not feeling anything at all. And when I felt nothing I almost became nostalgic for the grief; at least when you felt pain you knew you were still alive. ~ Matt Haig, #NFDB
343:If you put a real leaf and a silk leaf side by side, youll see something of the difference between Homers poetry and anyone elses. There seem to be real leaves still alive in the Iliad, real animals, real people, real light attending everything. ~ Alice Oswald, #NFDB
344:It's okay to have impossible goals, because if you follow your unreachable star no matter how hopeless or far, your heart will be peaceful when you're dead, even though you might be scorned and covered with scars like I am while you're still alive. ~ Ruth Ozeki, #NFDB
345:In the end, only Leif believed that you were still alive. He thought you might be hiding somewhere, playing a game. As the rest of us grieved, Leif searched the jungle for you day after day.”
“When did he finally stop?” I asked.
“Yesterday. ~ Maria V Snyder,#NFDB
346:In reality there is perhaps no one of our natural Passions so hard to subdue as Pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive, and will now and then peek out and show itself. ~ Benjamin Franklin, #NFDB
347:Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance. ~ Viktor E Frankl, #NFDB
348:Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in its spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance. ~ Viktor E Frankl, #NFDB
349:I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realized, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life. ~ J K Rowling, #NFDB
350:"Natural" man is always there, under the changeable historical man. We call him and he comes-a little sleepy, benumbed, without his lost form of instinctive hunter, but, after all, still alive. Natural man is first prehistoric man-the hunter. ~ Jose Ortega y Gasset, #NFDB
351:I hate to say this, but not everyone seems happy that you’re still alive,” Finn said, picking up on the glares coming my way.
“You can’t please everyone,” I drawled. “And you know how much I hate to disappoint our dear friends in the underworld. ~ Jennifer Estep,#NFDB
352:Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance. I ~ Viktor E Frankl, #NFDB
353:In general, writers never find out how strong their talent is: that investigation begins with their obituaries. In the USSR, writers found out how good they were when they were still alive. If the talent was strong, only luck or silence could save them. ~ Martin Amis, #NFDB
354:Is that what you think this is about? Your letting me die? I don't know what clouds your judgement worse. Your guilt or your antiquated sense of morality. Bruce, I forgive you for not saving me. But why... Why on God's earth--??!
Is he still alive!!?? ~ Judd Winick,#NFDB
355:I allow her to pull away. “You gave them an entire continent.”
“I did.”
“You’re going to lose the respect of your people.” I capture her hand.
Still alive. It’s going to take several minutes to believe it.
“And you’ll win it back for me. ~ Laura Thalassa,#NFDB
356:And as the ax bites into the wood, be comforted in the fact that the ache in your heart and the confusion in your soul means that you are still alive, still human, and still open to the beauty of the world, even though you have done nothing to deserve it. ~ Paul Harding, #NFDB
357:Cats in Vietnam are also on the back paw. In January the police seized three tons of them (see picture) as they were being smuggled from China to fill soup pots in Hanoi, the Vietnamese capital. The authorities buried them, even though some were still alive. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
358:And as the ax bites into the wood, be comforted in the fact that the ache in your heart and the confusion in your souls means that you are still alive, still human, and still open to the beauty of the world, even though you have done nothing to deserve it. ~ Paul Harding, #NFDB
359:We carry with us the weight of the past, and because we do not have a finely developed sense of history and historicism, it is a past that is still alive in our present. We wear the dust of history on our foreheads, and the mud of the future on our feet. ~ Shashi Tharoor, #NFDB
360:I just couldn't go there yet. Settle for less. I didn't want to process through anything. I didn't want to pick up any pieces. Lower my expectations. Get on with my less-than life. I didn't want to feel better about being still alive. Start compensating. ~ Chuck Palahniuk, #NFDB
361:In reality, there is, perhaps, no one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive, and will every now and then peep out and show itself; ~ Benjamin Franklin, #NFDB
362:Ultimately, we have to ask ourselves an essential spiritual and ethical question: Are we the kind of people who take everything for ourselves and leave nothing for others, or do the angels of our better nature still live? I believe the angels are still alive. ~ James Balog, #NFDB
363:A great artist can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is ... and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be ... more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo see that this lovely young girl is still alive ~ Robert A Heinlein, #NFDB
364:It goes on, he thought. The internecine hate. Perhaps the seeds are there, in that. They will eat one another at last, and leave the rest of us here and there in the world, still alive. Still enough of us once more to build and hope and make a few simple plans. ~ Philip K Dick, #NFDB
365:Prince's First Posthumous Tweet:
“when u go on social media today please make sure to make my death all about u k thanks”
(Retweeted from Bowie who retweeted from Lemmy who retweeted from Michael Jackson who is actually still alive and on Twitter) ~ Arthur Graham,#NFDB
366:She had to do something. Anything. She had to focus, think, fight. She wasn’t anybody’s point to prove. She was fucking Batgirl. Her body was broken and her mind jagged and fractured by trauma, but she was still alive, and she wasn’t going down without a fight. ~ Christa Faust, #NFDB
367:There is perhaps no one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as pride. Beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive. Even if I could conceive that I had completely overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility. ~ Benjamin Franklin, #NFDB
368:You were alive for such a short time and then you went back into the great silence. The only ones who didn't vanish were the artists. While you were reading their words and looking at their pictures they were still alive, and you shared some of their life too. ~ Kate Grenville, #NFDB
369:My mind twirls with mysteries. The eternities. Life. Death. I can't stop it. It's like staring in the mirror for too long or saying your name too many times and becoming disconnected from any sense of yourself. I begin to wonder if I'm even still alive; if I exist. ~ Jeff Zentner, #NFDB
370:Or maybe his reclusiveness was a decisive marketing strategy-if you disappear, people are more interested in your work. You become a legend while you're still alive. Crouching behind a stonewall, or the post under a house...people are kneeling down to find you. ~ Naomi Shihab Nye, #NFDB
371:Smile, beautiful girl,” said a stranger passing. “We are still alive! There is still hope!” She snatched the air from his lungs and drove him to his knees. “Smile,” she commanded as his eyes watered and his face turned red. “Smile for me. Tell me again about hope. ~ Leigh Bardugo, #NFDB
372:Tattoos, for example, are very hard to forget. I think there's something about the impermanence of life these days that makes it necessary to etch ink into our skins. It reminds us that we've been marked by the world, that we're still alive. That we'll never forget. ~ Tahereh Mafi, #NFDB
373:They told me you’d died! If I’d known you were still alive, I would have found you! I would have protected you!” She felt the shudder as his emotions rocked his body, and she held him close, trying to ease the pain he was feeling. She wrapped her arms around ~ Elizabeth Lennox, #NFDB
374:He's irritating." He stood and started to pull up the hem of his shirt. "And he stabbed me."
Alex rolled his eyes. "And you're still alive. Time to get over it."
Kale held his hand out to Ginger. "Fine. Give me something sharp. If I stab him, then we'll be even. ~ Jus Accardo,#NFDB
375:I read the first chapter of A Brief History of Time when Dad was still alive, and I got incredibly heavy boots about how relatively insignificant life is, and how, compared to the universe and compared to time, it didn't even matter if I existed at all. ~ Jonathan Safran Foer, #NFDB
376:The last girl I had this strong of a pull toward was my high school girlfriend. I loved Tanya with everything I was, and if she were still alive, she and I would be married. I know that in the depths of my soul. She was taken too soon, leaving me unable to move on. ~ Corinne Michaels, #NFDB
377:In a few Zen monasteries, every monk has to start his morning with laughter, and has to end his night with laughter - the first thing and the last thing! You try it. . . For no reason! Because there is no reason. Simply, you are again there, still alive - it is a miracle! ~ Rajneesh, #NFDB
378:They had taken to the movement unlike anything he had ever seen, and he thought that should this venture of the Jews prove successful, the new state would be filled with dancers and musicians, but especially dancers, for dancing like nothing else says: I am still alive. ~ Mark Helprin, #NFDB
379:Alexis was now accustomed to his uncle’s fatal disease as we are to all things that last around us; and because he had once made his nephew cry as the dead make us cry, the boy, even though his uncle was still alive, treated him like a dead man: he had begun to forget him. ~ Marcel Proust, #NFDB
380:...the art of being empty
is simple
believe them when they say
you are nothing
repeat it to yourself
like a wish
I am nothing
I am nothing
I am nothing
so often
the only reason you know
you're still alive is from the
heaving of your chest ~ Rupi Kaur,#NFDB
381:How did you learn that he was still alive?"
"I came to London," Sophia replied, "to take revenge on the magistrate who had sentenced him to the prison hulk. I blamed him for my brother's death. But to my dismay, I soon found myself falling in love with him."
"Sir Ross? ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
382:Strife and Confusion joined the fight, along with cruel Death, who seized one wounded man while still alive and then another man without a wound, while pulling the feet of one more corpse out from the fight. The clothes Death wore around her shoulders were dyed red with human blood. ~ Homer, #NFDB
383:The fact that we once knew each other in Fifth Ward, Houston, Texas, and that we were both still alive and ambulatory, was a miracle in itself. Where we came from he’s dead was as common a phrase as he’s sick or he’s saved. People died in our world with appalling regularity. ~ Walter Mosley, #NFDB
384:What is your advice to young writers?"
"Drink, fuck and smoke plenty of cigarettes."
"What is your advice to older writers?"
"If you're still alive, you don't need any advice."
"What is the impulse that makes you create a poem?"
"What makes you take a shit? ~ Charles Bukowski,#NFDB
385:If you told me eight years ago that I would be sitting here on my wedding day, Stryder married to the girl I once thought was my forever, Hardie a father to Joey’s baby, and all my boys still alive after the multiple tours we’ve been through, I would have thought you were crazy. ~ Meghan Quinn, #NFDB
386:In order to progress, modern society should be treating ruined entrepreneurs in the same way we honor dead soldiers, perhaps not with as much honor, but using exactly the same logic (the entrepreneur is still alive, though perhaps morally broken and socially stigmatized, ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb, #NFDB
387:My foes have missed their mark in this shooting at me: I am not the man: I wish that they themselves be guiltless. If all the fornicators and adulterers in England were hanged up by the neck till they be dead, John Bunyan, the object of their envy, would be still alive and well. ~ John Bunyan, #NFDB
388:The power of thought, in the long run, is greater than any other human power. Those who have the ability to think, and the imagination to think in accordance with men’s needs, are likely to achieve the good they aim at sooner or later, though probably not while they are still alive. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
389:This is really a crazy idea, you know. It probably won't work, but that will be interesting, too. You have to motivate yourself with challenges. That's how you know you're still alive. Once you start doing only what you've already proven you can do, you're on the road to death. ~ Jerry Seinfeld, #NFDB
390:Whether Neil left today or tomorrow or next week, he'd leave alone. Two, five, ten years from now, if Neil was even still alive, he'd still be alone. He could be anyone, anywhere in the world, but he'd be alone until the day he died. He'd never trust anyone enough to let them in. ~ Nora Sakavic, #NFDB
391:A Hood-damned Seguleh. High ranked, too. We’d never have got our shots off – no way. Our heads would have rolled like a pair of oversized snowballs. ‘I looked away, Fid. I looked right down at the ground when she turned my way.’ ‘Me too.’ ‘And that’s why we’re still alive.’ ‘Aye. ~ Steven Erikson, #NFDB
392:With that, Millie closed her eyes, kept them closed a good long moment, whispered an "Amen," then opened her eyes.
"Were you just...praying?" Everett asked.
"I always pray before I proceed with a life-threatening situations."
"Does it help?"
"I'm still alive, aren't I? ~ Jen Turano,#NFDB
393:And Bear absolutely refused to eat humans while they were still alive, with the feeble excuse that when they weren’t dead they made too much noise and moved around too much. To Yaga, that was just another proof of Bear’s laziness. Godhood was assigned to the most unworthy people. ~ Orson Scott Card, #NFDB
394:Nothing has any value but money. Money. But in point of fact money has no value; the greatest possible enjoyment has to be squeezed out of it moment by moment. Why save oneself up for tomorrow? Who knows where the dollar will stand, who knows whether we shall be still alive tomorrow? ~ Hans Fallada, #NFDB
395:mainly thinking, well,
I'm still alive
and have the ability to expel wastes from my body
and poems.
and as long as that's happening
I have the ability to handle
betrayal
loneliness
hangnail
clap
and the economic reports in the
financial section. ~ Charles Bukowski,#NFDB
396:Do you know what it means to be that beautiful & still hunted & still alive?
Who knows this story but the elephants & the trees?
Who says the grace of a black man in motion is not perfect
as a tusk in the sun or a single leaf taking its sweet time to the ground? ~ Danez Smith,#NFDB
397:And your mother…” I said. He smiled suddenly, and I had to blink a few times to ground myself. “Still alive. Ordering me around. She’s the real ruler of the bears, I just give the final order. They all adore her.” He loved his mother too. Of course he did. Was there anything wrong with him? ~ Jaymin Eve, #NFDB
398:Mosquito [...] had asked Ear to marry him, whereupon Ear fell on the floor in uncontrollable laughter. "How much longer do you think you will live?" she asked. "You are already a skeleton." Mosquito went away humiliated, and any time he passed her way he told Ear that he was still alive. ~ Chinua Achebe, #NFDB
399:The future is all possibilities, but the past is set in stone. All those ghosts of ourselves, our youth, still alive inside us, but out of our reach forever. We meet them when we close our eyes, when we let our memories come alive. But that’s all they are. Memories. No more real than a dream. ~ Wendy Mass, #NFDB
400:Glenn used to say the reason you can't really imagine yourself being dead was that as soon as you say, 'I'll be dead,' you've said the word I, and so you're still alive inside the sentence. And that's how people got the idea of the immortality of the soul - it was a consequence of grammar. ~ Margaret Atwood, #NFDB
401:Hey, nice landing!" Addie called, and I turned to see her standing next to her shuttle, grinning.
I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. "They're all still alive!"
"Sort of a low bar you set for yourself, huh?" Beth asked, playfully punching my shoulder as I helped her out of the shuttle. ~ Amy Tintera,#NFDB
402:What will you do with your self? Many men and women are still in darkness, trying to figure out the meaning and purpose of life. But no matter what you try to do with your self— whether you deny it, obliterate it, annihilate it, accept it or express it—believe me, it is still alive and kicking. ~ K P Yohannan, #NFDB
403:You'll live astride the line that separates life from death. You'll become experienced in the wisdom of grief. You won't wait until people die to grieve for them; you'll give them their grief while they are still alive, for then judgment falls away, and there remains only the miracle of being. ~ Rana Dasgupta, #NFDB
404:When Union litter-bearers climbed out of their trenches, four days after the assault, they found only two men still alive amongst the piles of stinking corpses. One burial party discovered a dead Yankee with a diary in his pocket, the last entry of which read: “June 3. Cold Harbor. I was killed. ~ Tony Horwitz, #NFDB
405:I knew only one thing—which I have learned well by now: Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It ɹnds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
406:Think about your favorite work and your creative heroes. What did they miss? What didn’t they make? What could’ve been made better? If they were still alive, what would they be making today? If all your favorite makers got together and collaborated, what would they make with you leading the crew? ~ Austin Kleon, #NFDB
407:I believe the American dream is still alive and that education and entrepreneurship together are its key enablers. Through the years I have observed the power of this combination when the two forces work in tandem. Together they lead to personal success, business success, and societal success. ~ Ralph de la Vega, #NFDB
408:I could be dead or something even more tragic could have happened, but by God's grace I am still alive. I was hooked on Crystal Meth for eight years and did it every single day, all day long. I honestly have no idea how my heart survived or how I didn't suffer multiple overdoses, I don't get it. ~ Christian Hosoi, #NFDB
409:Think about your favourite work and your creative heroes. What did they miss? What didn't they make? What could've been made better? If they were still alive, what would they be making today? If all your favourite makers got together and collaborated, what would they make with you leading the crew? ~ Austin Kleon, #NFDB
410:It’s not over if you’re still here,” Chronicler said. “It’s not a tragedy if you’re still alive.”
Bast nodded eagerly at this, looking back at Kvothe.
Kvothe looked at both of them for a moment, then smiled and chuckled low in his chest. “Oh,” he said fondly. “You’re both so young. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,#NFDB
411:One man carried his dead son. He thought the boy was still alive. The father was covered with his son's blood, and as he ran he kept saying, "I will get you to the hospital, my boy, everything will be fine." Perhaps it was necessary that he cling to false hopes, since they kept him running from harm. ~ Ishmael Beah, #NFDB
412:You start to die the moment you are born. The whole of life is cutting through the pack with death. So take it easy. Light a cigarette and be grateful you are still alive as you suck the smoke deep into your lungs. Your stars have already let you come quite a long way since you left your mother’s womb ~ Ian Fleming, #NFDB
413:In the future, you'll live astride the line separating life from death. You'll become experienced in the wisdom of grief. You won't wait until people die to grieve for them. You'll give them their grief while they are still alive, for then judgement falls away, and there remains the miracle of being. ~ Rana Dasgupta, #NFDB
414:Remember, never rely on one plan, Tal. Always have two or more in place when you undertake something perilous. If the first one fails, go to the second plan. If the second plan fails, go to the third.” “If the third plan fails, Your Grace?” Kaspar laughed. “Then run like hell if you’re still alive. ~ Raymond E Feist, #NFDB
415:The boy could see in his father's gaze a desire to be able, himself, to travel the world—a desire that was still alive, despite his father's having had to bury it, over dozens of years, under the burden of struggling for water to drink, food to eat, and the same place to sleep every night of his life. ~ Paulo Coelho, #NFDB
416:The boy could see in his father’s gaze a desire to be able, himself, to travel the world—a desire that was still alive, despite his father’s having had to bury it, over dozens of years, under the burden of struggling for water to drink, food to eat, and the same place to sleep every night of his life. ~ Paulo Coelho, #NFDB
417:{BURR}
Life doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints. It takes and it takes and it takes. And we keep living anyway. We rise and we fall and we break and we make our mistakes and if there's a reason I'm still alive when so many have died then I'm willing to--
wait for it. ~ Lin Manuel Miranda,#NFDB
418:I knew only one thing which I have learned well by now : love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. it find its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance. ~ Viktor E Frankl, #NFDB
419:Some conspiracy theorists thought the princess had survived and was still alive somewhere, waiting for the right time to reclaim her crown and end Levana’s rule of tyranny, but Cinder knew it was only desperation that fueled these rumors. After all, they’d found traces of the child’s flesh in the ashes. ~ Marissa Meyer, #NFDB
420:Every time people come at us with the intention of killing us, I close my eyes and wait for death. Even though I am still alive, I feel like each time I accept death, part of me dies. Very soon I will completely die and all that will be left is my empty body walking with you. It will be quieter than I am. ~ Ishmael Beah, #NFDB
421:When Allen Ginsberg was still alive, he was was an artist, but he was very local. He was just another wing-nut in the neighborhood and he was very accessible. You'd see him in Tompkins Square Park or in the local delicatessen, in one of the greasy spoon restaurants on First Avenue or a Chinese restaurant. ~ Eric Drooker, #NFDB
422:Every time people come at us with the intention of killing us, I close my eyes and wait for death. Even thought I am still alive, I feel like each time I accept death, part of me dies. Very soon I will completely die and all that will be left is my empty body walking with you. It will be quieter than I am. ~ Ishmael Beah, #NFDB
423:Grandmother has pictures in her head, too, but her pictures are all confused, like someone has muddled the film up and she can't tell what happened in what order, so she thinks that dead people are still alive and she doesn't know whether something happened in real life or whether it happened on television. ~ Mark Haddon, #NFDB
424:Like punch through the brick wall he’d built around himself and give in to the sudden, desperate urges to touch, to taste, to feel. Krista Fucking Slater. Of all the women in the world, why was she the only one who managed to remind him he was still alive in a way no one had been able to in three long years? ~ Jami Alden, #NFDB
425:Miss Vera has become one of the cars you see by the roadside—abandoned,dented and bloody. A mystery that only we have the answer to. But I don't feel as sad as I expected at her loss: We're still alive, and for all her beauty she is, after all, just an artfully arranged collection of wood and metal. ~ Sarah Lyons Fleming, #NFDB
426:The medics generally see the worst of the worst. They see everything. They're working on their friends, and they're working on their enemy. The person that was just firing at them, trying to kill them, five minutes ago, if an Army medic stumbles upon him and he's still alive, he just goes to save his life. ~ Brendan Fehr, #NFDB
427:When the fighting is over you dig, if you're still alive. You dig graves for your dead comrades, A last mark of respect, however little you might have had for them. You dig as deep as you can bothered, you dump then in, you cover them up, they rot away and are forgotten. That's the way it's always been. ~ Joe Abercrombie, #NFDB
428:Fear keeps us focused on the past or worried about the future. If we can acknowledge our fear, we can realize that right now we are okay. Right now, today, we are still alive, and our bodies are working marvelously. Our eyes can still see the beautiful sky. Our ears can still hear the voices of our loved ones. ~ Nhat Hanh, #NFDB
429:There are millions of different species of animals and plants on earth--possibly as many as forty million. But somewhere between five and fifty BILLION species have existed at one time or another. Thus, only about one in a thousand species is still alive--a truly lousy survival record: 99.9 percent failure! ~ David M Raup, #NFDB
430:The storm lashes us, out of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the childlike cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans painfully into silence. Our hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain. We do not know whether we are still alive. ~ Erich Maria Remarque, #NFDB
431:It is just as much a matter of chance that I am still alive as that I might have been hit. In a bomb-proof dug-out I may be smashed to atoms and in the open may survive ten hour's bombardment unscratched. No soldier outlives a thousand chances. But every soldier believes in Chance and trusts his luck. ~ Erich Maria Remarque, #NFDB
432:You are dust, her eyes said. You are dirt. You are nothing. Why do you bother surviving? Why are you still alive?
I am the dust in your eyes was the answer in Hathin’s look. I am the dirt that will bury you. I am the nothingness waiting to open up under your feet. And I can hold on longer than you can. ~ Frances Hardinge,#NFDB
433:wasn’t love. She knew it couldn’t be love. But it was life, and she craved this knowledge that she was still alive. Still vibrant. Still a risk worth taking. With Micah she wasn’t a mom or a wife. She wasn’t the responsible one in the relationship. It wasn’t a relationship at all. It was just . . . this. ~ Victoria Helen Stone, #NFDB
434:We are Craiglockhart's success stories. Look at us. We don't remember, we don't feel, we don't think - at least beyond the confines of what's needed to do the job. By any proper civilized standard (but what does that mean now?) we are objects of horror. But our nerves are completely steady. And we are still alive. ~ Pat Barker, #NFDB
435:Fear keeps us focused on the past or worried about the future. If we can acknowledge our fear, we can realize that right now we are okay. Right now, today, we are still alive, and our bodies are working marvellously. Our eyes can still see the beautiful sky. Our ears can still hear the voices of our loved ones. ~ Thich Nhat Hanh, #NFDB
436:I've just directed a film called The Great Debaters, which is inspired by a true story about a young college debating team in the thirties and two of those people are still alive and we put them on tape on the film and I'm sure that will be added to the DVD, and to get the opportunity to do that is very cool. ~ Denzel Washington, #NFDB
437:One of the strangest events, however, happened in the first year of Elizabeth (1558), when “dyed Sir Thomas Cheney, Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, of whom it is reported for a certain, that his pulse did beat more than three quarters of an hour after he was dead, as strongly as if he had been still alive. ~ William Shakespeare, #NFDB
438:Our presence here means the presence of all our ancestors. They are still alive in us. Every time we smile, all the generations of our ancestors, our children, and the generations to come—all of whom are within us—smile too. We practice not just for ourselves, but for everyone, and the stream of life continues. ~ Thich Nhat Hanh, #NFDB
439:If he was still alive when this was all over, he might try to find a woman he could spend a night with. One who would understand that he wasn’t worth investing any serious energy in, someone who would expect nothing from an emotionally bankrupt man…Add fifty bucks and that would be a hooker, Einstein.’ (Nathan) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon, #NFDB
440:I will not be quoting Hemingway anytime soon, nor will I ever read another one of his books.
And if he were still alive, I would write him a letter right now and threaten to strangle him dead with my bare hands just for being so glum.
No wonder he put a gun to his head, like it says in the introductory essay. ~ Matthew Quick,#NFDB
441:With a sigh, she raised her eyes back to the little girl on the screen. Someone’s daughter. Montreal. Canada. Today, that unknown girl must have been twice her own age. And perhaps she was still alive, somewhere in the depths of that faraway country, carrying within her all the secrets of this horrendous episode. ~ Franck Thilliez, #NFDB
442:All historians agree that the gospels were written down and circulated during the first generation after the events, while the eyewitnesses were still alive. In order for the gospels to be legendary at their core, more generations would be needed between the events they record and the date of their composition. ~ William Lane Craig, #NFDB
443:The government hates rap. That's why they don't arrest anybody that kills rappers! Only the good ones are dead, man! Only the good ones: Biggie dead, Tupac dead, Vanilla Ice still alive! They don't fill out a police report. They don't even have a chalk line when it's a dead rapper, they just take a piss around the body. ~ Chris Rock, #NFDB
444:The highest development was in the Egyptian and Cabalistic systems, and it was blended with Christian thought in the schools of the Neo-Platonists and the Gnostics...Its studies were only kept alive during the Dark Ages among the Jews who were the chief exponents of its Cabalistic aspect...and it is still alive today. ~ Dion Fortune, #NFDB
445:Do I believe there is an international conspiracy created by intergalactic lizards to keep us all addicted to television, promote the brainwashing elements of antibacterial soaps, and support the still-alive head of JFK in drawing Excalibur and waging the last noble war against the minions of a cybernetic Walt Disney? ~ Dennis Liggio, #NFDB
446:She was always left feeling like a murderer. Because the messenger becomes the murderer. Until the fatal words are spoken, the loved one concerned is still alive, waking, sleeping, going about his business, making telephone calls, writing letters, going for walks, breathing, seeing. It was the telling that killed. ~ Rosamunde Pilcher, #NFDB
447:Who can give more heat to the fire, or joy to heaven, or pain to hell? A ring upon a nun is like a ring in a sow’s nose. Your best friend is still alive. Who is that? You. The sun is none the worse for shining on a dunghill. He must needs swim that is borne up to the chin. An hour’s cold will suck out seven years of heat. ~ Peter Ackroyd, #NFDB
448:Every time I go back to Rome, I go back to that one spot. It is still alive for me, still resounds with something totally present, as though a heart stolen from a tale by Poe still throbbed under the ancient slate pavement to remind me that, here, I had finally encountered the life that was right for me but had failed to have. ~ Andr Aciman, #NFDB
449:Leonard de Vinci, for example, is a great artist, but he is living in the past. However, I don't feel John Cage and Matsuzawa Yutaka as artists who live in the past. Their ideas are still alive in our world because they express the very important concerns of our age. That is why I could trust them as "contemporary artists". ~ Yasumasa Morimura, #NFDB
450:I didn’t care. The spider was still alive and that was not cool. “What am I supposed to kill it with?” he demanded, looking harassed. My hysteria rising to titanic proportions, I shrieked, “With your big freaking foot, you idiot. You have what, like, a size twenty shoe. Smash that thing.” “I wear a size twelve.” He scowled, clearly ~ Linda Kage, #NFDB
451:But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings break, or maybe our ships sink, or maybe we’re grass—our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. We don’t suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. ~ John Green, #NFDB
452:I lie in my bed and think about poking something sharp into my skin. To see if it will hurt, to see if I'll bleed, to test whether I'm still alive. I don't though. For one, because moving means effort. Two, because I'm afraid if [I] start bleeding that I won't stop myself from draining all life from my body. Or worse, that I will. ~ Janet Gurtler, #NFDB
453:It took about three minutes for the unassuming Waffle House to become the new offices of the law firm of Amber, Amber, Amber, and Madison. They set up camp in a clump of booths in the corner opposite from us. A few of them gave me an "oh, good, you are still alive" nod, but for the most part, they had no interest in anyone else. ~ Maureen Johnson, #NFDB
454:You're still alive. Be thankful for that. You can still walk and talk and think. Yes, you feel like shit most of the time, but it could be worse. So instead of sitting in your room waiting to die, why don't you join in on life until you do die? Dammit! Get off your dead ass and make something of the life you still have left! ~ Deanna Lynn Sletten, #NFDB
455:But there are a thousand ways to look at it; maybe the strings break or maybe our ships sink, or maybe we're grass-our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you do have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. ~ John Green, #NFDB
456:But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings break, or maybe our ship s sink, or maybe we're grass--our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. ~ John Green, #NFDB
457:As the conversation turned to the medical experiments Dad performed on the dog that had been dumped in our yard last week, I tuned out and tried to think of what I would get if I crossed an Iceberg rose with a Sunsprite. A nice pale yellow and only a few thorns. Could be interesting. If Grandma were still alive, she’d appreciate it. ~ Kimberly Loth, #NFDB
458:Lydia wondered how long it would take for Penelope to tell the other Mothers about the tragic death of Lloyd Delgado. Her father always said that the price for hearing gossip was having someone else gossip about you. She wished that he were still alive so she could tell him about the Mothers. He would’ve wet himself with laughter. ~ Karin Slaughter, #NFDB
459:And he gave the boy his blessing. The boy could see in his father’s gaze a desire to be able, himself, to travel the world—a desire that was still alive, despite his father’s having had to bury it, over dozens of years, under the burden of struggling for water to drink, food to eat, and the same place to sleep every night of his life. ~ Paulo Coelho, #NFDB
460:Her face softened and she peered into my face with concern. “You don't look happy at all.”
“He never does,” said Brooke, and looked at me with an expression almost identical to the woman's. “He's happy sometimes, though. More often than you think.”
“How can you tell?” the woman asked.
Brooke nodded sagely. “The dog's still alive. ~ Dan Wells,#NFDB
461:If he was still alive, I thought. I knelt to him, then to Osferth, and I left. We walked in silence to a cloistered courtyard where the last roses of summer had dropped their petals on the damp grass. We sat on a stone bench and listened to the mournful chants echoing from the passageway. “The archbishop wanted me dead,” I said. “I ~ Bernard Cornwell, #NFDB
462:Wrapping a hand around one of the bars, Jacin finally crouched so they were at eye level. “You know why you’re still alive?”
She gritted her teeth and answered, somewhat begrudgingly, “Because of Winter.”
“That’s right, firework. Try not to forget it.”
“It’s hard to forget when I’m locked up in her cage, sunshine. ~ Marissa Meyer,#NFDB
463:When people get cancer now, the first thing you do is you go to some doctors to get some advice, figure out what to do. People live a long long life after a cancer diagnosis. Not that it's not scary. The people I know have done so many stupid things. And they're still alive. Just being alive at this point is kind of icing on the cake. ~ Exene Cervenka, #NFDB
464:ALS is like a lit candle: it melts your nerves and leaves your body a pile of wax..
you cannot support yourself standing.. you cannot sit up straight.
By the end, if you are still alive.. your soul, perfectly awake, is imprisoned inside a limp husk.. like something from a science fiction movie, the man frozen inside his own flesh. ~ Mitch Albom,#NFDB
465:Even you, the person asking the question. ‘I’m useless’ is the answer you give yourself. Soon that answer will poison you and you will die while still alive, even though you still walk, eat, sleep and try to have a little fun whenever possible. Don’t try to be useful. Try to be yourself: that is enough, and that makes all the difference. ~ Paulo Coelho, #NFDB
466:A person who believes that Elvis is still alive is very unlikely to get promoted to a position of great power and responsibility in our society. Neither will a person who believes that the holocaust was a hoax. But people who believe equally irrational things about God and the bible are now running our country. This is genuinely terrifying. ~ Sam Harris, #NFDB
467:My first reaction was that the story of Pino Lella’s life in the last twenty-three months of the war could not possibly be true. We would have heard it before. But then I learned that Pino—pronounced pea-no—was still alive some six decades later and back in Italy after nearly thirty years in Beverly Hills and Mammoth Lakes, California. ~ Mark T Sullivan, #NFDB
468:You know why you’re still alive?”
She gritted her teeth and answered, somewhat begrudgingly, “Because of Winter.”
“That’s right, firework. Try not to forget it.”
“It’s hard to forget when I’m locked up in her cage, sunshine.”
The corner of his mouth crinkled with restrained amusement, but it vanished just as fast. ~ Marissa Meyer,#NFDB
469:For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
470:If a man has wealth, he has to make a choice, because there is the money heaping up. He can keep it together in a bunch, and then leave it for others to administer after he is dead. Or he can get it into action and have fun, while he is still alive. I prefer getting it into action and adapting it to human needs, and making the plan work. ~ George Eastman, #NFDB
471:...indeed I often dream of it, and I can still feel how I felt, as though I was still small, and all those people were still alive.
It is very strange to think back like this, although come to think of it, there is no fence or hedge round Time that has gone. You can go back and have what you like if you remember it well enough. ~ Richard Llewellyn,#NFDB
472:Hazel has to realize that her mom was wrong when she said, “I won’t be a mother anymore.” The truth is, after Hazel dies (assuming she dies), her mom will still be her mom, just as my grandmother is still my grandmother even though she has died. As long as either person is still alive, that relationship survives. (It changes, but it survives.) ~ John Green, #NFDB
473:There was a reason these boys were still alive, though. Something made them stronger than the other kids, the ones who had died in the early days, who had simply lain down and given up, unable to cope with the terrible things that were happening in the world. These boys were survivors. The will to live was stronger than any other feelings. ~ Charlie Higson, #NFDB
474:He put his arms around me and squeezed tight, so that I felt the heaves of his chest as we realized over and over again that we were still alive. I realized it in waves and we held on to each other crying and I thought "God we must look so lame," but it doesn't matter when you have just now realized, all the time later, that you are still alive. ~ John Green, #NFDB
475:You start to die the moment you are born. The whole of life is cutting through the pack with death. So take it easy. Light a cigarette and be grateful you are still alive as you suck the smoke deep into your lungs. Your stars have already let you come quite a long way since you left your mother’s womb and whimpered at the cold air of the world. ~ Ian Fleming, #NFDB
476:And what about Edward, is he still alive?'
'I don't know... I pray God he is.'
'But you don't expect him anymore?'
'No... If Edward is alive then I pray God he will find his way to me. And there will always be a candle in the window to light his way home, and my door will never be locked in case one day it is his hand on the latch. ~ Philippa Gregory,#NFDB
477:I decided that if I was worth anything as a person, I ought to be able to let her be with what it was she had to be with then: not urge her to fight it if she was tired of fighting, not ply her with hope, not make her think about who might be upset or worried, not ask anything of her, nothing, just be alive with her while she was still alive. ~ Roland Merullo, #NFDB
478:Some people's glasses are half full. I'm the one drinking them.
Some people have forgotten that Pluto is still a planet. I still remember my childhood.
Some people are vegans. I have common sense.
Some people call me Maurice. Some people call me the Gangsta of Love.
Some people just want to live...but me, I'm the one still alive. ~ Dave Matthes,#NFDB
479:Christians got a lot of work to do. But, the spirit of Dorothy Day is alive. Martin Luther King is still alive. Malcolm X and the prophetic Islamic tradition is still alive. We can't lose sight of those prophetic religious folk who, even given their kin in the same tradition, says, you all are wrong on this, but we're still in the same tradition. ~ Cornel West, #NFDB
480:My alarm goes off at 5:50 a.m. First thing I do is check to make sure I'm not dead. If I am, in fact, still alive, I usually sob uncontrollably until there's nothing left in my tear ducts but salt dust, then grope blindly through my apartment to the bathroom, where I say a little prayer for a hole to open beneath my building and swallow us all. ~ Samantha Irby, #NFDB
481:Now he realized that somehow those who had served in France and elsewhere knew a world that couldn’t be shared. How could he tell his sister—or even his father, if the elder Rutledge was still alive—what had been done on bloody ground far from home? It would be criminal to fill their minds with scenes that no one should have to remember. No one. ~ Charles Todd, #NFDB
482:When I've thought about him dying - which admittedly isn't that much - I always thought of it like you said, that all the strings inside him broke. But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings break, or maybe our ships sink, or maybe we're grass - our roots are interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. ~ John Green, #NFDB
483:...You find a way, somehow to get through the most horrible things, things you think would kill you. You find a way and you move through the days, one by one, in shock, in despair, but you move. The days pass, one after the other, and you go along with them - occasionally stunned, and not entirely relieved, to find that you are still alive. ~ Michelle Richmond, #NFDB
484:You really can’t love unconditionally. People can burn and beat love out of you. They really can kill it, and it’s not your fault you don’t feel it anymore, and how liberating it is to finally realize that. Love isn’t for better or for worse, through thick or thin. It damn well shouldn’t be. Were Jack still alive, I would not love him. When ~ Patricia Cornwell, #NFDB
485:I would say that not many German people are still alive, who experienced what happened during the third reich. We don't have to go to the Stasi, we can go to the Gestapo, and see what happens, when your human rights, your ability to a freedom of expression and a freedom of thought is infringed upon. This is terribly, terribly dangerous territory. ~ Ray McGovern, #NFDB
486:When the feelings would come, the emotions, the grief, I would push them down deeper, furious at myself for allowing them to peek through. My inner dialogue could be ruthless: You're fine. You're not starving, no one beats you. Your parents are still alive. There is real sadness in the world and yours is pathetic, you whiny, insignificant cow. ~ Caitlin Doughty, #NFDB
487:While we were being bombed in Dresden sitting in a cellar with our arms over our heads in case the ceiling fell, one soldier said as though he were a duchess in a mansion on a cold and rainy night, 'I wonder what the poor people are doing tonight.' Nobody laughed, but we were still all glad he said it. At least we were still alive! He proved it. ~ Kurt Vonnegut, #NFDB
488:Books are easily destroyed. But words will live as long as people can remember them. Tattoos, for example, are very hard to forget. I think there's something about the impermanence of life these days that makes it necessary to etch ink into our skin. It reminds us that we've been marked by the world, that we're still alive. That we'll never forget. ~ Tahereh Mafi, #NFDB
489:I'm mostly surprised by the fact he's still alive; given that people have been trying to silence him for almost fifty years, he really shouldn't be. Aged thirty, Abdellatif [Laâbi's ] was kidnapped from his home in Rabat by plainclothes policemen, bundled into the back of an unmarked car, driven to a dingy gaol, and tortured for days on end. ~ Andre Naffis Sahely, #NFDB
490:When I kill a man, I do it with my sword, but people like you don't use swords. You gentlemen kill with your power, with your money, and sometimes just with your words: you tell people you're doing them a favor. True, no blood flows, the man is still alive, but you've killed him all the same. I don't know whose sin is greater - yours or mine. ~ Ry nosuke Akutagawa, #NFDB
491:He looks me right in the eyes, and those brown ones of his are full of comfort. Not sympathy or regret, or even hesitation. His eyes make me think of home. I feel at home with him. I’ve never felt that before, not even when my mom was still alive. She loved me, but never made me feel the warmth and comfort of a real home, but Officer Dan can. “Mattie. ~ Apryl Baker, #NFDB
492:What is your advice to young writers?” “Drink, fuck and smoke plenty of cigarettes.” “What is your advice to older writers?” “If you’re still alive, you don’t need any advice.” “What is the impulse that makes you create a poem?” “What makes you take a shit?” “What do you think of Reagan and unemployment?” “I don’t think of Reagan or unemployment. ~ Charles Bukowski, #NFDB
493:What you encountered in the stairwell,” Valentine said, “was Agramon—the Demon of Fear. Agramon takes the form of whatever most terrifies you. When it is done feeding on your terror, it kills you, presuming you are still alive at that point. Most men—and women—die of fear before that. You are to be congratulated for holding out as long as you did. ~ Cassandra Clare, #NFDB
494:When you are portraying a person that is very real, in my case, Katherine Johnson is still alive, she is 98-years old; there is a responsibility to get it right. I guess the biggest thing that I took away from Katherine was her humility. When you talk about superheroes there are selfless, they don't think about themselves, they put humanity first. ~ Taraji P Henson, #NFDB
495:How many boys like him were out there in the ether, holding on to their big brothers and sisters who were still alive? How many husbands were floating between life and death, clinging to their wives in this world? And how may millions and millions of people were there in the world like Charlie who wouldn't let go of their loved ones when they're gone? ~ Ben Sherwood, #NFDB
496:As you may know, KFC is under worldwide pressure to eliminate its cruelest abuses of chickens, such as cutting the beaks off baby birds; breeding chickens to grow so large, so quickly that many suffer crippling injuries; and slitting the birds' throats or dropping them into tanks of scalding-hot water while they are still alive and able to feel pain. ~ Pamela Anderson, #NFDB
497:There are two kinds of personalities. There are those who have everything and still complain as if they have nothing. And there are those who lose everything and act like life has given them everything. I know you belong to the second category. Enjoy life so much that others are jealous of you and give them a shock that you are still alive and inspired ~ Ajay K Pandey, #NFDB
498:I said that each of us had to ask himself what irreplaceable losses he had suffered up to then. I speculated that for most of them these losses had really been few. Whoever was still alive had reason for hope. Health, family, happiness, professional abilities, fortune, position in society - all these were things that could be achieved again or restored. ~ Viktor E Frankl, #NFDB
499:For a few moments Clara remains, reluctant to let go of her only chance of finding her unknown relative. Still, she holds on to the one piece of good news: there was no record of Otto Josef Garritt van Dijk’s death. Which might, just might, mean that he’s still alive. And thus she somehow, if only she can figure out how, still has a chance of finding him ~ Menna van Praag, #NFDB
500:In 56 A.D. [the apostle] Paul wrote that over 500 people had seen the risen Jesus and that most of them were still alive (1 Corinthians 15:6ff.). It passes the bounds of credibility that the early Christians could have manufactured such a tale and then preached it among those who might easily have refuted it simply by producing the body of Jesus. ~ John Warwick Montgomery, #NFDB
501:In one case a desperate college student felt so trapped by his obsessive worries and compulsions that he put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The bullet passed into his frontal lobe, causing a frontal lobotomy, which was at the time a treatment for obsessive-compulsive disorder. He was found still alive, his disorder cured, and he returned to college. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
502:Because I think that by beauty, you don’t just meaning something thats pretty. You mean something that makes us human. The urn, you say, is a ‘friend to man’. It will live beyond its generation, and the next ones, and your poem is like that, too. You died almost two hundred years ago, when you were only twenty-five. But the words that you left are still alive ~ Ava Dellaira, #NFDB
503:Daoud sighed. "You really think that he is still alive?"
"I know that I need to see for myself," said Aristide, staring at the white blots of cold cream on the carpet between his shoes. "Or I will live the rest of my life like a man with a toothache he cannot leave alone, and I will poke at it until it grows into an abscess, bursts, and kills me. ~ Lara Elena Donnelly,#NFDB
504:It takes a lot of guts to do what she did. To just end it, not knowing what’s next? Not knowing if there’s anything next? It’s easier to go on living a life without any life left in it, than it is to just say ‘fuck it’ and leave. She was one of the few that just said, ‘fuck it.’ And I’ll commend her every day I’m still alive, too scared to do the same thing. ~ Colleen Hoover, #NFDB
505:Why? That one word was all I had to ask, but it was too late now. Why has I not worked up the courage to ask her while she was still alive? I might have regretted the answer I'd gotten, but it would have been better than this.
But my sister had lost the chance to speak forever. I was stuck with my question, and it would be with me every time I thought of her. ~ Otsuichi,#NFDB
506:I wanted to cut Hugh into pieces. I owed him for Mauro, my broken sword, and seven days in the hole. But Curran owed him for seeing me disappear, for finding out where I went, for running after me across half the country not knowing if I was still alive, and then for fighting his way to Mishmar only to find me half-dead. Curran had a much bigger score to settle. ~ Ilona Andrews, #NFDB
507:They are hung from the walls whilst still alive and left to starve to death. Their tongues are cut so their screams will not disturb passerby. This is done purely because they follow a different faith (...) I told you I had been all over this world. The are countless faiths, countless gods. There are more ways to honour the divine than there are stars in the sky. ~ Anthony Ryan, #NFDB
508:He falls quiet again and tries to understand how he can be saying these things, how it can be that his dark words are coming out into the light and yet he is still alive. At once he storms the doorway that has suddenly opened for him in the endless corridor in which he has been bumping around for years; words spill out, cut off, confused, ashamed, squeezing out. ~ David Grossman, #NFDB
509:Are you all right, Ed?”
“I--I think so,” panted Edmund. “I’ve got that brute Nikabrik, but he’s still alive.”
“Weights and water-bottles!” came an angry voice. “It’s me you’re sitting on. Get off. You’re like a young elephant.”
“Sorry, D.L.F.,” said Edmund. “Is that better?”
“Ow! No!” bellowed Trumpkin. “You’re putting your boot in my mouth. Go away. ~ C S Lewis,#NFDB
510:Pee-poo are like dis, Rachel had told me once, putting the peachy-pink Crayola that used to be called Flesh into my hand. As if all the flesh that mattered was that color. That crayon was called Peach now, but the ideas behind its old name were still alive and present. Present everywhere, all across the country, but more overt in Birchville. I wouldn’t raise Digby ~ Joshilyn Jackson, #NFDB
511:Things change. People change. You make some choices you can never take back...The future is all possibilities, but the past is set in stone. All those ghosts of ourselves, our youth, still alive inside us, but out of our reach forever. We meet them when we close our eyes, when we let our memories come alive...But that's all they are. Memories. No more real than a dream. ~ Wendy Mass, #NFDB
512:I do have one regret though. I wish Kathy Acker was still alive. I wish I could go swim with her again. My literary indebtedness to her is enormous. She's a more important mother to me than anyone can possibly imagine. In language I became a daughter worth a crap because of her. In language I redefined daughter, woman, I became a writer. Dora is an homage of sorts. ~ Lidia Yuknavitch, #NFDB
513:Banquo asked me how it felt to be alive when I saw so many of my comrades dead or dying, and I said that I had ceased to think of life or death because it seemed that I was destined to serve out the sentence of one for having delivered so well of the other, and that I saw the dead every night before I went to sleep as though they were still alive and standing before me. ~ Andrew Krivak, #NFDB
514:Lady Dance's music wasn't a magic charm. I'd misunderstood. We had all failed to understand. The song and dance didn't stop us dying. It just stopped the fear of death swallowing us up while we were still alive. 'Rejoice,' came the soft voice of Lady Dance in my mind. 'Watch the moon and stars...' Death had ruled my life till I met Lady Dance. Her dance had set me free. ~ Jackie French, #NFDB
515:Slaughter on a scale far greater than any attempted by the Paris mob was the portion of those village patriots who dared to resist them. Women and children were not spared, men were thrown, while still alive, into ditches piled high with corpses. Clergy who had sworn the oath to the Constitution were tied to horses and dragged on the dusty roads to a terrible death. ~ Daphne du Maurier, #NFDB
516:You think he’s still alive?” Royce asked, nodding his head toward Alric. “Sure,” Hadrian replied without bothering to look. “He’s probably sleeping. Why do you ask?” “I was just pondering something. Do you think a person could smother in a wet potato bag?” Hadrian lifted his head and looked over at the motionless prince. “I really hadn’t thought about it until now. ~ Michael J Sullivan, #NFDB
517:It's a secret code," said Calvin. "Girls are not not like boys. If a boy wants to kill you, he says 'I'm going to kill you.' If a girl wants to kill you, she says, 'We need to talk.' That's the code."
I gasped. "Has a girl ever wanted to talk to you?" I asked.
"Yup," said Calvin.
"How come you're still alive?" I asked.
"I vomited," said Calvin. ~ Lenore Look,#NFDB
518:I saw the tears of the oppressed—
and they have no comforter;
power was on the side of their oppressors—
and they have no comforter.
And I declared that the dead,
who had already died,
are happier than the living,
who are still alive.
But better than both
is the one who has never been born,
who has not seen the evil
that is done under the sun. ~ Anonymous,#NFDB
519:Bashfully I dropped my shirt onto the sand and stood naked but for my sagging trunks. Glenn, never having seen anything quite this grotesque and singular on an Australian beach, certainly nothing still alive, snatched up his camera and began excitedly taking close-up shots of my stomach. Bizeet, bizeet, bizeet, bizeet, his camera sang happily as he followed me into the surf. ~ Bill Bryson, #NFDB
520:Success only means doing something sincerely and wholeheartedly. I think life is a process. Through the ages, the end of heroes is the same as ordinary men. They all died and gradually faded away in the memory of man. But when we are still alive, we have to understand ourselves, discover ourselves and express ourselves. In this way, we can progress, but we may not be successful. ~ Bruce Lee, #NFDB
521:Scattered about were nude, scalped, and beheaded bodies bristling with arrows. Brains had been scooped out, and penises severed and shoved in the victims’ mouths. The evidence of torture was unmistakable. Bowels had been opened while the victims were still alive and live coals placed upon them, and a scorched corpse, chained between two wagons, slumped over a smoldering fire. ~ Peter Cozzens, #NFDB
522:The ineffable utterance of one solitary man, absent, perhaps dead (Swann did not know whether Vinteuil were still alive), breathed out above the rites of those two hierophants, sufficed to arrest the attention of three hundred minds, and made of that stage on which a soul was thus called into being one of the noblest altars on which a supernatural ceremony could be performed. ~ Marcel Proust, #NFDB
523:You think he’s still alive?” Royce asked, nodding his head toward Alric.
“Sure,” Hadrian replied without bothering to look. “He’s probably sleeping. Why do you ask?”
“I was just pondering something. Do you think a person could smother in a wet potato bag?”
Hadrian lifted his head and looked over at the motionless prince. “I really hadn’t thought about it until now. ~ Michael J Sullivan,#NFDB
524:Death doesn't discriminate
Between the sinners and the saints,
It takes, and it takes, and it takes
And we keep living it takes
And we keep living anyway.
We rise and we fall
And we break,
And we make our mistakes.
And if there's a reason I'm still alive
When ev'ryone who loves me has died
I'm willing to wait for it.
I'm willing to wait for it. ~ Lin Manuel Miranda,#NFDB
525:Whatever good and beautiful experience you are having, if you are not writing them down, you are wasting them! Your thoughts on the paper are your real reality because the realities of the experience quickly disappear, they are already gone, they are dead, but the written thoughts of your experiences are still alive and can live thousands of years! Sit down and write them down! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan, #NFDB
526:The monsignor called after him, “If I am to blame, then why have I not met the same fate as Brother Mentigo and Brother De Cardina before him? Why am I still alive?”
Calisto glared over his shoulder at the monsignor and growled. “Because there are worse punishments than death. Live with your guilt, old man. May it rot in your heart and kill you slowly for many
years to come. ~ Lisa Kessler,#NFDB
527:It was about the preciousness of that, and how they viewed those birds as art, as something valuable. I didn't care one way or another back then, but now, thinking about my grandparents - who are still alive but getting older - I see the birds as sort of time capsules. Now I go home during the holidays and they hold a lot of weight in terms of nostalgia and memory. Now they mean everything. ~ Nick Cave, #NFDB
528:It's while it's being lived that life is immortal, while it's still alive. Immortality is not a matter of more or less time, its not really a question of immortality but of something else that remains unknown. It's as untrue to say it's without beginning or end as to say it begins and ends with the life of the spirit, since it partakes both of the spirit and of the pursuit of the void. ~ Marguerite Duras, #NFDB
529:But a man’s love, a father’s love, must be different than a mother’s. She’d seen his eyes before he went to the water last night. He was mourning already. She remembered the remark he made weeks ago about Gracie running off into the lake. She’d wanted to kill him when he said that. Now she wanted to kill herself. She might have done it already, if she didn’t believe Gracie was still alive. It ~ Amy Greene, #NFDB
530:They knew this—survival came at a price. Over the past few weeks they’d all survived a Bagger attack. Or two. Or three. They knew the consequences. Not everyone got out alive. They’d seen loved ones die. Even worse, some had watched the people they cared about turn on them. But as long as they stuck together in a group, they were still human. As long as they were human they were still alive. ~ Jeyn Roberts, #NFDB
531:I’d summoned enough of my element from beyond the veil to ignite a near-nuclear reaction and then snuffed it out instead of unleashing it. The fact that I was still alive was a miracle, and I suspected it was something to do with PC34. I’d slapped my demon right back down, shoved her in a box, and stuffed her away in some dark mental hiding place. When she came back she was going to be pissed. ~ Pippa DaCosta, #NFDB
532:I have absorbed into myself my own eleven years there not as something shameful nor as a nightmare to be cursed: I have come almost to love that monstrous world, and now, by a happy turn of events, I have also been entrusted with many recent reports and letters. So perhaps I shall be able to give some account of the bones and flesh of that salamander—which, incidentally, is still alive ~ Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, #NFDB
533:My Clippings - Your Highlight on Location 352-354 | Added on Friday, March 6, 2015 4:36:54 PM One of the strangest events, however, happened in the first year of Elizabeth (1558), when “dyed Sir Thomas Cheney, Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, of whom it is reported for a certain, that his pulse did beat more than three quarters of an hour after he was dead, as strongly as if he had been still alive. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
534:He’s shouting that hatred and war made him nuts. I start running down the hill agreeing with him. The Mrs. gives me a look and puts her hands over Maribeth’s ears. We’re all running. The Mrs. starts screaming about the feel of the scythe as it opened her up. The girls bemoan their unborn kids. We make quite a group. Since I’m still alive I keep clipping trees with my shoulders and falling down. ~ George Saunders, #NFDB
535:In fact, "atheism" is a term that should not even exist. No one ever needs to identify himself as a "non-astrologer" or a "non-alchemist." We do not have words for people who doubt that Elvis is still alive or that aliens have traversed the galaxy only to molest ranchers and their cattle. Atheism is nothing more than the noises reasonable people make in the presence of unjustified religious beliefs. ~ Sam Harris, #NFDB
536:I, Lalla, willingly entered through the garden-gate, There, O Joy! I found Siva united with Sakti; There and then I got absorbed drinking at the Lake of Nectar. Immune to harm am I, dead as I am to the world, though still alive. [bk1sm.gif] -- from The Ascent of Self: A Reinterpretation of the Mystical Poetry of Lalla-Ded, by B. N. Paramoo
~ Lalla, I, Lalla, willingly entered through the garden-gate
,#NFDB
537:In reality there is perhaps no one of our natural Passions so hard to subdue as Pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive, and will every now and then peep out and show itself. You see it perhaps often in this History. For even if I could conceive that I had completely overcome it, I should probably be proud of my Humility. ~ Benjamin Franklin, #NFDB
538:I was still alive. Ha! Take that kidnappers. Still alive. Maybe it was my butt that was feeding me. I always thought it was kind of round. I bet my body was eating up all the fat stores from my butt now. Yeah. See, having a big ass is a good thing. Good, good, good. They should put that in magazines. Why diet? Why stay thin? If you ever get kidnapped and left for dead, your fat ass could save your life! ~ Kate Brian, #NFDB
539:...all intolerable local situations have become world situations, with the result that the whole world has become a local situation, here, under your nose, staring at you, and when your sensitivity is still alive and not dulled, that is, when you are young, if all you can do is stare back at it helplessly, you run amok, you blow up, you smash whatever is at hand, you express yourself, you seek a release. ~ Romain Gary, #NFDB
540:In reality, there is, perhaps, no one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive, and will every now and then peep out and show itself; you will see it perhaps often in this history; for even if I could conceive that I had completely overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility. ~ John C Bogle, #NFDB
541:But change proves that you are still alive. Change often measures our tolerance for folk different from ourselves. Can we accept their languages, their customs, their garments, and their foods into our own lives? If we can, then we form bonds, bonds that make wars less likely. If we cannot, if we believe that we must do things as we have always done them, then we must either fight to remain as we are, or die ~ Robin Hobb, #NFDB
542:The present was always paramount, in a way that thrust you forward: empty, but also free. Whatever stories you told over to yourself and others, you were in truth exposed and naked in the present, a prow cleaving new waters; your past was insubstantial behind, it fell away, it grew into desuetude, its forms grew obsolete. The problem was, you were always still alive, until the end. You had to do something. ~ Tessa Hadley, #NFDB
543:But change proves that you are still alive. Change often measures our tolerance for folk different from ourselves. Can we accept their languages, their customs, their garments, and their foods into our own lives? If we can, then we form bonds, bonds that make wars less likely. If we cannot, if we believe that we must do things as we have always done them, then we must either fight to remain as we are, or die. ~ Robin Hobb, #NFDB
544:My parents are still alive, still together, and they love me, I suppose. But they love me the way a careless child loves a pet. Too much attention one day, absolute neglect the next. The changes in current were too much for me to survive when I was young, so my brain learned to ride above them. It’s not something I think about now. It’s natural. I observe people’s emotions, but I rarely participate. ~ Victoria Helen Stone, #NFDB
545:Something escapes us, and we are escaping from ourselves, or losing ourselves, as part of an irreversible process; we have now passed some point of no return, the point where the contradictoriness of things ended, and we find ourselves, still alive, in a universe of non-contradiction, of enthusiasm, of ecstasy - of stupor in the face of a process which, for all its irreversibility, is bereft of meaning. ~ Jean Baudrillard, #NFDB
546:What makes us moral beings is that...there are some acts we believe we ought to die rather than commit...But now suppose that one has in fact done one of the things one could not have imagined doing, and finds that one is still alive. At that point, one's choices are suicide, a life of bottomless self-disgust, and an attempt to live so as never to do such a thing again. Dewey recommends the third choice. ~ Richard M Rorty, #NFDB
547:On the bright side, I have figured out how to fix the American educational system. End it at sixth grade.”
“Brilliant. Then what?”
“Lock them up in empty factories, give them all the Red Bull, condoms, and nachos they want, pipe in club music, and check back when they’re twenty-five. Anyone still alive, we send to grad school.” Wade pushed his glass forward. “How’s that for a campaign platform? ~ Jess Walter,#NFDB
548:History is essential to our understanding of the present. Unless we are conscious of the way in which we came to this point in time as a people, then we shall never fully be able to plan the present and the future. We need to know what roots are still alive. We need to know how things came to be so that we can project from here. We also need to know the failures of the past so that we can avoid repeating them. ~ Ming Dao Deng, #NFDB
549:Les was the bravest fucking person I’ve ever known. It takes a lot of guts to do what she did. To just end it, not knowing what’s next? Not knowing if there’s anything next? It’s easier to go on living a life without any life left in it, than it is to just say ‘fuck it’ and leave. She was one of the few that just said, ‘fuck it.’ And I’ll commend her every day I’m still alive, too scared to do the same thing. ~ Colleen Hoover, #NFDB
550:Her lungs felt scorched, her face singed as she struggled to her hands and knees, fighting hysteria, the concussion of the blast driving the breath from her. The house was nothing more than a pile of burning rubble. She couldn’t see the children. Where were they? Maybe they’d been far enough away from the explosion. Maybe they were still alive. She had to find them. Her legs wobbled under her as she staggered to ~ Kaylea Cross, #NFDB
551:In reality, there is, perhaps, no one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive, and will every now and then peep out and show itself; you will see it, perhaps, often in this history; for, even if I could conceive that I had compleatly overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility. ~ Benjamin Franklin, #NFDB
552:In reality, there is, perhaps, no one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive, and will every now and then peep out and show itself; you will see it, perhaps, often in this history; for, even if I could conceive that I had completely overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility. ~ Benjamin Franklin, #NFDB
553:My mind still clung to the image of my wife. A thought crossed my mind: I didn’t even know if she were still alive. I knew only one thing—which I have learned well by now: Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
554:The fear that things may change tomorrow... Somebody may die, you may go bankrupt, your job may be taken away. There are a thousand and one things which may change. You are burdened with fears and fears, and none of them are valid - because yesterday also you were full of all these fears, unnecessarily. Things may have changed, but you are still alive. And man has an immense capacity to adjust himself in any situation. ~ Rajneesh, #NFDB
555:Not my idea of God, but God. Not my idea of H., but H. Yes, and also not my idea of my neighbour, but my neighbour. For don't we often make this mistake as regards people who are still alive -- who are with us in the same room? Talking and acting not to the man himself but to the picture -- almost the précis -- we've made of him in our own minds? And he has to depart from it pretty widely before we even notice the fact. ~ C S Lewis, #NFDB
556:Does this mean she’s still alive?” Maura asked, tapping on a card in one of the branches – the Queen of Swords. “Probably,” Calla grunted. “Does this mean she’s going to leave?” Orla asked, tapping on another card and referring to a different she. “Probably,” Maura sighed. “Does this mean she’s coming back?” Calla demanded, pointing to a third card and meaning a third she. “Probably,” shrieked Gwenllian, leaping ~ Maggie Stiefvater, #NFDB
557:My mind still clung to the image of my wife. A thought crossed my mind: I didn't even know if she were still alive. I knew only one thing-which I have learned well by now: Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance. ~ Viktor E Frankl, #NFDB
558:My mind still clung to the image of my wife. A thought crossed my mind: I didn’t even know if she were still alive. I knew only one thing—which I have learned well by now: Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance. ~ Viktor E Frankl, #NFDB
559:If you are breathing, you are still alive. If you are alive, then you are still here, physically, on this planet. If you are still here, then you have not completed what you were put on earth to do. If you have not completed what you were put on earth to do … that means your very purpose has not yet been fulfilled. If your purpose has not yet been fulfilled, then the most important part of your life has not yet been lived. ~ Andy Andrews, #NFDB
560:You think you are the greatest sufferer in the world? Do you know that men are sometimes banished for life? Do you know that men sometimes lose all their yams and even their children? I had six wives once. I have none now except that young girl who knows not her right from her left. Do you know how many children I have buried—children I begot in my youth and strength? Twenty-two. I did not hang myself, and I am still alive. ~ Chinua Achebe, #NFDB
561:I feel closer ties and more intimate bonds with certain characters in books, with certain images I’ve seen in engravings, than with many supposedly real people, with that metaphysical absurdity known as “flesh and blood.” In fact “flesh and blood” describes them very well: they resemble cuts of meat laid out on the butcher’s marble slab, dead creatures bleeding as though still alive, the sirloin steaks and cutlets of Fate. ~ Fernando Pessoa, #NFDB
562:Have you ever run from a fight?”
Nel snorted a laugh, quieting the chirping of the birds in the gilded cages hanging from the branches above them. “I’ve run from more fights than I’ve fought. It’s why I’m still alive. Men who carry weapons tend to have a strange belief that it is better to die honorably than live to fight another day. Foolish. If the odds are against me I flee – and I’ve never felt any shame doing just that. ~ Alec Hutson,#NFDB
563:My job happens to be sports-related, so it's like my duty to watch football. It's my job. But that's not a change for me. When you're 18, it's life and death, because you don't have a kid, and it's a much bigger deal when you're 18. Having a kid - when the Vikings lost the 2009 NFC title game, it sucked, and I'm not happy about it, but my kid is still alive. You have to have that horrible forced perspective that you don't want. ~ Drew Magary, #NFDB
564:Shortly after her older brother died, Chloe (who had just celebrated her eighth birthday) went through a deeply philosophical stage. "I began to question everything," she told me, "I had to figure out what death was, that's enough to turn anyone into a philosopher." Chloe would put her hand over her eyes and tell the family her brother was still alive because she could see him in her mind just as well as she could see them. ~ Alain de Botton, #NFDB
565:I think Splash made people realize that I was still alive, and I think I inspired a lot of people. I have people coming up to me all the time in the airport saying, "Hey, you inspired me to learn how to swim!" "You inspired me to start moving around more." "You inspired me to start doing more for myself." So that was good. But mostly I took it because nobody had given me a job. And you know what really matters in life, right? ~ Louie Anderson, #NFDB
566:When I was young, I knew that, somehow, I would go to Africa and live with animals. And I wanted to write books about them. I don't think I spent too much time wondering exactly how I would do it. I just felt sure that the right opportunity would somehow come. I didn't feel frustrated because I could not go a really long trip while Rusty was still alive. It would have seemed like a betrayal. And while I waited I went on learning. ~ Jane Goodall, #NFDB
567:I dreamed about my mom. Does that happen to you? You dream about people who have died- only they're still alive, and everything is lovely, or at least normal. And then you wake up, and you wonder how it can be that you saw them, that you heard them, that you touched them. They were there, and now they are gone again. And realizing that makes the hurt stab knife-sharp. I truly don't know what is worse, the nightmares or those dreams. ~ John Green, #NFDB
568:emptying out of my mother's belly
was my first act of disappearance
learning to shrink for a family
who likes their daughters invisible
was the second
the art of being empty
is simple
believe them when they say
you are nothing
repeat it to yourself
like a wish
i am nothing
i am nothing
i am nothing
so often
the only reason you know
you're still alive is from the
heaving of your chest ~ Rupi Kaur,#NFDB
569:I think we’re already dead, dude. Not everyone, just Deckers. The whole Death-Cast thing seems too fantasy to be true. Knowing when our last day is going down so we can live it right? Straight-up fantasy. The first afterlife kicks off when Death-Cast tells us to live out our day knowing it’s our last; that way we’ll take full advantage of it, thinking we’re still alive. Then we enter the next and final afterlife without any regrets ~ Adam Silvera, #NFDB
570:And I knew that the Spirit that had gone forth to shape the world and make it live was still alive in it. I just had no doubt. I could see that I lived in the created world, and it was still being created. I would be part of it forever. There was no escape. The Spirit that made it was in it, shaping it and reshaping it, sometimes lying at rest, sometimes standing up and shaking itself, like a muddy horse, and letting the pieces fly. ~ Wendell Berry, #NFDB
571:Again I v saw all w the oppressions that are done under the sun. And behold, the tears of the oppressed, and they had x no one to comfort them! On the side of their oppressors there was power, and there was no one to comfort them. 2And I y thought the dead who are already dead more fortunate than the living who are still alive. 3But z better than both is he who has not yet been and has not seen the evil deeds that are done under the sun. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
572:At her age, she reckoned, with the things her eyes had seen, her ears had heard, her mouth spoken, her skin felt, and her heart suffered, she had been through enough to make anyone weary. She couldn’t explain why she was still alive or what she was waiting for before she departed, since she was no longer of any use to anybody and her body had dried up, so she preferred not to see or be seen, not to hear, not to speak, and not to feel. ~ Sof a Segovia, #NFDB
573:Victor Hugo said you can stop an invasion of armies, but you can never stop an invasion of ideas. There's nothing more powerful than an idea whose time has come. It wasn't until 1920, four years after my mother was born - and she's still alive and healthy - that women were given the right to vote. Now it's hard even to imagine that for the greater part of the history of our country fifty percent of the population was not allowed to vote. ~ Wayne Dyer, #NFDB
574:In reality, there is perhaps not one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as our pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as you please. It is still alive, and will every now and then peep out and show itself. You will see it, perhaps, even within the abbeys of the realm. For even if I, an Aldermaston, could conceive that I had completely overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility. ~ Jeff Wheeler, #NFDB
575:ECCLESIASTES 4 Again I saw all the oppressions that are done under the sun. And behold, the tears of the oppressed, and they had no one to comfort them! On the side of their oppressors there was power, and there was no one to comfort them. 2And I thought the dead who are already dead more fortunate than the living who are still alive. 3But better than both is he who has not yet been and has not seen the evil deeds that are done under the sun. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
576:Well,” Logen had to admit, “there is that.” Luthar’s head dropped even lower, and Logen clapped him on the arm. “But you didn’t get killed! Cheer up, boy, you’re lucky! You’re still alive, aren’t you?” He gave a miserable nod. Logen slid his arm around his shoulder and guided him back towards the horses. “Then you’ve got the chance to do better next time.”
“Next time?”
“Course. Doing better next time. That’s what life is. ~ Joe Abercrombie,#NFDB
577:give a fig for the dead while they was still alive, or if they never gave a fig for you, because let’s face it, as great a proportion of the dead are arseholes as the living. It stands to reason, although you won’t find many funerals begin with ‘he was a total pain in the neck and only half as clever as he thought, so let’s put him in the ground and have a pint, and good riddance.’ I’ve always thought that would have a certain charm, myself. ~ Nick Harkaway, #NFDB
578:Well,” Logen had to admit, “there is that.” Luthar’s head dropped even lower, and Logen clapped him on the arm. “But you didn’t get killed! Cheer up, boy, you’re lucky! You’re still alive, aren’t you?” He gave a miserable nod. Logen slid his arm around his shoulder and guided him back towards the horses. “Then you’ve got the chance to do better next time.”
“Next time?”
���Course. Doing better next time. That’s what life is. ~ Joe Abercrombie,#NFDB
579:We adjust to it. Somehow we figure out a way. We straighten what we can or learn how to like something a little crooked. That’s how it is. Something breaks, you fix it as best you can. There’s always a way to make something better, even if it means sweeping up the broken pieces and starting all over. That’s how we keep moving, keep breathing, keep opening our eyes every morning, even when the only thing we know for sure is that we’re still alive. ~ Susan Meissner, #NFDB
580:They’d been afloat now without food, water, shelter, or sleep for over forty hours. Of the 1,196 crew13 members who’d set sail from Guam three days earlier, probably no more than 600 were still alive. In the previous twenty-four hours alone, at least 200 had likely slipped beneath the waves or been victims of shark attack. Since the sinking, each boy had been floating through the hours asking himself the same hard question: Will I live, or do I quit? ~ Doug Stanton, #NFDB
581:I'm mad at you - at myself. I'm so angry, I can taste it. I want to find Blake and rearrange parts of his body. But do you know what I thought about all day yesterday? All night? The one single thing I couldn't escape, no matter how pissed off I am at you? "
"No," I whispered.
"That I'm lucky, because the person I can't get out of my head, the person who means more to me than I can stand, is still alive. She's still here. And that's you. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,#NFDB
582:She had blood on her hands and clothes, and suddenly her exhausted body told her that she was old, Old and a murderess, she thought, but she knew that if it were necessary, she would kill again, And when is it necessary to kill, she asked herself as she headed in the direction of the hallway, and she herself answered the question, When what is still alive is already dead. She shook her head and thought, And what does that mean, words, nothing but words. ~ Jos Saramago, #NFDB
583:Without (my wife) Laurie, I would never be here right now, I know that. I would either be in a coffin, or stashed away doing a life sentence some place. Or running and hiding some place, if I was still alive. I'm certain I wouldn't be playing music. She's just been perfect for me. And she's a protector also; she protects me from myself, from temptations, and bad associations. She's constantly shielding me from walking the red hot coals of existing as a game. ~ Art Pepper, #NFDB
584:I don't hate you now Kat." He stared intently into my eyes. "I'm mad at you - at myself. I'm so angry, I can taste it...do you know what I thought about all day yesterday? All night? The one single thought I couldn't escape, no matter how pis*ed off I am at you?"
"No." I whispered.
"That I'm lucky, because the person I can't get out of my head, the person who means more to me than I can stand, is still alive. She's still there. And that's you. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,#NFDB
585:I read the first chapter of A Brief History of Time when Dad was still alive, and I got incredibly heavy boots about how relatively insignificant life is, and how, compared to the universe and compared to time, it didn't even matter if I existed at all. When Dad was tucking me in that night and we were talking about the book, I asked if he could think of a solution to that problem. "Which problem?" "The problem of how relatively insignificant we are. ~ Jonathan Safran Foer, #NFDB
586:Mike, as the only black member of this dysfunctional group, I’m truly amazed that I’m still alive. I mean I’ve watched almost every horror movie ever made, and without fail, if a man of color is in the movie, he dies first. In recent years, however, it has gotten somewhat better. Now, we sometimes make it to second killed, after the ditzy blonde, but I’ve got to imagine that a brother’s life expectancy in any horror setting is generally a couple of hours, at most. ~ Mark Tufo, #NFDB
587:Dear Alex,
I think I’m going to organize a search party. Have you fallen off the edge of the earth? Are you still alive?
I called your mother the other day and they haven’t heard from you very much either. Is everything OK? Because if it’s not, I have a right to know. You’re supposed to confide in me because I’m your best friend and . . . it’s law. And if things are OK then contact me anyway, I’m your friend and I need gossip. It’s section two of the same law. ~ Cecelia Ahern,#NFDB
588:Seven years ago, I joined a support group. The loneliness of my Clemlessness—privately, that’s what I called it—had become so acute that I could feel it pulling me away, like an undertow, from the people I loved who were still alive. (I angered easily. I wanted to yell at them, “You don’t fucking know!”—not just about what they might lose but about anything, everything: politics, art, laundry, taxes. I saw them as not just ignorant but smug, not just naïve but stupid. ~ Julia Glass, #NFDB
589:Kino pulled the covers up, shut his eyes, and covered his ears with his hands. I’m not going to look, not going to listen, he told himself. But he couldn’t drown out the sound. Even if he ran to the far corners of the earth and stuffed his ears full of clay, as long as he was still alive those knocks would relentlessly track him down. It wasn’t a knocking on a door in a business hotel. It was a knocking on the door to his heart. A person couldn’t escape that sound. ~ Haruki Murakami, #NFDB
590:Simi, why did Acheron send you here? (Astrid) To protect you from Thanatos so that your sisters don’t get all freaky and destroy the world. Or something like that. I don’t know why all of you fear the end of the world. It’s not so bad, really. At least then akri’s mama be free. Then she wouldn’t be so cranky at the Simi all the time. (Simi) Ash’s mother is still alive? (Zarek) Oh, akri get mad whenever I tell that. Bad Simi. I not talk anymore. I need food. (Simi) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon, #NFDB
591:There are lots of beautiful pedigree dogs roaming the streets. Their owners probably had to let them go because they couldn’t feed them anymore. Sad. Yesterday I watched a cocker spaniel cross the bridge, not knowing which way to go. He was lost. He wanted to go forward, but then he stopped, turned around and looked back. He was probably looking for his master. Who knows whether his master is still alive? Even animals suffer here. Even they aren’t spared by the war. ~ Zlata Filipovi, #NFDB
592:The hide was being flayed off the still living body of the Revolution so that a new age could slip in to it; as for the red bloody meat, the steaming innards - they were being thrown onto the scrapheap. The new age needed only the hide of the Revolution - and this was being flayed off people who were still alive. Those who slipped into it spoke the language of the Revolution and mimicked it's gestures, but their brains, lungs, livers and eyes were utterly different. ~ Vasily Grossman, #NFDB
593:Before the counter-culture revolutionary Li Lian was executed in 1971 for criticising the Cultural Revolution, pour policemen pushed her face against the window of a truck, lifted her shirt and cut out her kidneys with a surgical knife,’ Mau Sen said, his face stony and white. ‘I think that removing the organs of convicts while they are still alive is too much. It completely contravenes medical ethics.’ ‘This is a dissection class, not a political meeting,’ Sun Chunlin said. ~ Ma Jian, #NFDB
594:Flying At Forty
You call me
courageous,
I who grew up
gnawing on books,
as some kids
gnaw
on bubble gum,
who married disastrously
not once
but three times,
yet have a lovely daughter
I would not undo
for all the dope
in California.
Fear was my element,
fear my contagion.
I swam in it
till I became
immune.
The plane takes off
& I laugh aloud.
Call me courageous.
I am still alive.
~ Erica Jong,#NFDB
595:I literally went in and auditioned and got the part of "sounds like J.K. Simmons." I've heard people say a "J.K. Simmons type, but younger" or "J.K. Simmons, but with hair" or "J.K. Simmons but Mongolian." It's often "J.K. Simmons but...". You think you're on top of the world and they're asking for a "J.K. Simmons-type" and then, before you know it, they're asking for a "J.K. Simmons only younger." The next step is for a "J.K. Simmons-type...Oh, you mean he's still alive?" ~ J K Simmons, #NFDB
596:Change always happens... We adjust to it. Somehow we figure out a way. We straighten what we can or learn how to like something a little crooked. That's how it is. Something breaks, you fix it as best you can. There's always a way to make something better, even if it means sweeping up the broken pieces and starting all over. That's how we keep moving, keep breathing, keep opening our eyes every morning, even when the only thing we know for sure is that we're still alive. ~ Susan Meissner, #NFDB
597:When your alarm goes off and you jump out of bed, what is the nature of the mind in that moment? Are you already like, "oh my God," your calendar pops into your mind and you're driven already, or can you take a moment and just lie in bed and just feel your body breathing. And remember, "oh yeah, brand new day and I'm still alive." So, I get out of bed with awareness, brush my teeth with awareness. When you're in the shower next time check and see if you're in the shower. ~ Jon Kabat Zinn, #NFDB
598:They said she’d killed her niece, her only threat to the throne. Princess Selene had only been three years old when a fire caught in her nursery, killing her and her nanny. Some conspiracy theorists thought the princess had survived and was still alive somewhere, waiting for the right time to reclaim her crown and end Levana’s rule of tyranny, but Cinder knew it was only desperation that fueled these rumors. After all, they’d found traces of the child’s flesh in the ashes. ~ Marissa Meyer, #NFDB
599:A great artist can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is . . . and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be . . . more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo see that this lovely young girl is still alive, prisoned inside her ruined body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart . . . no matter what the merciless hours have done. ~ Robert A Heinlein, #NFDB
600:once my mother started dying, something inside of me was dead to Paul, no matter what he did or said. ..What did he know about losing anything? His parents were still alive and happily married to each other. My connection with him and his gloriously unfractured life only seemed to increase my pain. It wasn’t his fault. Being with him felt unbearable, but being with anyone else did too. The only person I could bear to be with was the most unbearable person of all: my mother. ~ Cheryl Strayed, #NFDB
601:Otherwise, my life passed in a blur, that blessing of urban routine. The sense of distinct events that is so inescapable on a farm, where every rainstorm is thick with odor and color, and usefulness and timing, where omens of prosperity or ruin to come are sought in every change, where any of the world’s details may contain the one thing that above all else you will regret not knowing, this sense lifted off me. Maybe another way of saying it is that I forgot I was still alive. ~ Jane Smiley, #NFDB
602:Simi, why did Acheron send you here? (Astrid)
To protect you from Thanatos so that your sisters don’t get all freaky and destroy the world. Or something like that. I don’t know why all of you fear the end of the world. It’s not so bad, really. At least then akri’s mama be free. Then she wouldn’t be so cranky at the Simi all the time. (Simi)
Ash’s mother is still alive? (Zarek)
Oh, akri get mad whenever I tell that. Bad Simi. I not talk anymore. I need food. (Simi) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,#NFDB
603:What about Luna?”
“Well, if they’re telling the truth and she’s still alive--” began Ron.
“Don’t say that, don’t say it!” squealed Hermione. “She must be alive, she must!”
“Then she’ll be in Azkaban, I expect,” said Ron. “Whether she survives the place, though…Loads don’t…”
“She will,” said Harry. He could not bear to contemplate the alternative. “She’s tough, Luna, much tougher than you’d think. She’s probably teaching all the inmates about Wrackspurts and Nargles. ~ J K Rowling,#NFDB
604:In my later years I have sought to become simpler, straighter and purer in my handling of the language. I've had many writing heroes, writers who have influenced me. Of the ones still alive, I can think of E.B. White. I certainly admire the pure, crystal stream of his prose. When I was very young as a sportswriter I knowingly and unashamedly imitated others. I had a series of heroes who would delight me for a while and I'd imitate them--Damon Runyon, Westbrook Pegler, Joe Williams. ~ Red Smith, #NFDB
605:The length of history spanned by father and daughter is hard to comprehend. W. A. Clark was born in 1839, during the administration of the eighth president of the United States, Martin Van Buren. W.A. was twenty-two when the Civil War began. When Huguette was born in 1906, Theodore Roosevelt, the twenty-sixth president, was in the White House. Yet 170 years after W.A.’s birth, his youngest child was still alive at age 103 during the time of the forty-fourth president, Barack Obama. ~ Bill Dedman, #NFDB
606:How many more times do we have to come to terms with death before we find safety?" he asked.
He waited a few minutes, but the three of us didn't say anything. He continued: "Every time people come at us with the intention of killing us, I close my eyes and wait for death. Even though I am still alive, I feel like each time I accept death, part of me dies. Very soon I will completely die and all that will be left is my empty body walking with you. It will be quieter than I am. ~ Ishmael Beah,#NFDB
607:People who love horror films are people with boring lives... when a really scary movie is over, you're reassured to see that you're still alive and the world still exists as it did before. That's the real reason we have horror films - they act as shock absorbers - and if they disappeared altogether, I bet you'd see a big leap in the number of serial killers. After all, anyone stupid enough to get the idea of murdering people from a movie could get the same idea from watching the news. ~ Ry Murakami, #NFDB
608:You learn to live with it, with them. Because they do stay with you, even if they’re not living, breathing people any more. It’s not the same crushing grief you felt at first, the kind that swamps you, and makes you want to cry in the wrong places, and get irrationally angry with all the idiots who are still alive when the person you love is dead. It’s just something you learn to accommodate. Like adapting around a hole. I don’t know. It’s like you become … a doughnut instead of a bun. ~ Jojo Moyes, #NFDB
609:He knew he was overfastidious. But how could one write history with Macaulay so close behind? Fiction or poetry, in the midst of the greatest galaxy of talent in the history of English literature? How could one be a creative scientist, with Lyell and Darwin still alive? Be a statesman, with Disraeli and Gladstone polarizing all the available space?
You will see that Charles set his sights high. Intelligent idlers always have, in order to justify their idleness to their intelligence. ~ John Fowles,#NFDB
610:Oh come on, killing a man is not as big a thing as people like you seem to think. If you’re going to take somebody’s woman, a man has to die. When I kill a man, I do it with my sword, but people like you don’t use swords. You gentlemen kill with your power, with your money, and sometimes just with your words: you tell people you’re doing them a favor. True, no blood flows, the man is still alive, but you’ve killed him all the same. I don’t know whose sin is greater – yours or mine. ~ Ry nosuke Akutagawa, #NFDB
611:There are two kinds of people. One kind, you can just tell by looking at them at what point they congealed into their final selves. It might be a very nice self, but you know you can expect no more suprises from it. Whereas, the other kind keep moving, changing... They are fluid. They keep moving forward and making new trysts with life, and the motion of it keeps them young. In my opinion, they are the only people who are still alive. You must be constantly on your guard against congealing. ~ Gail Godwin, #NFDB
612:When I was Allie the Fringer, I used to collect books like this, from anywhere I could find them. Of Course, in the Fringe, owning them was highly illegal. The vampire lords didn’t want their cattle to be able to read—it might put ideas in our heads if they knew what life was like before. But one of my greatest secrets was that I could read. My mom had taught me when she was still alive, and I’d clung to that accomplishment fiercely. It was the one thing the vampires couldn’t take from me. ~ Julie Kagawa, #NFDB
613:Forgiving those who have hurt us is hard. Often we are afraid to forgive because it might open us up to be hurt again. We hesitate to ask others for forgiveness because they might think we’re the only one who did something wrong—and they won’t think they need to change. Or we’re afraid if we bring something up again we’re going to unearth bitterness we don’t want to deal with, so we just leave it buried. But any time we bury a hurt that’s still alive, it just rises from the dead to haunt us. ~ Renee Swope, #NFDB
614:If you are breathing, you are still alive. If you are alive, then you are still here, physically, on this planet. If you are still here, then you have not completed what you were put on earth to do. If you have not completed what you were put on earth to do … that means your very purpose has not yet been fulfilled. If your purpose has not yet been fulfilled, then the most important part of your life has not yet been lived. And if the most important part of your life has not yet been lived … ~ Andy Andrews, #NFDB
615:There are two kinds of people. One kind, you can just tell by looking at them at what point they congealed into their final selves. It might be a very nice self, but you know you can expect no more surprises from it. Whereas, the other kind keep moving, changing... They are fluid. They keep moving forward and making new trysts with life, and the motion of it keeps them young. In my opinion, they are the only people who are still alive. You must be constantly on your guard against congealing. ~ Gail Godwin, #NFDB
616:You learn to live with it, with them. Because they do stay with you, even if they’re not living, breathing people any more. It’s not the same crushing grief you felt at first, the kind that swamps you, and makes you want to cry in the wrong places, and get irrationally angry with all the idiots who are still alive when the person you love is dead. It’s just something you learn to accommodate. Like adapting around a hole. I don’t know. It’s like you become … a doughnut instead of a bun.’ There ~ Jojo Moyes, #NFDB
617:Atheism is not a philosophy; it is not even a view of the world; it is simply an admission of the obvious. In fact, 'atheism' is a term that should not even exist. No one needs to identify himself as a 'non-astrologer' or a 'non-alchemist.' We do not have words for people who doubt that Elvis is still alive or that aliens have traversed the galaxy only to molest ranchers and cattle. Atheism is nothing more than the noises reasonable people make in the presence of unjustified religious beliefs. ~ Sam Harris, #NFDB
618:You learn to live with it, with them. Because they do stay with you, even if they’re not living, breathing people any more.
It’s not the same crushing grief you felt at first, the kind that swamps you, and makes you want to cry in the wrong places, and get irrationally angry with all the idiots who are still alive when the person you love is dead.
It’s just something you learn to accommodate.
Like adapting around a hole. I don’t know. It’s like you become … a doughnut instead of a bun ~ Jojo Moyes,#NFDB
619:But, despite everything, it was almost a pleasure to suffer those torments. I had crawled through life blindly and dully for so long, my heart had kept silent and had sat, impoverished, in a corner for so long, that even these self accusations, this horror, this whole ghastly emotion in my soul was welcome. After all, it was an emotion, flames were still rising, it showed that my heart was still alive! In a confused way, in the midst of misery I felt something like liberation and springtime. ~ Hermann Hesse, #NFDB
620:HOW TO BREAK INTO BLACKTHORNE (A list by Operatives Morgan, Baxter, Sutton, and McHenry) Step 1. Become slightly crazy. Step 2. So crazy you actually volunteer to go over a fifty-foot waterfall. Step 3. Swallow a lot of very cold river water. Step 4. Cough and gag. Step 5. Repeat Step 4 until it feels like maybe your lungs aren’t inside your body anymore. Step 6. Remember that a really cute boy is beside you, so try to cough in a far more attractive manner. Step 7. Be grateful you’re still alive. ~ Ally Carter, #NFDB
621:Take, for example, the people who think Elvis is still alive… What’s wrong with this claim? Why is this claim not vitiating our academic departments and corporations? I’ll tell you why, and it’s very simple. We have not passed laws against believing Elvis is still alive. It’s just whenever somebody seriously represents his belief that Elvis is still alive – in a conversation, on a first date, at a lecture, at a job interview – he immediately pays a price. He pays a price in ill-concealed laughter. ~ Sam Harris, #NFDB
622:Oh, I am unhappy… I can't work, I shan't work. Enough, enough! I have already been at work for a long while, and my brain has dried up, and I've grown thinner, plainer, older, and there is no relief of any sort, and time goes and it seems all the while as if I am going away from the real, the beautiful life, farther and farther away, down some precipice. I'm in despair and I can't understand how it is that I am still alive, that I haven't killed myself…
… Still, I am sorry that my youth has gone ~ Anton Chekhov,#NFDB
623:A wound in the soul, coming from the rending of the spiritual body, strange as it may seem, gradually closes like a physical wound. And once a deep wound heals over and the edges seem to have knit, a wound in the soul, like a physical wound, can be healed only by the force of life pushing up from inside. This was the way Natasha's wound healed. She thought her life was over. But suddenly her love for her mother showed her that the essence of life - love - was still alive in her. Love awoke, and life awoke. ~ Leo Tolstoy, #NFDB
624:page 117 Sam says "You learn to live with it, with them. Because they do stay with you, even if they're not living, breathing people anymore. It's not the same crushing grief you felt at first, the kind that swamps you and makes you want to cry in the wrong places and irrationally angry with all the idiots who are still alive when the person you love is dead. It's just something you learn to accommodate. Like adapting around a hole. I don't know. It's like you become...a doughnut instead of a bun." page 117 ~ Jojo Moyes, #NFDB
625:After the Indians departed, Rachel bolted from the cabin and wrapped her arms around Loretta. Woodenly she returned her aunt’s embrace but kept her eyes on the cloud of dust that drifted toward the river, the Comanche’s words echoing. I am your destiny. Despite the heat, a clammy chill washed over her.
“You’re all right,” Rachel crooned. “You’re all right.”
Tightening her arms around her aunt, Loretta closed her eyes. She had stood face to face with a Comanche warrior and was still alive. ~ Catherine Anderson,#NFDB
626:Sheridan wrote in his 1972 book, The Fall and Rise of Jimmy Hoffa: “He went about this by arranging for one of Beck’s own attorneys to feed information to Kennedy about Beck.” That simple sentence is a courageous one by Mr. Sheridan. Although Hoffa was still alive when the book came out and had literally just walked out of jail, Bobby Kennedy had been dead for four years. Had Kennedy been alive, and had anyone picked up on the implications of that sentence, an ethics probe would have been fully warranted. ~ Charles Brandt, #NFDB
627:When I was young, I knew that, somehow, I would go to Africa and live with animals. And I wanted to write books about them. I don't think I spent too much time wondering exactly how I would do it. I just felt sure the right opportunity would somehow come. I didn't feel frustrated because I could not immediately get to the wild places. Partly this was because I knew I could never go on a reallt long trip while Rusty was still alive. It would have seemed like a betrayal. And while I waited I went on learning. ~ Jane Goodall, #NFDB
628:A wound in the soul, coming from the rending of the spiritual body, strange as it may seem, gradually closes like a physical wound. And once a deep wound heals over and the edges seem to have knit, a wound in the soul, like a physical wound, can be healed only by the force of life pushing up from inside.
This was the way Natasha's wound healed. She thought her life was over. But suddenly her love for her mother showed her that the essence of life - love - was still alive in her. Love awoke, and life awoke. ~ Leo Tolstoy,#NFDB
629:Yes, it looks bleak. But you are still alive now. You are alive with all the others, in this present moment. And because the truth is speaking in the work, it unlocks the heart. And there’s such a feeling and experience of adventure. It’s like a trumpet call to a great adventure. In all great adventures there comes a time when the little band of heroes feels totally outnumbered and bleak, like Frodo in Lord of the Rings or Pilgrim in Pilgrim’s Progress. You learn to say ‘It looks bleak. Big deal, it looks bleak.’ ~ Joanna Macy, #NFDB
630:I went to Catholic school my entire life. Elementary school was probably my worst time - those are the years when you're figurin' out who you are, and then you've got the added pressure of being on the light-skinned side of things. I've been around - excuse me saying - predominantly white people in Catholic school, who sit around and just talk about black people because they thought they were in the presence of themselves, and they used to talk cool. I felt firsthand the racial prejudice that is still alive today. ~ Kevin michael, #NFDB
631:But I’m scared. And I need company. This morning I drove past the Santa Teresa prison and I almost had a panic attack.” “Is it that bad?” “It’s like a dream,” said Guadalupe Roncal. “It looks like something alive.” “Alive?” “I don’t know how to explain it. More alive than an apartment building, for example. Much more alive. Don’t be shocked by what I’m about to say, but it looks like a woman who’s been hacked to pieces. Who’s been hacked to pieces but is still alive. And the prisoners are living inside this woman. ~ Roberto Bola o, #NFDB
632:I'm 64, but I act like I'm still 12. I go to schools. At colleges, they come out in droves, they almost scare me. I think it's just to see if I'm still alive. After I work them out - and it's not easy - I sit them down and we have a serious talk. Are they eating? Working on their body? I can say things parents won't say. No matter where I go, I talk to each one individually after I teach. They tell me things like, 'I'm starving, guys like girls thinner.' I give them concrete advice about self-image and self-worth. ~ Richard Simmons, #NFDB
633:any day when he could personify American primitivism was a good ol’ day. It meant that he was still alive, and sometimes even the carnival coon in the dunk tank misses the attention. And this country, the latent high school homosexual that it is, the mulatto passing for white that it is, the Neanderthal incessantly plucking its unibrow that it is, needs people like him. It needs somebody to throw baseballs at, to fag-bash, to nigger-stomp, to invade, to embargo. ”
Excerpt From: Paul Beatty. “The Sellout.” iBooks. ~ Paul Beatty,#NFDB
634:Travel in a rocket at 99 percent the speed of light and you’ll enjoy the consequential sevenfold time dilation: from your perspective nothing has changed; you have aged a decade in ten years’ worth of travel. But upon returning to Earth you’d find that seventy years have passed and none of your old friends are still alive to greet you. (For the famous formula that lets you calculate the slowdown of time at any speed you care to consider, see the Lorentz transformation in Appendix 1.) Then the truth rather than the theory ~ Robert Lanza, #NFDB
635:Lynn Margulis comments, “Most bacteria have far more important things to do on this Earth than to devour our tissues while we are still alive, drink our blood when we are old and weak, or fight with us over who will eat our food first. . . . Those who hate and want to kill bacteria indulge in self-hatred. Our ultimate ancestors, yours and mine, descended from this group of beings. Not only are bacteria our ancestors, but also . . . as the evolutionary antecedent of the nervous system, they invented consciousness. ~ Stephen Harrod Buhner, #NFDB
636:These letters are all I have left. 26 friends to tell my stories to. 26 letters are all I need. I can stitch them together to create oceans and ecosystems. I can fit them together to form planets and solar systems. I can use letters to construct skyscrapers and metropolitan cities populated by people, places, things, and ideas that are more real to me than these 4 walls. I need nothing but letters to live. Without them I would not exist. Because these words I write down are the only proof I have that I’m still alive. It ~ Tahereh Mafi, #NFDB
637:When they came to harvest my corpse (open your mouth, close your eyes) cut my body from the rope, surprise, surprise: I was still alive. Tough luck, folks, I know the law: you can't execute me twice for the same thing. How nice. I fell to the clover, breathed it in, and bared my teeth at them in a filthy grin. You can imagine how that went over. Now I only need to look out at them through my sky-blue eyes. They see their own ill will staring then in the forehead and turn tail Before, I was not a witch. But now I am one. ~ Margaret Atwood, #NFDB
638:It’s 11 am and I’m sitting in a restaurant
3 beers in. Believe me, even I’m surprised
I’m still alive sometimes.
I have been drinking about you for 2 days.
Lately you remind me of a wild thing
chewing through its foot. But you
are already free and I don’t know what to do
except trace the rough line of your jaw
and try not to place blame.
Here is the truth: It is hard to be in love
with someone who is in love someone else.
I don’t know how to turn that into poetry. ~ Clementine von Radics,#NFDB
639:No. Really. I’ve thought about it a lot. You learn to live with it, with them. Because they do stay with you, even if they’re not living, breathing people any more. It’s not the same crushing grief you felt at first, the kind that swamps you, and makes you want to cry in the wrong places, and get irrationally angry with all the idiots who are still alive when the person you love is dead. It’s just something you learn to accommodate. Like adapting around a hole. I don’t know. It’s like you become … a doughnut instead of a bun. ~ Jojo Moyes, #NFDB
640:Jenks snickered. “Yeah, Rache. Why bother? I mean, this could be good. Ivy could invite her mom over for a housewarming. We’ve been here a year, and the woman is dying to come over. Well, at least she would be if she were still alive.”
Worried, I looked up from the phone book.
Alarm sifted over Ivy. For a moment it was so quiet I could hear the clock above the sink, and then Ivy jerked, her speed edging into that eerie vamp quickness she took pains to hide.
“Give me the phone,” she said, snatching it. ~ Kim Harrison,#NFDB
641:Melletin jumped up on a barrel beside Ramil. "Brigardians, are you with the Dark Prince?"
"Aye!" shouted his countrymen.
"What about you other men?" Ramil asked, looking across the crowd of faces drawn from all parts of the Empire.
The slave who had challenged him took one look at Yelena, then raised his hand. "I'm in. It seems you might know what you're doing after all."
Ramil grinned. "I can't promise that--but I can promise that I'll buy you a drink if we're still alive by the end of tomorrow! ~ Julia Golding,#NFDB
642:No. Really. I’ve thought about it a lot. You learn to live with it, with them. Because they do stay with you, even if they’re not living, breathing people anymore. It’s not the same crushing grief you felt at first, the kind that swamps you and makes you want to cry in the wrong places and get irrationally angry with all the idiots who are still alive when the person you love is dead. It’s just something you learn to accommodate. Like adapting around a hole. I don’t know. It’s like you become . . . a doughnut instead of a bun. ~ Jojo Moyes, #NFDB
643:No. Really. I've thought about it a lot. You learn to live with it, with them. Because they do stay with you, even if they're not living, breathing people any more. It's not the same crushing grief you felt at first, the kind that swamps you, and makes you want to cry in the wrong places and get irrationally angry with all the idiots who are still alive when the person you love is dead. It's just something you learn to accommodate. Like adapting around a whole. I don't know. It's like you become... a doughnut instead of a bun. ~ Jojo Moyes, #NFDB
644:We got off at the next exit, quietly, and, switching drivers, we walked in front of the car. We met and I held him, my hands balled into tight fists around his shoulders, and he wrapped his short arms around me and squeezed tight, so that I felt the heaves of his chest as we realized over and over again that we were still alive. I realized it in waves and we held on to each other crying and I thought, 'God we must look so lame,' but it doesn't matter when you have just now realized, all the time later, that you are still alive. ~ John Green, #NFDB
645:These letters are all I have left.
26 friends to tell my stories to.
26 letters are all I need. I can stitch them together to create oceans and ecosystems. I can fit them together to form planets and solar systems. I can use letters to construct skyscrapers and metropolitan cities populated by people, places, things, and ideas that are more real to me than these 4 walls.
I need nothing but letters to live. Without them I would not exist.
Because these words I write down are the only proof I have that I’m still alive. ~ Tahereh Mafi,#NFDB
646:I think you guys should take a road trip to Roswell,” I joked.
“Maybe you can prove that Elvis is still alive and break the Da Vinci Code on the way,” he added and I giggled. Mark and Adam gave each other a look.
“I think it’s just the two of us now, Adam,” Mark said.
“Want to lay some cash on how long he has?” Adam asked.
“Six months,” Mark answered.
“Until engagement or actual marriage?”
“Just until engagement. You’ve got to give him some time to get past denial and make it to acceptance. ~ N M Silber,#NFDB
647:For they imagined as they wished--that it was a wild shot,/ an unintended killing--fools, not to comprehend/ they were already in the grip of death./ But glaring under his brows Odysseus answered: 'You yellow dogs, you thought I'd never make it/ home from the land of Troy. You took my house to plunder,/ twisted my maids to serve your beds. You dared/ bid for my wife while I was still alive./ Contempt was all you had for the gods who rule wide heaven,/ contempt for what men say of you hereafter./ Your last hour has come. You die in blood. ~ Homer, #NFDB
648:On the other hand, heroism is basic to the character of the Nordic peoples. This heroism of the ancient mythic period and this is what is decisive has never been lost, despite times of decline, so long as the Nordic blood was still alive. Heroism, in fact, took many forms, from the warrior nobility of Siegfried or Hercules to the intellectual nobility of Copernicus and Leonardo , the religious nobility of Eckehart and Lagarde, or the political nobility of Frederick the Great and Bismarck , and its substance has remained the same. ~ Alfred Rosenberg, #NFDB
649:One day, at a nursing home in Connecticut, elderly residents were each given a choice of houseplants to care for and were asked to make a number of small decisions about their daily routines. A year and a half later, not only were these people more cheerful, active, and alert than a similar group in the same institution who were not given these choices and responsibilities, but many more of them were still alive. In fact, less than half as many of the decision-making, plant-minding residents had died as had those in the other group. ~ Ellen J Langer, #NFDB
650:For they imagined as they wished--that it was a wild shot,/ an unintended killing--fools, not to comprehend/ they were already in the grip of death./ But glaring under his brows Odysseus answered:
'You yellow dogs, you thought I'd never make it/ home from the land of Troy. You took my house to plunder,/ twisted my maids to serve your beds. You dared/ bid for my wife while I was still alive./ Contempt was all you had for the gods who rule wide heaven,/ contempt for what men say of you hereafter./ Your last hour has come. You die in blood. ~ Homer,#NFDB
651:People just like the thrill of anything. Dangerous things and dark things are exciting. Like as a kid, I knew I wasn't going to get killed if I went into the Haunted House but you kind of feel like you are. And when it comes out the track the other side, it's like, "we're still alive"! And I find it really funny when adults get really scared because I've not been really scared since I saw Jaws when I was a little kid. I just think people like the thrill of it, they like to feel like they accomplished something, that they survived the movie. ~ Rob Zombie, #NFDB
652:What helped me go through it was reminding myself of famous people who went through bad shit and were still alive. It was kind of creepy, but it helped. Like, Joaquin Phoenix had watched his brother die, and had to call 911. Keanu Reeves had lost his stillborn baby and the love of his life eighteen months apart. Oprah Winfrey had been a fourteen-year-old runaway after being sexually abused. Charlize Theron watched her mother shoot her father to death in self-defense. These people still lived. Laughed. Breathed. Got married. Had babies. Moved on. ~ L J Shen, #NFDB
653:A ship doesn't look quite the same from inside, does it? A wise sailor,' Robert said, fanning his arms, 'will one time stand upon the shore and watch his ship sail by, that he shall from then on appreciate not being left behind.' He grinned and added, 'Eh?'
George gave him a little grimace. 'Who's that? Melville? Or C.S. Forrester?'
It's me!' Robert complained. "Can't I be profound now and again?'
Hell, no.'
Why not?'
Because you're still alive. Gotta be dead to be profound.'
You're unchivalrous, George. ~ Diane Carey,#NFDB
654:Yeah? Okay," she said, staring up into the stars. "Let's see. You know how, at the end of Romeo and Juliet, Juliet wakes up in the crypt and Romeo's already dead? He thought she was dead so he killed himself right next to her?" "Yeah. That was awesome." A pause, followed by "Ow," suggested elbow punctuation on the part of Mik. Karou ignored it. "Well, imagine if she woke up and he was still alive, but..." She swallowed, waiting out a tremor in her voice. "But he had killed her whole family. And burned her city. And killed and enslaved her people. ~ Laini Taylor, #NFDB
655:It does not seem to me, Austerlitz added, that we understand the laws governing the return of the past, but I feel more and more as if time did not exist at all, only various spaces interlocking according to the rules of a higher form of stereometry, between which the living and the dead can move back and forth as they like, and the longer I think about it the more it seems to me that we who are still alive are unreal in the eyes of the dead, that only occasionally, in certain lights and atmospheric conditions, do we appear in their field of vision. ~ W G Sebald, #NFDB
656:This private estate was far enough away from the explosion so that its bamboos, pines, laurel, and maples were still alive, and the green place invited refugees—partly because they believed that if the Americans came back, they would bomb only buildings; partly because the foliage seemed a center of coolness and life, and the estate’s exquisitely precise rock gardens, with their quiet pools and arching bridges, were very Japanese, normal, secure; and also partly (according to some who were there) because of an irresistible, atavistic urge to hide under leaves. ~ John Hersey, #NFDB
657:The first New Year after they died felt like another betrayal -- we were leaving behind the last year in which they had lived, a year they had known, and starting on a year that they would never experience.
There was also some confusion in my mind, in the months afterwards. It was not that I thought she was still alive. But at the same time I couldn't believe that she was actually gone. Suddenly the choice wasn't so simple: either alive or not alive. It was as though not being alive did not have to mean she was dead, as though there were some third possibility. ~ Lydia Davis,#NFDB
658:I think in that context, when a generation of kids is that ignorant of their recent history, it does a good job of showing what the Pistols were standing for. It's current and it's in the air, partly because I think nothing contemporary is as extreme or as strongly stated as what The Sex Pistols were able to do in their time, in the '70s. I think the reason to [make the film] is that their ideas are still alive: the defense of the right to be an individual, and questioning everything you read, and questioning all the information that's bombarded increasingly at you. ~ Julien Temple, #NFDB
659:In The Harbor
Emis - young, twenty-eightreached this Syrian harbor in a Tenian ship,
his plan to learn the incense trade.
But ill during the voyage,
he died as soon as he was put ashore.
His burial, the poorest possible, took place here.
A few hours before dying he whispered something
about 'home', about 'very old parents.'
But nobody he called home
in the great pan Hellenic world.
Better that way; because as it is,
though he lies buried in this harbor,
his parents will always have the hope he's still alive.
~ Constantine P. Cavafy,#NFDB
660:The tiger had stalked the spotted deer, brought it down with a pounce, and clamped the back of its neck in its jaws. Women and even a few men had grimaced and exclaimed in horror as Swansea described how the tiger had proceeded to eat the chital while it was still alive. “The vicious beast!” one of the women had gasped. But as soon as Amelia Hathaway entered the room, Cam had found himself entirely in sympathy with the tiger. There was nothing he wanted more than to bite the tender back of her neck and drag her to some private place where he could feast on her for hours. ~ Lisa Kleypas, #NFDB
661:If all we know of mind is the aspect of mind that dissolves when we die, we will be left with no idea of what continues, no knowledge of the new dimension of the deeper reality of the nature of mind. So it is vital for us all to familiarize ourselves with the nature of mind while we are still alive. Only then will we be prepared for the time when it reveals itself spontaneously and powerfully at the moment of death; be able to recognize it "as naturally," the teachings say, "as a child running into its mother's lap"; and by remaining in that state, finally be liberated. ~ Sogyal Rinpoche, #NFDB
662:My friend Luke told me once that he’d been considering my question about whether the dead ever visit. It was true that I had asked him, back around the time I asked Nate, but this was weeks and weeks later. Apparently he had been deliberating the issue ever since. “I’ve decided,” he said, “that they don’t visit. But I think if you knew them well enough, if you’d listened to them closely enough while they were still alive, you might be able to imagine what they would tell you even now. So the smart thing to do is, pay attention while they’re living. But that’s only my opinion. ~ Anne Tyler, #NFDB
663:She felt her wrists, her arms, rubbed her hand over her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She was warm and smooth and her heart beat calmly, fine pulsing energy was being driven through her, she could walk, she could talk, she could feel, she could think. And suddenly it was all right, the past, even if it was all wrong, because it had freed her, it had placed her here, still alive, more alive than she had been since the days long ago when she had taken off all her clothes and gone for a stroll to the candy store. There was no justice, there was only life. And life she had. ~ Marilyn French, #NFDB
664:Why is it we want so badly to memorialize ourselves? Even while we're still alive. We wish to assert our existence, like dogs peeing on fire hydrants. We put on display our framed photographs, our parchment diplomas, our silver-plated cups; we monogram our linen, we carve our names on trees, we scrawl them on washroom walls. It's all the same impulse. What do we hope from it? Applause, envy, respect? Or simply attention, of any kind we can get? At the very least we want a witness. We can't stand the idea of our own voices falling silent finally, like a radio running down. ~ Margaret Atwood, #NFDB
665:Failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy to finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one area where I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realized, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter, and a big idea. And so rock bottom became a solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life. ~ J K Rowling, #NFDB
666:Everything feels like a badly designed computer game in which you fall into a pit that doesn't kill you but from which there's absolutely no escape. For a while you kick against the walls, but the walls get higher no matter how hard and fast you press all the buttons you can find. And sooner or later you'll realize there's one you haven't tried yet. The power switch.[...] So she began reaching for the button herself, but she never tried quite hard enough, because some part of her was still alive. She didn't want to throw the machine away. She just wanted to start again. ~ Michael Marshall Smith, #NFDB
667:I envision my mind as a plot of grass full of sheep surrounded by a perimeter of electric fence. If I'm not constantly vigilant and aware of my thoughts, the electric fence shuts off, the sheep jump out, and my panic gets away from me. The chance for an attack is especially bad just before bed or when I'm distracted or lost in thought in the car, causing me to slap myself in the face as hard as I can or bite the inside of my upper arm. If I can feel the pain, then I am still alive and can begin to focus on rounding up the sheep again. See? This makes perfect sense in my head. ~ Brittany Gibbons, #NFDB
668:Most days I feel like the sole survivor of a shipwreck, rowing my paddleboat across a sea of people on waves made of an infinite array of hands and crests that reveal anonymous faces. On a good day, the clouds part to alight on-lo and behold-an island! I step ashore, only find that it too is made of people, mangled bodies somehow still alive. They grab at my feet, pulling me under like quicksand. The last thing I see before suffocating is the sky, a billion eyes staring down, blinking in undulating electric ripples. The cold rain I feel on my cheeks is the tears of the people. ~ Richard M Nixon, #NFDB
669:I am a very old man; how old I do not know. Possibly I am a hundred, possibly more; but I cannot tell because I have never aged as other men, nor do I remember any childhood. So far as I can recollect I have always been a man, a man of about thirty. I appear today as I did forty years and more ago, and yet I feel that I cannot go on loving forever; that someday I shall die the real death, I who have died twice and am still alive; but yet I have the same horror of it as you who have never died, and it is because of this terror of death, I believe, I am so convinced of my mortality. ~ Edgar Rice Burroughs, #NFDB
670:Good. How about you find the balls that are attached to your dicks, draw them out of your abdominal cavity and show me.”
“You want to see our testicles, Coach?” Mike asked, making his way backward down his ladder.
“Maybe when I find my magnifying glass, Mr. Brown! I won’t be able to tell the difference between what you call testicles and raisins.”
Mike gasped for air. “My balls are sweeter, sir!”
Lids narrowed over his black marbles. “Glad to know how flexible you are, Mr. Brown. That’ll come in handy for the rest of my practice.” Watkins added with a growl, “If you are still alive. ~ Ashlan Thomas,#NFDB
671:For suddenly, just as the men tried to cross, a fatal bird-sign flashed before their eyes, an eagle flying high on the left across their front and clutching a monstrous bloody serpent in both talons, still alive, still struggling-it had not lost its fight, writhing back to strike it fanged the chest of its captor right beside the throat-and agonized by the bites the eagle flung it away to earth, dashed it down amidst the milling fighters, loosed a shriek and the bird veered off along the gusting wind. The Trojans shuddered to see the serpent glistening, wriggling at their feet, a sign from storming Zeus. ~ Homer, #NFDB
672:Freud was still alive when his quest for liberating the ego from its oppressors was turned into a staid ideology and a rigidly regulated profession. Marx was even less fortunate: his attempts to free consciousness from the tyranny of economic exploitation were soon turned into a system of repression that would have boggled the poor founder’s mind. And as Dostoevsky among many others observed, if Christ had returned to preach his message of liberation in the Middle Ages, he would have been crucified again and again by the leaders of that very church whose worldly power was built on his name. ~ Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, #NFDB
673:Who else had ever met the business-end of a bolt of lightning in mid-flight, as he had just now, flying blind through a storm, lost a wing, managed to come down still alive even if it is on a wooded mountainside, to cut the contact at the moment of crashing so that he wasn't roasted alive, and crawl out with just a wrenched shoulder and a lot of cuts and bruises? He couldn't bail out because he was flying too low, hoping for a break through the clouds through which to spot something flat enough to come down on; he doesn't like bailing out anyway, hates to throw away a good plane. ("Jane Brown's Body") ~ Cornell Woolrich, #NFDB
674:There is little we can point to in our lives as deserving anything but God's wrath. Our best moments have been mostly grotesque parodies. Our best loves have been almost always blurred with selfishness and deceit. But there is something to which we can point. Not anything that we ever did or were, but something that was done for us by another. Not our own lives, but the life of one who died in our behalf and yet is still alive. This is our only glory and our only hope. And the sound that it makes is the sound of excitement and gladness and laughter that floats through the night air from a great banquet. ~ Frederick Buechner, #NFDB
675:Malphas surveyed the women's bodies with utter disgust and sorrow
until he realized Tabitha was still alive. He knelt by her side and cradled her head tenderly. "Tabby... I'm so sorry"
Grimacing she opened her eyes as she labored to breathe. She laughed bitterly, exposing a set of bleeding teeth. "there are some things that sorry doesn't fix, Caleb."
"Shhh, don't speak. I can--"
"you failed us," She went limp in his arms. Her eyes went Dull.
Wincing, Caleb held her close to his heart and stroked her bloody hair. "No, Tabby. I failed myself."
"Most of all, I failed Nick. ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,#NFDB
676:And when he presses his lips into the curve of my throat, I can feel his tears on my skin.
“You are an idiot,” I say, even as I guide his face and mouth to mine. I kiss him, not gently, but desperately. Desperately, because he’s worth it—because life is terrifying and short and I don’t know what will happen. All I know is that here and now, I am still alive, and I want to be with Wesley Ayers. Here and now I want to feel his arms wrapped around me. I want to feel his lips on mine. I want to feel his life tangling with mine. Here and now is all we have, and I want to make it worth whatever happens next. ~ Victoria Schwab,#NFDB
677:Anybody can look at a pretty girl and see a pretty girl. An artist can look at a pretty girl and see the old woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl that she used to be. But a great artist--a master--and that is what Auguste Rodin was--can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is . . . and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be . . . and more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo, or even you, see that this lovely young girl is still alive, not old and ugly at all, but simply prisoned inside her ruined body. ~ Robert A Heinlein, #NFDB
678:I am, in large measure, the selfsame prose I write. I unroll myself in sentences and paragraphs, I punctuate myself. In my arranging and rearranging of images I’m like a child using newspaper to dress up as a king, and in the way I create rhythm with a series of words I’m like a lunatic adorning my hair with dried flowers that are still alive in his dreams. And above all I’m calm, like a rag doll that has become conscious of itself and occasionally shakes its head to make the tiny bell on top of its pointed cap (a component part of the same head) produce a sound, the jingling life of a dead man, a feeble notice to Fate. ~ Fernando Pessoa, #NFDB
679:The fact that she was still alive felt wrong, out of balance. She didn't feel special, or protected, or gods-bound. She thought the gods had acted to protect the roan, and she had just been along for the ride. It was the roan who was special, not she.
I should be dead, she thought. If she was dead, then all would have been settled. The warlord's men would have been satisfied to see her body swept away, the roan would have been safe from Beck's whip, the ghost of tyhe man she had killed could have gone to his rest. There was a rounding off - a justice - in her death. But alive, no one was satisfied and no one was safe. ~ Pamela Freeman,#NFDB
680:Maybe I would wake tomorrow and find that it had all been a dream, that Alexei was still alive and Mal was unhurt, that no one had tried to kill me, that I’d never met the King and Queen or seen the Apparat, or felt the Darkling’s hand on the nape of my neck. Maybe I would wake to smell the campfires burning, safe in my own clothes, on my little cot, and I could tell Mal all about this strange and terrifying, but very beautiful, dream. I rubbed my thumb over the scar in my palm and heard Mal’s voice saying, “We’ll be okay, Alina. We always are.” “I hope so, Mal,” I whispered into my pillow and let my tears carry me to sleep. ~ Leigh Bardugo, #NFDB
681:Cows are killed by a swift blow to the skull with a stun gun and a slit to the throat; they are then hooked to a chain by their hind leg, and bled out over a tub — often still alive, but not coherent. Under the U.S.’s 1958 Humane Slaughter Act, this is not only legal, but considered a “compassionate” way to die. Chickens endure even worse: they are hung upside down, shocked into paralysis, then drowned in hot water. The act of seal clubbing, when gauged with these methods, seems somewhat tamer, but has been sensationalized as unapologetically violent due to the fact that seals are more aesthetically pleasing than cows and chickens. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
682:All these years, whenever I thought of him, I'd think either of B. or of our last days in Rome, the whole thing leading up to two scenes: the balcony with its attendant agonies and via Santa Maria dell' Anima, where he'd pushed me against the old wall and kissed me and in the end let me put one leg around his. Every time I go back to Rome, I go back to that one spot. It is still alive for me, still resounds with something totally present, as though a heart stolen from a tale by Poe still throbbed under the ancient slate pavement to remind me that, here, I had finally encountered the life that was right for me but had failed to have. ~ Andr Aciman, #NFDB
683:But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings break, or maybe our ships sink, or maybe we're grass our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful with metaphor you choose, because it matters. If you choose the strings, then you're imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose the grass, you're saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. The metaphors have implications ~ John Green, #NFDB
684:Man African societies divide humans into 3 categories: those still alive on the earth, the sasha, and the zamani. The recently departed whose time on earth overlapped with people still here are the sasha, the living-dead. They are not wholly dead, for they still live in the memories of the living, who can call them to mind, create their likeness in art, and bring them to life in anecdote. When the last person to know an ancestor dies, that ancestor leaves the sasha for the zamani, the dead. As generalized ancestors, the zamani are not forgotten but revered. Many...can be recalled by name. But they are not living-dead. There is a difference. ~ Kevin Brockmeier, #NFDB
685:The franks came freshly grilled, with long slivers of pickle, hot peppers, and tomato slices, along with onions and that peculiar Chicago relish that is so green, it looks like a traffic light signaling go, eat, enjoy. Oliver splatted mustard on top—no ketchup, thank you—and took a bite. Through the soft bun and garden loaded on top he could feel the casing snap between his teeth and taste the spurt of grease. Suddenly there was no war, no politics, his mother was still alive, his father still knew how to smile, his brother was home from Vietnam, and Ernie Banks was back to playing shortstop at Wrigley Field. Was there anything better in the ~ William Lashner, #NFDB
686:Sometimes you wake up, and there's a little voice inside your head that tells you that today is a special day. For a lot of kids, it sometimes happens on their birthday, and always on Christmas morning.
I remember exactly one of those Christmases, when I was little and my dad was still alive. I felt it again, eight or nine years later, the morning that Justin Demourn came to pick me up from the orphanage. I felt it one more time the morning Justin brought Elaine home from whatever orphanage she had been in.
And now, the little voice was telling me to wake up. That it was a special day.
My little voice is some kind of psycho. ~ Jim Butcher,#NFDB
687:So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life. ~ J K Rowling, #NFDB
688:Many African societies divide humans into three categories: those still alive on the earth, the sasha, and the zamani. The recently departed whose time on earth overlapped with people still here are the sasha, the living-dead. They are not wholly dead, for they still live in the memories of the living, who can call them to mind, create their likeness in art, and bring them to life in anecdote. When the last person to know an ancestor dies, that ancestor leaves the sasha for the zamani, the dead. As generalised ancestors, the zamani are not forgotten but revered. Many … can be recalled by name. But they are not the living-dead. There is a difference. ~ James W Loewen, #NFDB
689:In the long evenings in west Beirut, there was time enough to consider where the core of the tragedy lay. In the age of Assyrians, the Empire of Rome, in the 1860s perhaps? In the french mandate? In Auschwitz? In Palestine? In the rusting front-door keys now buried deep in the rubble of Chatila? In the 1978 Israeli invasion? In the 1982 invasion? Was there a point where one could have said: Stop, beyond this point there is no future? Did I witness the point of no return in 1976? That 12 year-old on the broken office chair in the ruins of the Beirut front line. Now he was in his mid-twenties - if he was still alive - a gunboy, no more. A gunman, no doubt... ~ Robert Fisk, #NFDB
690:So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realized, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life. ~ J K Rowling, #NFDB
691:I don’t know if I can ever live up to the legacy that he left behind. I don’t know if I want to. But Liz, he died. And you’re still alive. And there is so much left of your life to live. I want to live it with you. I want to be a part of everything that remains for you, good and bad. I want to be there for your kids, for your stressful days, for your amazing days, for all of your nights and for every moment in between. We tried the time apart, but we are better together. Both of us. Yes, Grady was your great love, but you are mine. And if you would let me, I would be yours too. There isn’t a limit on how much we can love, Liz. You had Grady. Now have me. ~ Rachel Higginson, #NFDB
692:I have lived in this tree, in this same hollow," the owl said, "for more years than anyone can remember. But now, when the wind blows hard in winter and rocks the forest, I sit here in the dark, and from deep down in the bole, near the roots, I hear a new sound. It is the sound of strands of wood creaking in the cold and snapping one by one. The limbs are falling; the tree is old, and it is dying. Yet I cannot bring myself, after so many years, to leave, to find a new home and move into it, perhaps to fight for it. I, too, have grown old. One of these days, one of these years, the tree will fall, and when it does, if I am still alive, I will fall with it. ~ Robert C O Brien, #NFDB
693:You are linked to the ground mechanic’s careless fingers in Nassau just as you are linked to the weak head of the little man in the family saloon who mistakes the red light for the green and meets you head-on, for the first and last time, as you are motoring quietly home from some private sin. There’s nothing to do about it. You start to die the moment you are born. The whole of life is cutting through the pack with death. So take it easy. Light a cigarette and be grateful you are still alive as you suck the smoke deep into your lungs. Your stars have already let you come quite a long way since you left your mother’s womb and whimpered at the cold air of the world. ~ Ian Fleming, #NFDB
694:For much longer, he could have stayed with Kamaswami, made money, wasted money, filled his stomach, and let his soul die of thirst; for much longer he could have lived in this soft, well upholstered hell, if this had not happened: the moment of complete hopelessness and despair, that most extreme moment, when he hang over the rushing waters and was ready to destroy himself. That he had felt this despair, this deep disgust, and that he had not succumbed to it, that the bird, the joyful source and voice in him was still alive after all, this was why he felt joy, this was why he laughed, this was why his face was smiling brightly under his hair which had turned gray. ~ Hermann Hesse, #NFDB
695:People ought to be told of such things. Ought to be taught that immortality is mortal, that it can die, it's happened before and it happens still. It doesn't ever announce itself as such-it's duplicity itself. It doesn't exist in detail, only in principle. Certain people may harbor it, on condition they don't know that's what they're doing. Just as certain other people may detect its presence in them, on the same condition, that they don't know they can. It's while it's being lived that life is immortal, while it's still alive. Immortality is not a matter of more or less time, it's not really a question of immortality but of something else that remains unknown. ~ Marguerite Duras, #NFDB
696:Block of Death. Just inside the door on the left is the room where they held the proceedings. Jarek remarks that the SS officer who sentenced five thousand Poles here to die was still alive last year, living in Germany, age ninety-two. We ask why. He shrugs. At the far end on the corridor, on the left, looking out into the courtyard, is the room where the condemned were stripped and held. An illustration depicts a naked girl holding on to her mother’s legs as the SS guard comes for them. High on the wall, a prisoner scratched graffiti, a name and the date and the words, “Sentenced to die.” Beneath that is the date of the next day and the words, “I’m still here. ~ Christopher Buckley, #NFDB
697:In order to progress, modern society should be treating ruined entrepreneurs in the same way we honor dead soldiers, perhaps not with as much honor, but using exactly the same logic (the entrepreneur is still alive, though perhaps morally broken and socially stigmatized, particularly if he lives in Japan). For there is no such thing as a failed soldier, dead or alive (unless he acted in a cowardly manner)—likewise, there is no such thing as a failed entrepreneur or failed scientific researcher, any more than there is a successful babbler, philosophaster, commentator, consultant, lobbyist, or business school professor who does not take personal risks. (Sorry.) ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb, #NFDB
698:And a saint put it a saintly way: [The arranging of funerals, the choosing of tombs and the pomp of obsequies are consolations for the living rather than supports for the dead.] That is why Socrates (when Crito asked him in his final moments how he wanted to be buried) replied, ‘Just as you wish.’
If I had to trouble myself further, I would find it more worthy to imitate those who set about enjoying the disposition and honour of their tombs while they are still alive and breathing, and who take pleasure in seeing their dead faces carved in marble. Happy are they who can please and delight their senses with things insensate – and who can live off their death. ~ Michel de Montaigne,#NFDB
699:Gentry seemed capable of almost anything, as if he could lie, steal, or even kill without a flicker of remorse. There was no softness in him, and Sophia guessed that any sense of mercy or compassion had been driven from him long ago. But he was still her brother.
Wonderingly, she lifted her hand to the side of his face. He remained still beneath her cradling fingers. "John, I never allowed myself to hope that you were still alive."
Gently he took her hand from his face, as if he found it difficult to tolerate another person's touch. "I was shocked when I saw you in the Bow Street strong room," he muttered. "I knew who you were at once, even before I heard your name. ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
700:How long do you think it takes to get over someone dying? Someone you really loved I mean?
I'm not sure you ever do.
That's cheery.
No. Really I thought about it a lot. You learn to live with it, with then. Because they do stay with you, even if they're not living breathing people anymore. It's not the same crashing grief you felt at first, the kind that swamps you and makes you want to cry in the wrong places and get irrationally angry with all the idiots who are still alive when the person you love is dead. It's just something you learn to accommodate. Like adapting around a whole. I don't know. It's like you become. . . . a doughnut instead of a bun. ~ Jojo Moyes,#NFDB
701:We get to the front door and I lean back against it. "Thank you," I repeat.
"You'd have done the same for me." Jase puts his thumb under my chin and tips it up. "It's nothing."
"Well, except that I can't drive, and you never would have gotten yourself into that situation and---"
"Shhh." He pulls on my lower lip gently with his teeth, then fits his mouth to mine. First so careful, and then so deep and deliberate, that I can't think of anything at all but his smooth back under my hands. My fingers travel to the springy-soft texture of his hair, and I lose myself in the movement of his lips and his tongue. I'm so glad I'm still alive to feel all those things. ~ Huntley Fitzpatrick,#NFDB
702:Another bug hunt, boys. This one is a little different, as you know. Since they still hold prisoners of ours, we can't use a nova bomb on Klendathu --- so this time we go down, stand on it, hold it, take it away from them. The boat won't be down to retrieve us, instead it'll fetch more ammo and rations. If you're taken prisoner, keep your chin up and follow the rules --- because you've got the whole outfit behind you, you've got the whole Federation behind you; we'll come and get you. That's what the boys from the Swamp Fox and the Montgomery have been depending on. Those who are still alive are waiting, knowing that we will show up. And here we are. Now we go get 'em. ~ Robert A Heinlein, #NFDB
703:Basically people who love horror movies are people with boring lives. They want to be stimulated, and they need to reassure themselves, because when a really scary movie is over, you’re reassured to see that you’re still alive and the world still exists as it did before. That’s the real reason we have horror films—they act as shock absorbers—and if they disappeared altogether it would mean losing one of the few ways we have to ease the anxiety of the imagination. And I bet you’d see a big leap in the number of serial killers and mass murderers. After all, anyone stupid enough to get the idea of murdering people from a movie could get the same idea from watching the news, right? ~ Ry Murakami, #NFDB
704:One day he trapped a large raven, whose wings he painted red, the breast green, and the tail blue. When a flock of ravens appeared over our hut, Lekh freed the painted bird. As soon as it joined the flock a desperate battle began. The changeling was attacked from all sides. Black, red, green, blue feathers began to drop at our feet. The ravens ran amuck in the skies, and suddenly the painted raven plummeted to the freshly-plowed soil. It was still alive, opening its beak and vainly trying to move its wings. Its eyes had been pecked out, and fresh blood streamed over its painted feathers. It made yet another attempt to flutter up from the sticky earth, but its strength was gone. ~ Jerzy Kosi ski, #NFDB
705:I don’t want anything else bad to happen,” she whispered, her voice choked with tears. “I’m so sick to death of bad things happening, of seeing bad things that happened in the past! And I’m guilty of so many things. I’m sorry that I killed Mrs. Matthias and wrecked her stupid greenhouse back in the Eighties and I’m sorry I left you here alone while I went around the world.”
“I wasn’t alone though, I knew you were doing what you wanted to do and that you were still alive, so I wasn’t really alone, I knew you were still there somewhere,” Alecto told her. His damaged smile and downcast, sorrowful eyes were draped in the shadow of the night, saving Mandy the trouble of seeing. ~ Rebecca McNutt,#NFDB
706:Breathing silently in and silently out, curling up his body and hunching in his shoulders and head, Dinesh felt a long, wide fatigue sweeping over him, washing over his loosened limbs. Falling asleep was, in a way, the closest a person could come to renouncing the world outside them while still alive, and it was a strange thing therefore that in order to sleep one still needed to be in a safe and comforting place, one needed something reliable in the outside world to be able to hold on to or at least to touch, like an anchored boat to which a diver is attached as he descends into the sea, reassured that there is something on the surface that he can return to when the time comes. ~ Anuk Arudpragasam, #NFDB
707:It is a human characteristic, which has been richly exploited in every era, that while hope of survival is still alive in a man, while he still believes his troubles will have a favorable outcome, and while he still has the chance to unmask treason or to save someone else by sacrificing himself, he continues to cling to the pitiful remnants of comfort and remains silent and submissive. When he has been taken and destroyed, when he has nothing more to lose, and is, in consequence, ready and eager for heroic action, his belated rage can only spend itself against the stone walls of solitary confinement. Or the breath of the death sentence makes him indifferent to earthly affairs. ~ Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, #NFDB
708:Some people envied Ronan’s money. Adam envied his time. To be as rich as Ronan was to be able to go to school and do nothing else, to have luxurious swaths of time in which to study and write papers and sleep. Adam wouldn’t admit it to anyone, least of all Gansey, but he was tired. He was tired of squeezing homework in between his part-time jobs, of squeezing in sleep, squeezing in the hunt for Glendower. The jobs felt like so much wasted time: In five years, no one would care if he’d worked at a trailer factory. They’d only care if he’d graduated from Aglionby with perfect grades, or if he’d found Glendower, or if he was still alive. And Ronan didn’t have to worry about any of that. ~ Maggie Stiefvater, #NFDB
709:Some people envied Ronan’s money. Adam envied his time. To be as rich as Ronan was to be able to go to school and do nothing else, to have luxurious swathes of time in which to study and write papers and sleep. Adam wouldn’t admit it to anyone, least of all Gansey, but he was tired. He was tired of squeezing homework in between his part-time jobs, of squeezing in sleep, squeezing in the hunt for Glendower. The jobs felt like so much wasted time: In five years, no one would care if he’d worked at a trailer factory. They’d only care if he’d graduated from Aglionby with perfect grades, or if he’d found Glendower, or if he was still alive. And Ronan didn’t have to worry about any of that. ~ Maggie Stiefvater, #NFDB
710:The people in the hospital had been struck by her calm and the number of questions she had asked. They hadn't appreciated her inability to understand something quite obvious – that Tolya was no longer among the living. Her love was so strong that Tolya's death was unable to affect it: to her, he was still alive.
She was mad, but no one had noticed. Now, at last, she had found Tolya. Her joy was like that of a mother-cat when she finds her dead kitten and licks it all over.
A soul can live in torment for years and years, even decades, as it slowly, stone by stone, builds a mound over a grave; as it moves towards the apprehension of eternal loss and bows down before reality. ~ Vasily Grossman,#NFDB
711:If i'm upset right now, it's becuase I've just discovered that everyone closest to me has been lying to me. Using me. Manipulating me for their own needs. My parents, are still alive, and apparently they're no better than the abusive monsters who adopted me. I have a sister being actively tortured by The Reestablishment-- and I never even knew she existed. I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that nothing is going to be the same for me, not ever again, and I have no idea who to trust or how to move forward. So yeah, right now I don't care about anything. Because I don't know what I'm fighting for anymore. And I don't know who my friends are. Right now, everyone is my enemy, including you. ~ Tahereh Mafi, #NFDB
712:Then came the march past the victims. The two men were no longer alive. Their tongues were hanging out, swollen and bluish. But the third rope was still moving: the child, too light, was still breathing...
And so he remained for more than half an hour, lingering between life and death, writhing before our eyes.
And we were forced to look at him at close range. He was still alive when I passed him. His tongue was still red, his eyes not yet extinguished.
Behind me, I heard the same man asking:
"For God's sake, where is God?"
And from within me, I heard a voice answer:
"Where He is? This is where--hanging here from this gallows..."
That night, the soup tasted of corpses. ~ Elie Wiesel,#NFDB
713:Socrates is a shining example of a man who bravely lived up to his ideals, and, in the end, bravely died for them. Throughout his life, he never lost faith in the mind’s ability to discern and decide, and so to apprehend and master reality. Nor did he ever betray truth and integrity for a pitiable life of self-deception and semi-consciousness. In seeking relentlessly to align mind with matter and thought with fact, he remained faithful both to himself and to the world, with the result that he is still alive in this sentence and millions of others that have been written about him. More than a great philosopher, Socrates was the living embodiment of the dream that philosophy might one day set us free. ~ Neel Burton, #NFDB
714:The next Post brought a reply from the starets, who wrote to him that the cause of all his trouble lay in his pride. His Wrathful Outburst, the starets explained, had come about because it was not for God that he had humbled himself, rejecting honours and advancement in the church - not for God, but to satisfy his own pride, to be able to tell himself how virtuous he was, seeking nothing for self. That was why he had not been able to endure the Superior's conduct. Because he felt that he had given up everything for God, and now he was being put on display, like some strange beast.
"If it were for God you had given up advancement, you would have let it pass.
worldly pride is still alive in you. ~ Leo Tolstoy,#NFDB
715:Now it was there. Now it was growing within me like a tumor, like a second head, and it was a part of me, though it surely could not be mine, since it was so big. There it was, like a big dead animal that had once been my hand when it was still alive, or my arm. And my blood was flowing through me, and through it, as if through one and the same body. And my heart was having to make a great effort to pump the blood into the big thing: there was very nearly not enough blood. And the blood was loth to pass in, and emerged sick and tainted. But the big thing swelled and grew before my face, like a warm, bluish boil, and grew before my mouth, and already its margin cast a shadow on my remaining eye. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke, #NFDB
716:When your friend who died was still alive, did you ever tell him?”
“Tell him what?”
“That you’re… what’s the word? Celibate?” Tony asked, trailing his fingers along the buttons on the remote control but not really finding himself able to change the channel. His name, his daughter’s name, it all could’ve easily become a statistic, an obituary, had they not left the tower when they did.
“I’m asexual, not a celibate,” replied the lawyer, “and sure, I told him…” She froze for a moment, averting her eyes to the ugly gray-and-red carpeting on the floor. “Clarence didn’t care, he was married, anyway. He always used to tell me, “you know, you’d make one hell of an ace attorney, Bailey! ~ Rebecca McNutt,#NFDB
717:stared at Victoria with great intensity. Lifting her head with an agonizing effort, she said, “To be a queen, you have to be more than a little girl with a crown.” And then Flora subsided back onto the pillows, spent, a dribble of saliva leaking from the corner of her mouth. Victoria felt Flora’s words burning across her forehead. Impulsively she reached down and picked up the invalid’s hand and pressed it to her lips. The flesh felt cold and waxy, as if already belonging to a corpse. Flora did not stir, the only sign that she was still alive the terrible rhythm of the jagged breaths. Victoria put down the cold hand and backed away towards the door. Melbourne was waiting for her outside. “You weren’t in there ~ Daisy Goodwin, #NFDB
718:All right," Harry said coldly. "I'll answer your original question, then. You asked why Dark Wizards are afraid of death. Pretend, Headmaster, that you really believed in souls. Pretend that anyone could verify the existence of souls at any time, pretend that nobody cried at funerals because they knew their loved ones were still alive. Now can you imagine destroying a soul? Ripping it to shreds so that nothing remains to go on its next great adventure? Can you imagine what a terrible thing that would be, the worst crime that had ever been committed in the history of the universe, which you would do anything to prevent from happening even once? Because that's what Death really is - the annihilation of a soul! ~ Eliezer Yudkowsky, #NFDB
719:You think you are the greatest sufferer in the world? Do you know that men are sometimes banished for life? Do you know that men sometimes lose all their yams and even their children? I had six wives once. I have none now except that young girl who knows not her right from her left. Do you know how many children I have buried—children I begot in my youth and strength? Twenty-two. I did not hang myself, and I am still alive. If you think you are the greatest sufferer in the world ask my daughter, Akueni, how many twins she has borne and thrown away. Have you not heard the song they sing when a woman dies? 'For whom is it well, for whom is it well? There is no one for whom it is well.' I have no more to say to you. ~ Chinua Achebe, #NFDB
720:To drive children into labour is to slaughter artists, to scour deathly all wonder, the flickering dart of imagination eager as finches flitting from branch to branch – all crushed to serve grown-up needs and heartless expectations. The adult who demands such a thing is dead inside, devoid of nostalgia’s bright dancing colours, so smooth, so delicious, so replete with longing both sweet and bitter – dead inside, yes, and dead outside, too. Corpses in motion, cold with the resentment the undead bear towards all things still alive, all things still warm, still breathing. Pity these ones? Nay, never, never so long as they drive on hordes of children into grisly labour, then sup languid of air upon the myriad rewards. ~ Steven Erikson, #NFDB
721:Climb,” Matthew said, pointing to the top of a rise. “If you want to see her.”
Though we couldn’t be far from Fort Arcana, he’d insisted on stopping here. I figured this peak must be where Evie had radioed me the last time we’d spoken.
Her roses covered the face. And they were still alive.
So how had her flowers lived since then? I couldn’t imagine the power she must’ve used creating so many. It was almost as if she’d left part of her ability here as a generator.
I swiped rain from my face. Even in the dusky light, the bright red and green were stark against the ash. “If I get myself up to the top, you’ll finally tell me how to reach her?”
“Gaze out from the peak. Get a new viewpoint. ~ Kresley Cole,#NFDB
722:The old woman nods and settles back in her chair. She seems to approve. Molly feels some of the tension leave her shoulders. “Excuse my rudeness, but at my age there’s no point in beating around the bush. Your appearance is quite stylized. Are you one of those—what are they called, gothics?” Molly can’t help smiling. “Sort of.” “You borrowed that blouse, I presume.” “Uh . . .” “You needn’t have bothered. It doesn’t suit you.” She gestures for Molly to sit across from her. “You may call me Vivian. I never liked being called Mrs. Daly. My husband is no longer alive, you know.” “I’m sorry.” “No need to be sorry. He died eight years ago. Anyway, I am ninety-one years old. Not many people I once knew are still alive. ~ Christina Baker Kline, #NFDB
723:I lock eyes but see no flicker of humanity. Out of shot, bullets fly and bodies fall. In shot, there is only death. War is forced upon these people, and they take up arms naïvely. They fight for a cause, but die for another. Wars are fucked but they’ll never stop, the sums are pretty simple: wars are good for most people with power and bad for most people without. Arms dealers, politicians, big business; they profit from conflict. The average man’s only interest is a moral one. And so it’s the moral man who fights, who stands righteously on the frontline while bullets fill bank accounts, and images of heroism and death are captured and sent home to remind the rest of us – the amoral cheerleaders – that we’re still alive. ~ Matthew Selwyn, #NFDB
724:He wants to run, but where? However far he goes, he will not escape, cannot escape his own loathsome self. He will always be trapped within his own body, his own mind. The emotional pain that comes with this realization is so strong, it feels physical. He senses it knotting and twisting inside his body, ready to destroy him from within. He is losing his grip, he is losing his mind. Does anyone else know what it is to be dead yet still alive? This is it. This is it . A half-world of torment, where memories frozen into oblivion slowly begin to thaw. A place where everything hurts, where your conscious mind has neither the strength to let you function in the real world, nor the power to return you to hibernation. ~ Tabitha Suzuma, #NFDB
725:Some haiku seem reports of internal awareness, some seem to point at the external, but Bashō’s work as a whole awakens us to the necessary permeability of all to all. Awareness of the mind’s movements makes clear that it is the mind’s nature to move. Feeling within ourselves the lives of others (people, creatures, plants, and things) who share this world is what allows us to feel as we do at all. First comes the sight of a block of sea slugs frozen while still alive, then the sharp, kinesthetic comprehension of the inseparability of the suffering of one from the suffering of all. First comes hearing the sound of one bird singing, then the recognition that solitude can carry its own form of beauty, able to turn pain into depth. ~ Jane Hirshfield, #NFDB
726:Sometimes you don’t die
when you’re supposed to
& now I have a choice
repair a world or build
a new one inside my body
a white door opens
into a place queerly brimming
gold light so velvet-gold
it is like the world
hasn’t happened
when I call out
all my friends are there
everyone we love
is still alive gathered
at the lakeside
like constellations
my honeyed kin
honeyed light
beneath the sky
a garden blue stalks
white buds the moon’s
marble glow the fire
distant & flickering
the body whole bright-
winged brimming
with the hours
of the day beautiful
nameless planet. Oh
friends, my friends—
bloom how you must, wild
until we are free. ~ Cameron Awkward Rich,#NFDB
727:Imperialism will not last long because it always does evil things. It persists in grooming and supporting reactionaries in all countries who are against the people, it has forcibly seized many colonies and semi-colonies and many military bases, and it threatens the peace with atomic war. Thus, forced by imperialism to do so, more than 90 per cent of the people of the world are rising or will rise in struggle against it. Yet, imperialism is still alive, still running amuck in Asia, Africa and Latin America. In the West imperialism is still oppressing the people at home. This situation must change. It is the task of the people of the whole world to put an end to the aggression and oppression perpetrated by imperialism, and chiefly by U.S. imperialism. ~ Mao Zedong, #NFDB
728:Why am I the expert all of a sudden?”
“Of the two of us, you have more stalking experience.”
He leaned back. “Really?”
“Yes. When you let yourself into my apartment before we were dating, did you fidget while you watched me?”
“Will you let it go?” he growled.
“No.”
“I didn’t fidget. I checked on you to make sure you hadn’t gotten yourself killed. I wanted to know that you weren’t dying slowly of your wounds, because you have no sense and half of the time you couldn’t afford a medmage. I didn’t stand there and watch you. I came in, made sure you were okay, and left. It wasn’t creepy.”
“It was a little creepy.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“Worked how?”
“You’re still alive.”
“Yes, of course, take all the credit. ~ Ilona Andrews,#NFDB
729:Just before the Hathaways had arrived, Captain Swansea, who had spent four years serving in India, had been regaling some of the guests with an account of a tiger hunt in Vishnupur. The tiger had stalked the spotted deer, brought it down with a pounce, and clamped the back of its neck in its jaws. Women and even a few men had grimaced and exclaimed in horror as Swansea described how the tiger had proceeded to eat the chital while it was still alive. “The vicious beast!” one of the women had gasped.
But as soon as Amelia Hathaway entered the room, Cam had found himself entirely in sympathy with the tiger. There was nothing he wanted more than to bite the tender back of her neck and drag her to some private place where he could feast on her for hours. ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
730:When you're born a light is switched on, a light which shines up through your life. As you get older the light still reaches you, sparkling as it comes up through your memories. And if you're lucky as you travel forward through time, you'll bring the whole of yourself along with you, gathering your skirts and leaving nothing behind, nothing to obscure the light. But if a Bad Thing happens part of you is seared into place, and trapped for ever at that time. The rest of you moves onward, dealing with all the todays and tomorrows, but something, some part of you, is left behind. That part blocks the light, colours the rest of your life, but worse than that, it's alive. Trapped for ever at that moment, and alone in the dark, that part of you is still alive. ~ Michael Marshall Smith, #NFDB
731:When you’re born a light is switched on, a light which shines up through your life. As you get older the light still reaches you, sparkling as it comes up through your memories. And if you’re lucky as you travel forward through time, you’ll bring the whole of yourself along with you, gathering your skirts and leaving nothing behind, nothing to obscure the light. But if a Bad Thing happens part of you is seared into place, and trapped for ever at that time. The rest of you moves onwards, dealing with all the todays and tomorrows, but something, some part of you, is left behind. That part blocks the light, colours the rest of your life, but worse than that, it’s alive. Trapped for ever at that moment, and alone in the dark, that part of you is still alive. ~ Michael Marshall Smith, #NFDB
732:And yet, the right to profit, which is only an exaggeration of the right to labor, is still alive and flourishing. Ought not the protectionist to blush at the part he would make society play? He says to it, “You must give me work, and, more than that, lucrative work. I have foolishly fixed upon a trade by which I lose ten percent. If you impose a tax of twenty francs upon my countrymen, and give it to me, I shall be a gainer instead of a loser. Now, profit is my right; you owe it to me.” Now, any society that would listen to this sophist, burden itself with taxes to satisfy him, and not perceive that the loss to which any trade is exposed is no less a loss when others are forced to make up for it—such a society, I say, would deserve the burden inflicted upon it. ~ Fr d ric Bastiat, #NFDB
733:1) Choose a person, older than yourself, you see frequently — not too often by approx once a week or once a month. Maybe one of your grandparents if they are still alive.
2) Every time you meet the chosen person you press your 2 pointing-fingers firmly against your eyes for 10 to 20 seconds until various colors and patterns arise.
3) Try to note or memorize the patterns and colors in connection with the context and repeat the practice every time you meet the chosen person for a as long as possible, minimum 6 months.
4) After minimum 6 months of this practice you can recall the person, virtually by pressing your eyes for a while. In the midst of the colors and pattern a sense of presence of the chosen person arrives even after the chosen person has died. ~ Hans Ulrich Obrist,#NFDB
734:I added a few stinging words of sarcasm, intended to neutralize the pleasure which she seemed to find in being photographed, so that if I was obliged to see my grandmother’s magnificent hat, I succeeded at least in driving from her face that joyful expression which ought to have made me glad; but alas, it too often happens, while the people we love best are still alive, that such expressions appear to us as the exasperating manifestation of some unworthy freak of fancy rather than as the precious form of the happiness which we should dearly like to procure for them. My ill-humour arose more particularly from the fact that, during the last week, my grandmother had appeared to be avoiding me, and I had not been able to have her to myself for a moment, either by night or day. ~ Marcel Proust, #NFDB
735:You carry your mother in every cell of your body. You have to look deeply to see that she is in fact always with you. Her hand is still in your hand. If your parents have already passed away and you practice looking deeply like this, you can have an even closer relationship with your parents than that of someone whose parents are still alive but who cannot communicate easily with them. You may like to take a moment now to look at your hand. Can you see your mother’s hand in your hand? Or your father’s? Look deeply into your hand. With this insight, and with all the love and care of your parents, bring your hand up to your forehead and feel the hand of your mother or father touching your forehead. Allow yourself to be cared for by your parents in you. They are always with you ~ Thich Nhat Hanh, #NFDB
736:start fresh.” “And Maryanne?” “She's devastated about what James put us through. I think she'd like a fresh start, too, and more time with Nathan. On the other hand . . . you know, she really loves James. Even after everything, I don't think she can bring herself to leave him.” James was in a coma. Between the blood loss and damage to his internal organs, his system had shut down. Doctors didn't think he'd ever regain consciousness. Mostly, they were surprised the man was still alive. “Maybe someday,” Bobby said. Catherine nodded. “Maryanne likes Arizona. She mentioned they'd always talked about buying a home out there. So maybe, afterwards . . .” His turn to nod. Now they both watched Nathan. The boy's cheeks were flushed, his breath coming in frosty pants. Trickster nipped at his ~ Lisa Gardner, #NFDB
737:As he returned to the bed, he could see Vallant eyeing him warily, but he ignored this, sat on the opposite end and braced the pad on his knee.
You think after all that, I will leave? What sort of monster do you take me for? You think I could be that callous? No better than the piece of filth who used you, nor the soulless fiend who sold you?
He ripped off the page and handed it over, but he began a second note even before Vallant had taken the first from his hand.
Is this bastard still alive? I assume not, that Rodger had him strangled? He had to pause, forcing his grip on the pencil to lighten before he went on. I want his name, if he isn't already dispatched. I'm not without resources or influence. And I'm very difficult to prosecute. ~ Heidi Cullinan,#NFDB
738:Arthur finished his doughnut as Mrs. Tibble opened the door and turned on the porch light. She gave Arthur and D.W. a big hug.
“See you Saturday to rake leaves,” said Arthur.
“You’re still alive!” said Francine.
“I can’t believe you went in there alone,” said the Brain.
“You’re so brave,” said Sue Ellen.
“What’s in the bag?” asked Buster.
“Probably eyeballs, hearts and brains!” said Francine.
“It’s easy to find out,” said Arthur. “Just close your eyes and reach in unless you’re too scared.”
“We’ve been to every house now. Can we take the shortcut home through the cemetery?” asked D.W.
“The cemetery! On Halloween! Are you guys crazy?” asked Francine.
“Follow me,” said Arthur as he marched ahead. “The cemetery is a great place. People are just dying to get in. ~ Marc Brown,#NFDB
739:He stood staring round him, and telling himself that he knew how it had happened—oh yes, he could see it all—how at the moment of George’s death Catherine, flooded with pity, with grief, perhaps with love now that she was no longer obliged to love, had clung on to his arrangements, not suffering a thing to be touched or moved or altered, pathetically anxious to keep it exactly as he used to, to keep him still alive at least in his furniture. Other widows he had heard of had done this; and widowers—but fewer of them—had done it too. He could imagine it easily, if one loved some one very much, or was desperately sorry because one hadn’t. But to go on year after year? Yet, once one had begun, how stop? There was only one way to stop happily and naturally, and that was to marry again. ~ Elizabeth von Arnim, #NFDB
740:Lindow Man’s death was protracted and almost certainly excruciating – there was no evidence that he had been given a drug. Almost certainly surrounded by priests and perhaps a large congregation gathered to witness an event of immense significance, the young man was first poisoned and then beaten. He was hit on the head with an axe but the blow did not kill him. He lived to be garrotted and have his throat cut. When the priests placed his naked body in Lindow Moss to drown, it is possible that, even at that moment, he was still alive. The victim suffered a multiple death, a rite sometimes known as the triple death, and this savagery survived in Druidic traditions well into the Dark Ages. Merlin or Myrddin was said to have been hit on the head, garrotted and drowned in the River Tweed. ~ Alistair Moffat, #NFDB
741:Of course my ex didn’t walk me home. Instead I wandered, drunk, from Main Street down to the railroad tracks, lay down there and listened to the quiet world. Smoked a cigarette on my back, feeling a part of the ground, one of night’s dark and lost creatures.
For as long as I can remember, this has been one of my favorite feelings. To be alone in public, wandering at night, or lying close to the earth, anonymous, invisible, floating. To be “a man of the crowd,” or, conversely, alone with Nature or your God. To make your claim on public space even as you feel yourself disappearing into its largesse, into sublimity. To practice for death by feeling completely empty, but somehow still alive.
It’s a sensation that people have tried, in various times and places, to keep women from feeling. ~ Maggie Nelson,#NFDB
742:when I've thought about him dying-which admittedly isn't that much-I always thought of it like you said, that all the strings inside him broke. But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings broke, or maybe our ships sink, or maybe we're grass-our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. If you choose strings, then you're imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose the grass, you're saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. The metaphors have implications. Do you know what I mean? ~ John Green, #NFDB
743:In the West, we are perilously getting down to our last man. Liberal democracy, among us, is achieving the goal that Fukuyama predicted for it: It is eliminating the alpha males from our midst, and at a dizzyingly accelerating rate. But in Muslim societies, the alpha male is still alive and well. While we in America are drugging our alpha boys with Ritalin, the Muslims are doing everything in their power to encourage their alpha boys to be tough, aggressive, and ruthless…. We are proud if our sons get into a good college; they are proud if their sons die as martyrs. To rid your society of high-testosterone alpha males may bring peace and quiet; but if you have an enemy that is building up an army of alpha boys to hate you fanatically and who have vowed to destroy you, you will be committing suicide…. ~ Jon Krakauer, #NFDB
744:No purer artist exists or has ever existed than a child freed to imagine. [...]
To drive children into labour is to slaughter artists, to scour deathly all wonder, the flickering dart of imagination eager as finches flitting from branch to branch – all crushed to serve grown-up needs and heartless expectations. The adult who demands such a thing is dead inside, devoid of nostalgia's bright dancing colours, so smooth, so delicious, so replete with longing both sweet and bitter – dead inside, yes, and dead outside, too. Corpses in motion, cold with the resentment the undead bear towards all things still alive, all things still warm, still breathing.
Pity these ones? Nay, never, never so long as they drive on hordes of children into grisly labour, then sup languid of air upon the myriad rewards. ~ Steven Erikson,#NFDB
745:When she opened up that closet and found you cowering in the corner, what did she do? You're still alive, aren't you? You're still wearing that sacrilegious getup. What did Ashley do that you were so fucking afraid of?'
Villarde only lowered his head.
'You can't even say it, can you?'
Villarde opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Then he gasped, a bizarre gagging sound that prompted disgust to flood through me. He was, without doubt, one of the most wretched beings I'd ever laid eyes on.
'She pulled me to my feet,' he whispered. 'And she...'
'She what?' shouted Hopper.
'She...' Villarde was crying. 'There's really nothing more terrifying - "
'WHAT?'
'She told me she...forgave me.'
The words were so fragile and unexpected, no one spoke. ~ Marisha Pessl,#NFDB
746:But unvented - ahh! One un-vents something; one unearths it; one digs it up, one runs it down in whatever recesses of the eternal consciousness it has gone to ground. I very much doubt if anything is really new when one works in the prehistoric medium of wool with needles. The products of science and technology may be new, and some of them are quite horrid, but knitting? In knitting there are ancient possibilities; the earth is enriched with the dust of the millions of knitters who have held wool and needles since the beginning of sheep. Seamless sweaters and one-row buttonholes; knitted hems and phoney seams - it is unthinkable that these have, in mankind's history, remained undiscovered and unknitted. One likes to believe that there is memory in the fingers; memory undeveloped, but still alive. ~ Elizabeth Zimmermann, #NFDB
747:Do you remember infinity?”
Slowly, I turned around. “What about it?”
Tossing something toward me, he said, “Catch.”
I reached out and caught it in the air. A silver necklace. I held it up and examined it. The infinity necklace.
It didn’t shine the way it used to; it looked a bit coppery now. But I recognized it. Of course I recognized it.
“What is this?” I asked.
“You know what it is,” he said.
I shrugged. “Nope, sorry.”
I could see that he was both hurt and angry. “Okay, then. You don’t remember it. I’ll remind you. I bought
you that necklace for your birthday.”
My birthday.
It had to have been for my sixteenth birthday. It was the only year he ever forgot to buy me a birthday
present—the last summer we’d all been together at the beach house, when Susannah was still alive. ~ Jenny Han,#NFDB
748:When I’ve thought about him dying — which admittedly isn’t that much — I always thought of it like you said, that all the strings inside him broke. But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings break, or maybe our ships sink, or maybe we’re grass — our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive. We don’t suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. If you choose the strings, then you’re imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose the grass, you’re saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. The metaphors have implications. Do you know what I mean? ~ John Green, #NFDB
749:Holding my breath, I lay as still as death and listened to Hannah walk toward the bed. She leaned over me and whispered Andrew’s name, my name, touching my skin with soft, warm fingers. She was no dream, no ghost.
“Mama,” she cried, “Mama, come quick!”
A door opened, and footsteps raced toward me.
“His fever’s gone, Mama. He’s still alive.” Hannah’s voice shook and she burst into tears.
“Praise be,” a woman whispered. “Open your eyes, Andrew, look at me.”
Dumb with fear, I stared at Mrs. Tyler. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have spoken. Suppose I didn’t sound like Andrew? Suppose I said the wrong thing? Surely they’d know I was an imposter.
Alarmed by my silence, Mrs. Tyler told Hannah to call Dr. Fulton. “His eyes, the way he looks at me--you’d think the boy had never seen me before. ~ Mary Downing Hahn,#NFDB
750:Many Hollywood stars have committed versions of the long suicide. Biographies of Clift posit that he drank because he couldn’t be his true self, because homosexuality was the shame he had to shelter within. But if you look at his own words, his testimonies about what acting did to him, you’ll see the culprit. His perpetual question to himself, as he once scribbled in his journal, was, “How to remain thin-skinned, vulnerable, and still alive?” For Clift, the task proved impossible. Clift once said, “The closer we come to the negative, to death, the more we blossom.” He took himself to that precipice, but he fell straight in. And so he remains frozen in the popular imagination, circa From Here to Eternity—those high cheekbones, that set jaw, the firm stare: a magnificent, proud, tragically broken thing to behold. ~ Anne Helen Petersen, #NFDB
751:We can't lose you," she said after a few moments of awkward as hell silence. "You have to understand that we aren't doing this because we don't care about Kat. We're doing this because we love you."
"But I love her," I said without hesitation.
Dee's eyes widened, probably since it was the first time she'd herd me say it out loud, well, about anyone other than my family. I wished I had said it more often, especially to Kat. Funny how that kind of shit always turns out in the end. While you're deep in something, you never say or do what you need to. It's always after the fact, when it's too late that you realize what you've should've said or done/
It couldn't be too late. I knew that. The fact that I was still alive was testament to that. Like Dee said, though, there were worse things than death. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,#NFDB
752:I was walking along the bank of a stream when I saw a mother otter with her cubs, a very endearing sight, I'm sure you'll agree. And even as I watched, the mother otter dived into the water and came up with a plump salmon, which she subdued and dragged onto a half submerged log. As she ate it, while of course it was still alive, the body split and I remember to this day the sweet pinkness of its roes as they spilled out, much to the delight of the baby otters, who scrambled over themselves to feed on the delicacy. One of nature's wonders, gentlemen. Mother and children dining upon mother and children. And that is when I first learned about evil. It is built into the very nature of the universe. Every world spins in pain. If there is any kind of supreme being, I told myself, it is up to all of us to become his moral superior. ~ Terry Pratchett, #NFDB
753:When I look up at Heaven,
I see the souls of those who died
Beaming down at me,
Wanting to scream: “I'm still alive!”,
Wishing to scribble across the sapphire sky -
Letters to their loved ones,
But a million dark oceans stand between us,
Between those who passed and the living,
Between those of us still stuck below,
And those who have crossed over the threshold of time -
Where what seems like eternity to us,
Is really only a few minutes to them.
So you see, there is no reason to weep over the shining ones -
For even though the space that separates us is limitless,
The wall of time that divides us is only paper-thin.
And one day, we shall all reunite with them,
When our souls are released like fish
Back into the vast shimmering sea
To shine together like
Glittering diamonds. ~ Suzy Kassem,#NFDB
754:It is sheer fantasy to think that you can ever transform your grandiose energies so they will never seduce you again, that you can ever prevent your grandiosity from being seductive. Sometimes people think if they just prayed enough, or went to enough masses, then their grandiosity would stop being seductive. Or if they became a cardinal, or a bishop, or a mother superior, it would not be seductive anymore. The truth, of course, is just the opposite, because the more successful you get, the more seductive grandiosity gets. The more traumas and tragedies you have in your life, the more grandiosity will attack you. It can tell you how impressive it is that you are still alive, or it can chide you into depression by suggesting you might as well go ahead and commit suicide. Many suicidal thoughts come from a grandiose perfectionism. ~ Robert L Moore, #NFDB
755:I’m sorry I was late.” It took Herculean effort for him not to scoop her into his arms and crush her to himself. Instead he took her wounded head carefully between his large hands. With his thumbs, he wiped the tears away and gently stroked her hair away from her face. “Oh, Anna… Honey, I’m so sorry. I… I should have been there. I should never have let this happen. I should have been with you.” He heard anger rise in his own voice and stopped speaking lest she think his ire was directed at her. Wordlessly, he cradled her head, taking in every bruise, every bump, every mark that marred her beautiful skin. He searched her blue-gray eyes for assurance that she truly was going to be all right. Then he silently gave thanks that she was here in this place of healing, still alive, still his. And he cursed the monster who had done this to his wife. ~ Deborah Raney, #NFDB
756:SAPPHIRE AND DIAMONDS
When I look up at Heaven,
I see the souls of those who died
Beaming down at me,
Wanting to scream: “I'm still alive!”,
Wishing to scribble across the sapphire sky -
Letters to their loved ones,
But a million dark oceans stand between us,
Between those who passed and the living,
Between those of us still stuck below,
And those who have crossed over the threshold of time -
Where what seems like eternity
Is really only a few minutes.
So you see, there is no reason to weep over the shining ones -
For even though the space that separates us is limitless,
The wall of time that divides us is only paper-thin.
And one day, we shall all reunite with them,
When our souls are released like fish
Back into the vast shimmering sea
To shine together like
Glittering diamonds. ~ Suzy Kassem,#NFDB
757:He was like the other half of myself,' says Boris...Ulrich says, 'You haven't lost {him}, you know. I don't know if it helps to say that. I lost a friend once myself, and I know how it goes.
'He'll find his way inside you, and you'll carry him onward. Behind your heartbeat, you'll hear another one, faint and out of step. People will say you are speaking his opinons, or your hair has turned like his.
'There are no more facts about him -- that part is over. Now is the time for essential things...Gradually you'll grow older than him, and love him as your son.
'You'll live astride the line that separates life from death. You'll become experienced in the wisdom of grief. You won't wait until people die to grieve for them; you'll give them their grief while they are still alive, for then judgment falls away, and there remains only the miracle of being. ~ Rana Dasgupta,#NFDB
758:In New York, Italian Americans became symbols of success; one of these, the half-Jewish Fiorello LaGuardia, represented the state as a Republican in Congress. Another proud group were his cousins, the Jews, both the older German Jews and the newer East European Jews. Jews at the time had a general belief in charity and taking care of one another: “All Israel is responsible for one another.” In addition, they were aware of a specific history in New York; Peter Stuyvesant had asked the Dutch West India Company to ban Jewish settlement, but the company had allowed Jews to stay as long as the Jewish poor “be supported by their own nation.” The colonial Jews had pledged that they would, and the commitment was still alive. As late as the 1910s, philanthropist Jacob Schiff said that “a Jew would rather cut his hand off than apply for relief from non-Jewish sources. ~ Amity Shlaes, #NFDB
759:Your cold mornings are filled with the heartache about the fact that although we are not at ease in this world, it is all we have, that it is ours but that it is full of strife, so that all we can call our own is strife; but even that is better than nothing at all, isn't it? And as you split frost-laced wood with numb hands, rejoice that your uncertainty is God's will and His grace toward you and that that is beautiful, and part of a greater certainty, as your own father always said in his sermons and to you at home. And as the ax bites into the wood, be comforted in the fact that the ache in your heart and the confusion in your soul means that you are still alive, still human, and still open to the beauty of the world, even though you have done nothing to deserve it. And when you resent the ache in your heart, remember: You will be dead and buried soon enough. ~ Paul Harding, #NFDB
760:I feel more strongly with every recurring year that our country has no tradition which does it so much honour and which it should guard so jealously as that of its hospitality. It is a tradition that is unique as far as my experience goes (and I have visited not a few places abroad) among the modern nations. Some would say, perhaps, that with us it is rather a failing than anything to be boasted of. But granted even that, it is, to my mind, a princely failing, and one that I trust will long be cultivated among us. Of one thing, at least, I am sure. As long as this one roof shelters the good ladies aforesaid- and I wish from my heart it may do so for many and many a long year to come- the tradition of genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality, which our forefathers have handed down to us and which we must hand down to our descendants, is still alive among us. ~ James Joyce, #NFDB
761:His principle can be quite simply stated: he refuses to die while he is still alive. He seeks to remind himself, by every electric shock to the intellect, that he is still a man alive, walking on two legs about the world. For this reason he fires bullets at his best friends; for this reason he arranges ladders and collapsible chimneys to steal his own property; for this reason he goes plodding around a whole planet to get back to his own home; and for this reason he has been in the habit of taking the woman whom he loved with a permanent loyalty, and leaving her about (so to speak) at schools, boarding-houses, and places of business, so that he might recover her again and again with a raid and a romantic elopement. He seriously sought by a perpetual recapture of his bride to keep alive the sense of her perpetual value, and the perils that should be run for her sake. ~ G K Chesterton, #NFDB
762:When she was dying, it was impossible to see forward to the next minute. What was happening — for whole weeks — was all that was happening and happening and happening. Months before that, I got the dumb soup wrong. How awful. It was all she wanted and I had gotten it wrong. Then, in the airless days when it was really happening, we started to power panic that we didn’t know enough. What should we do with your ashes? Water or dirt. Water or dirt. Once, she asked to just be thrown into the river where we used to go, still alive, but not living anymore. After it was done, I couldn’t go back to my life. You understand, right? It wasn’t the same. I couldn’t tell if I loved myself more or less. It wasn’t until later, when I moved in with him and stood outside on our patchy imperfect lawn, that I remembered what had been circling in me: I am beautiful. I am full of love. I am dying. ~ Ada Limon, #NFDB
763:With murder, the victim is gone, and not forced to deal with what happened to her. The family must deal with it, but not the victim. But rape is much worse. The victim has a lifetime of coping, trying to understand, of asking questions, and the worst part, of knowing the rapist is still alive and may someday escape or be released. Every hour of every day, the victim thinks of the rape and asks herself a thousand questions. She relives it, step by step, minute by minute, and it hurts just as bad.
Perhaps the most horrible crime of all is the violent rape of a child. A woman who is raped has a pretty good idea why it happened. Some animal was filled with hatred, anger and violence. But a child? A ten-year-old child? Suppose you're a parent. Imagine yourself trying to explain to your child why she was raped. Imagine yourself trying to explain why she cannot bear children. ~ John Grisham,#NFDB
764:Christ Jesus Eve. The girl's shattered like glass, and it'll take a blood miracle to put her together again. And you're standing here talking about fucking games?"
She met fire with ice. "Obviously your heartstrings are playing a tune."
"It might be because I have them," he shot back. "Because I'm not so caught up trying to win some shagging game that I consider a young woman a logical choice. She's still alive, Lieutenant. She's not on your side of the board yet."
"Why don't you go back to the waiting area. You can all join hands. Maybe hold a prayer meeting. You go ahead and do that while the one who put her in the OR is chuckling up his sleeve. I've got better things to do."
She strode away, steeling both her heart and belly against the hurt. It wasn't just the body she thought that could shatter. And it wasn't only fists and pipes and bats that could shatter it. ~ J D Robb,#NFDB
765:Can you see how you are continued in your parents, in your brothers and sisters, in your teachers and friends? Can you see the continuation body of your parents and loved ones? We don’t need to get old or die in order to see our continuation body. We don’t need to wait for the complete disintegration of this body in order to begin to see our continuation body, just as a cloud doesn’t need to have been entirely transformed into rain in order to see her continuation body. Can you see your rain, your river, your ocean? Each one of us should train ourselves to see our continuation body in the present moment. If we can see our continuation body while we’re still alive, we’ll know how to cultivate it to ensure a beautiful continuation in the future. This is the true art of living. Then, when the time comes for the dissolution of our physical body, we will be able to release it easily. ~ Thich Nhat Hanh, #NFDB
766:...one day when I was a young boy on holiday in Uberwald I was walking along the bank of a stream when I saw a mother otter with her cubs. A very endearing sight, I'm sure you'll agree, and even as I watched, the mother otter dived into the water and came up with a plump salmon, which she subdued and dragged onto a half submerged log. As she ate it, while of course it was still alive, the body split and I remember to this day the sweet pinkness of its roes as they spilled out, much to the delight of the baby otters, who scrambled over themselves to feed on the delicacy. One of nature's wonders, gentlemen. Mother and children dining upon mother and children. And that is when I first learned about evil. It is built into the very nature of the universe. Every world spins in pain. If there is any kind of supreme being, I told myself, it is up to all of us to become his moral superior. ~ Terry Pratchett, #NFDB
767:Nonetheless, after we've dropped off the birds and volunteered to go back to the woods to gather kindling for the evening fire, I find myself wrapped in his arms. His lips brushing the faded bruises on my neck, working their way to my mouth. Despite what I feel for Peeta, this is when I accept deep down that he'll never come back to me. Or I'll never go back to him. I'll stay in 2 until it falls, go to the Capitol and kill Snow, and then die for my trouble. And he'll die insane and hating me. So in the fading light I shut my eyes and kiss Gale to make up for all the kisses I've withheld, and because it doesn't matter any more, and because I'm so desperately lonely I can't stand it.
Gale's touch and taste and heat remind me that at least my body's still alive, and for the moment it's a welcome feeling. I empty my mind and let the sensations run through my flesh, happy to lose myself. ~ Suzanne Collins,#NFDB
768:I don’t feel right about money. Remember, Anisim brought me new roubles and half roubles before the wedding, on St. Thomas’s Sunday? I stashed one package away then, and the rest I mixed in with my own … When my uncle Dmitri Filatych, God rest his soul, was still alive, he used to go for goods all the time, now to Moscow, now to the Crimea. He had a wife, and that same wife, while he went for goods, as I said, used to play around with other men. There were six children. So my uncle would have a drink and start laughing: ‘I just can’t sort out which are mine and which aren’t.’ An easygoing character, that is. And so now I can’t figure out which coins are real and which are false. And it seems like they’re all false.”
“Ah, no, God help you!”
“I’m buying a ticket at the station, I hand over three roubles, and I think to myself, maybe they’re false. And it scares me. I must be sick. ~ Anton Chekhov,#NFDB
769:Anybody can look at a pretty girl and see a pretty girl. An artist can look at a pretty girl and see the old woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl that she used to be. But a great artist-a master-and that is what Auguste Rodin was-can look at an old woman, protray her exactly as she is...and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be...and more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo, or even you, see that this lovely young girl is still alive, not old and ugly at all, but simply prisoned inside her ruined body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart...no matter what the merciless hours have done to her. Look at her, Ben. Growing old doesn't matter to you and me; we were never meant to be admired-but it does to them. ~ Robert A Heinlein, #NFDB
770:It’s a diamond isle of paradise beneath a black sky!
Welcome to a crisp Italian January!
We’re so much more than lavish travelers now…
We’ll go down in history,
Down like this vessel that sank so swiftly,
Down to the depths below…
These angels are splashing through neon casinos,
Lifeboats are launching, and first up’s Schettino .
Don’t blame him, he claims he fell in!
That’s why he’s safe and we’re sorry.
Vada a bordo, cazzo!
Our beautiful floating carnival is DYING!
Velvet carpets soaked with seawater, elevators sealed shut!
The sour taste of death flows through in waves,
Pulling people down to icy graves,
Down to the depths below…
Who am I?
I’m his purser, and I might survive,
If the coastguard realizes I’m still alive.
For now I’m down here, as you might overhear,
At the trial where he’ll share his story.
Vada a bordo, cazzo! ~ Rebecca McNutt,#NFDB
771:Be still. Listen to the stones of the wall. Be silent, they try to speak your name. Listen to the living walls. Who are you? Who are you? Whose silence are you? Who (be quiet) are you (as these stones are quiet). Do not think of what you are still less of what you may one day be. Rather be what you are (but who?) be the unthinkable one you do not know. O be still, while you are still alive, and all things live around you speaking (I do not hear) to your own being, speaking by the unknown that is in you and in themselves. I will try, like them to be my own silence: and this is difficult. The whole world is secretly on fire. The stones burn, even the stones they burn me. How can a man be still or listen to all things burning? How can he dare to sit with them when all their silence is on fire? [bk1sm.gif] -- from The Strange Islands: Poems by Thomas Merton, by Thomas Merton
~ Thomas Merton, In Silence
,#NFDB
772:Why value humility in our approach to God? Because it accurately reflects the truth. Most of what I am — my nationality and mother tongue, my race, my looks and body shape, my intelligence, the century in which I was born, the fact that I am still alive and relatively healthy — I had little or no control over. On a larger scale, I cannot affect the rotation of planet earth, or the orbit that maintains a proper distance from the sun so that we neither freeze nor roast, or the gravitational forces that somehow keep our spinning galaxy in exquisite balance. There is a God and I am not it. Humility does not mean I grovel before God, like the Asian court officials who used to wriggle along the ground like worms in the presence of their emperor. It means, rather, that in the presence of God I gain a glimpse of my true state in the universe, which exposes my smallness at the same time it reveals God’s greatness. ~ Philip Yancey, #NFDB
773:~ Rachel Nicole WagnerCan You?~ Rachel Nicole Wagner
In the depths of despair, I cry out.
Do You see me here?
In the puddles of tears, I die inside.
Do You know I’m still alive?
In the chair or prosecution, I am beaten.
Do You see the blood on my hands?
In the shadowlands of fear, I am lifeless.
Do You still have faith in me?
In the end of time, I fall on my face.
Do You see me weeping?
In the hurting eyes of others, I am heartless.
Can You heal me?
In the face of evil, I laugh.
Can You protect me?
In the church, I feel Your Presence,
I’ve forgotten how to respond.
Can You teach me?
In the fields of battle, I long for a shot,
To wake me up.
Can I start again?
When I look in the mirror, I see eyes,
Bolted up and locked with pride.
Can You soften my heart?
Can You give me hope?
Can You help me believe in myself?
Can You? ~ Rachel Nicole Wagner,#NFDB
774:to its talented cast and crew, fundamentally the program utilized a simple formula to keep people tuning in. At the heart of every episode—and also across each season’s narrative arc—is a problem the characters must resolve. For example, during an episode in the first season, Walter White must find a way to dispose of the bodies of two rival drug dealers. Challenges prevent resolution of the conflict and suspense is created as the audience waits to find out how the story line ends. In this particular episode White discovers one of the drug dealers is still alive and is faced with the dilemma of having to kill someone he thought was already dead. Invariably, each episode’s central conflict is resolved near the end of the show, at which time a new challenge arises to pique the viewer’s curiosity. By design, the only way to know how Walter gets out of the mess he is in at the end of the latest episode is to watch the next episode. ~ Nir Eyal, #NFDB
775:Our lives were short, and we never would have wanted them to be shorter. Sometimes perspective comes far too late. You cannot trust yourself. You think you can, but you can't. Not because you are selfish. You cannot live for anyone else's sake. As much as you may want to, you can't stay alive just because other people want you alive. You cannot stay alive for your parents. You cannot stay alive for your friends. And you have no responsibility to stay alive for them. You have no responsibility to anyone but yourself to live. But I'm dead, he would tell us. I am already dead. No, we'd argue. No, you are not. We know what it is like to be alive in the present but dead in the future. But you are the opposite. Your future self is still alive. You have a responsibility to your future self, who is someone you might not even know, might not even understand yet. Because until you die, that future self has as much of a life as you do. ~ David Levithan, #NFDB
776:And so I concerned myself no longer with the mystery that lay hidden in a form or a perfume, quite at ease in my mind, since I was taking it home with me, protected by its visible and tangible covering, beneath which I should find it still alive, like the fish which, on days when I had been allowed to go out fishing, I used to carry back in my basket, buried in a couch of grass which kept them cool and fresh. Once in the house again I would begin to think of something else, and so my mind would become littered (as my room was with the flowers that I had gathered on my walks, or the odds and ends that people had given me) with a stone from the surface of which the sunlight was reflected, a roof, the sound of a bell, the smell of fallen leaves, a confused mass of different images, under which must have perished long ago the reality of which I used to have some foreboding, but which I never had the energy to discover and bring to light. ~ Marcel Proust, #NFDB
777:I don’t like vegans, either. Bunch of whiny zealots. A cow or a pig wouldn’t give a damn if a person died… animals tear apart other animals while they’re still alive, but we aren’t so cruel, so vegans should learn to shut up. Vegans use palm oil and never think about the forests and endangered species at risk from that… and they all exploit the world in other ways, buying their computers and their sweatshop clothes and their Starbucks coffees. Anyway, cats and dogs eat their owners after the owner dies. I saw on the news a few times that there was a lot of open animal food in the houses where that sort of thing happens, but the pets eat the dead owner… just because. Maybe a pet’s notion of ‘unconditional love’ is like Jeffrey Dahmer… he used to eat and kill the people he professed to love, too. He was a sicko… I don’t believe animals have any empathy. Do elephants ever consider Holocaust victims? Do dogs ever cry over the Rwanda Genocide? ~ Rebecca McNutt, #NFDB
778:Norbert Wiener,” Tillingford said. “You recall his work in cybernetics. And, even more important, Enrico Destini’s work in the field of theophonics.” “What’s that?” Tillingford raised an eyebrow. “You are a specialist, my boy. Communication between man and God, of course. Using Wiener’s work, and using the invaluable material of Shannon and Weaver, Destini was able to set up the first really adequate system of communication between Earth and Heaven in 1946. Of course, he had the use of all that equipment from the War Against the Pagan Hordes, those damned Wotan-Worshiping, Oak-Tree-Praising Huns.” “You mean the—Nazis?” “I’m familiar with that term. That’s sociologist jargon, isn’t it? And that Denier of the Prophet, that Anti-Bab. They say he’s still alive down in Argentina. Found the elixir of eternal youth or something. He made that pact with the devil in 1939, you remember. Or was that before your time? But you know about it—it’s history.” “I ~ Philip K Dick, #NFDB
779:Once a woman (a pilot) refused to meet with me. She explained on the phone: “I can’t… I don’t want to remember. I spent three years at war… And for three years I didn’t feel myself a woman. My organism was dead. I had no periods, almost no woman’s desires. And I was beautiful… When my future husband proposed to me… that was already in Berlin, by the Reichstag… He said: ‘The war’s over. We’re still alive. We’re lucky. Let’s get married.’ I wanted to cry. To shout. To hit him! What do you mean, married? Now? In the midst of all this—married? In the midst of black soot and black bricks… Look at me… Look how I am! Begin by making me a woman: give me flowers, court me, say beautiful words. I want it so much! I wait for it! I almost hit him… I was about to… He had one cheek burned, purple, and I see: he understood everything, tears are running down that cheek. On the still-fresh scars… And I myself can’t believe I’m saying to him: ‘Yes, I’ll marry you. ~ Svetlana Alexievich, #NFDB
780:So what is the answer? How can you stand your ground when you are weak and sensitive to pain, when people you love are still alive, when you are unprepared?
What do you need to make you stronger than the Interrogator and the whole trap?
From the moment you go to prison you must put your cozy past firmly behind you. At the very threshold, you must say to yourself: "My life is over, a little early to be sure, but there's nothing to be done about it. I shall never return to freedom. I am condemned to die—now or a little later. But later on, in truth, it will be even harder, and so the sooner the better. I no longer have any property whatsoever. For me those I love have died, and for them I have died. From today on, my body is useless and alien to me. Only my spirit and my conscience remain precious and important to me."
Confronted by such a prisoner, the Interrogation will tremble.
Only the man who has renounced everything can win that victory. ~ Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn,#NFDB
781:When a movie begins with the words “Based on a True Story,” what crosses your mind? Do you assume every line of dialogue, every bit of clothing and song in the background is the same as it was in the true event on which the film was based? Of course you don’t. You know movies like Pearl Harbor or Erin Brockovich take artistic license with facts, shaping them so a coherent story will unfold with a beginning, middle, and end. Even biopics about the lives of musicians or politicians who are still alive are rarely the absolute truth. Some things are left out, or some people are fused into single characters. The details, you think when watching, are less important than the big picture, the general idea. If only you were so savvy when it came to looking back on the biopic in your head, but you are not so smart. You see, the movie up there is just as dramatized, and scientists have known this for quite a while. It all starts with your brain’s desire to fill in the gaps. Take ~ David McRaney, #NFDB
782:Okay. Well. Here’s a real question. How long do you think it takes to get over someone dying? Someone you really loved, I mean.” I’m not entirely sure why I asked him. It was almost cruelly direct, given his circumstances. Perhaps I was afraid that the compulsive shagger was about to come out to play. Sam’s eyes widened just a little. “Whoa. Well”—he looked down at his mug, and then out at the shadowy fields—“I’m not sure you ever do.” “That’s cheery.” “No. Really. I’ve thought about it a lot. You learn to live with it, with them. Because they do stay with you, even if they’re not living, breathing people anymore. It’s not the same crushing grief you felt at first, the kind that swamps you and makes you want to cry in the wrong places and get irrationally angry with all the idiots who are still alive when the person you love is dead. It’s just something you learn to accommodate. Like adapting around a hole. I don’t know. It’s like you become . . . a doughnut instead of a bun. ~ Jojo Moyes, #NFDB
783:The Patrician took a sip of his beer. “I have told this to few people, gentlemen, and I suspect I never will again, but one day when I was a young boy on holiday in Uberwald I was walking along the bank of a stream when I saw a mother otter with her cubs. A very endearing sight, I’m sure you will agree, and even as I watched, the mother otter dived into the water and came up with a plump salmon, which she subdued and dragged on to a half-submerged log. As she ate it, while of course it was still alive, the body split and I remember to this day the sweet pinkness of its roes as they spilled out, much to the delight of the baby otters, who scrambled over themselves to feed on the delicacy. One of nature’s wonders, gentlemen: mother and children dining on mother and children. And that’s when I first learned about evil. It is built into the nature of the universe. Every world spins in pain. If there is any kind of supreme being, I told myself, it is up to all of us to become his moral superior. ~ Terry Pratchett, #NFDB
784:You haven't lost Iraki, you know. I don't know if it helps to say that. I lost a friend once myself, and I know how it goes.
'He'll find his way inside you, and you'll carry him onward. Behind your heartbeat, you'll hear another one, faint and out of step. People will say you are speaking his opinions, or your hair has turned like his.
'There are no more facts about him, that part is over. Now is the time for essential things. You'll see visions of him wherever you go. You'll see his eyes so moist, his intentions so blinding, you'll think he is more alive than you. You will look around and wonder if it was you who died.
'Gradually you'll grow older than him, and love him as your son.
'In the future, you'll live astride the line separating life from death. You'll become experienced in the wisdom of grief. You won't wait until people die to grieve for them. You'll give them their grief while they are still alive, for then judgement falls away, and there remains only the miracle of being.' ~ Rana Dasgupta,#NFDB
785:At the sound of her uncle’s voice coming from the back door, Jay threw Violet off his lap.
Violet giggled as she hit the cushions on the back of the couch.
“What are you doing?” she complained. “It’s just Uncle Stephen.”
Jay sat up. “I know, but ever since the Homecoming Dance, I feel like he’s always watching us. I just don’t want him to think we’re doing anything we shouldn’t be.”
The Homecoming Dance. It had been almost three months since that night, but the memories still made Violet shudder.
Not a day went by that she wasn’t grateful Jay was still alive. Grateful the bullet from the killer’s gun had only grazed his shoulder, despite the fact that the man-one of her uncle’s own officers-had been aiming directly for Jay’s heart.
If her uncle hadn’t shown up at the dance when he did, firing the fatal shot that took the killer down, neither she nor Jay would have made it out of there alive.
Jay had always liked her uncle before then, but now it was something closer to worship. ~ Angie Frazier,#NFDB
786:Peter told him that for the Incas the center of the universe wasn’t a point but a line where the two halves of the universe meet. Is this the scene unfolding before Richard’s eyes at the entrance to the asylum seekers’ residence? And are the two groups of people facing off here something like the two halves of a universe that actually belong together, but whose separation is nonetheless irrevocable? Is the rift dividing them in fact a bottomless chasm; is that why such powerful turbulences have been released? And is it a rift between Black and White? Or Poor and Rich? Stranger and Friend? Or between those whose fathers have died and those whose fathers are still alive? Or those with curly hair and those with straight? Those who call their dinner fufu and those who call it stew? Or those who like to wear yellow, red, and green t-shirts and those who prefer neckties? Or those who like to drink water and those who prefer beer? Or between speakers of one language and another? How many borders exist within a single universe? ~ Jenny Erpenbeck, #NFDB
787:My mind still clung to the image of my wife. A thought crossed my mind: I didn't even know if she were still alive. I knew only one thing-which I have learned well by now: Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance.
I did not know whether my wife was alive, and I had no menas of finding out (during all my prison life there was no outgoing or incoming mail); but at that moment it ceased to matter. There was no need for me to know; nothing could touch the strength of my love, my thought, and the image of my beloved. Had I known then that my wife was dead, I think that I would still have given myself, undisturbed by that knowledge, to the contemplation of her image, and that my mental conversations with her would have been just as vivid and just as stisfying. 'Set me like a seal upon thy heart, love is as strong as death. ~ Viktor E Frankl,#NFDB
788:Let No One Disqualify You 16‡†Therefore let no one pass judgment on you in questions of food and drink, or with regard to a festival or a new moon or a Sabbath. 17† These are a shadow of the things to come, but the substance belongs to Christ. 18†Let no one disqualify you, insisting on asceticism and worship of angels, going on in detail about visions,[3] puffed up without reason by his sensuous mind, 19†and not holding fast to the Head, from whom the whole body, nourished and knit together through its joints and ligaments, grows with a growth that is from God. 20‡†If with Christ you died to the elemental spirits of the world, why, as if you were still alive in the world, do you submit to regulations— 21† “Do not handle, Do not taste, Do not touch” 22†(referring to things that all perish as they are used)—according to human precepts and teachings? 23†These have indeed an appearance of wisdom in promoting self-made religion and asceticism and severity to the body, but they are of no value in stopping the indulgence of the flesh. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
789:She bore an uncanny resemblance to my mother, but the same beauty bloomed differently in each of them. My mother's fairness was exquisite and untouchable, roaming alone in an abandoned castle. Khalto Bahiya's beauty took you in immediately. Hers was easy and disclosed hordes of laughter stolen from wherever it could be found. Gravity, sun, and time had scrawled on their faces the travails of hard work, childbirth, and destitution. But even these lines disagreed on their faces. Khalto Bahiya's face incorporated them into her joy and her pain, so that lines appeared and hid according to her expressions and provided frames and curves to her tenderness. Gentle folds nestled her lips and made her face open when she smiled - like an orchid. On Mama, the lines had always seemed incongruous - as if her beauty could accept no change or outside interference. The wrinkles on Mama's face had carved her skin like prison bars, behind which one could discern the perpetual plaint of something grand and sad, still alive and wanting to get out. ~ Susan Abulhawa, #NFDB
790:Exploring all I could find, often with reckless dedication, I devoured the philosophies and theologies of animistic and shamanistic traditions. Hungrily I began learning: how to feel connection with the wind and the waves, how to hear the songs of the land and the stories of the ancestors, how to dissolve into darkness and ride the thermals of light. Slowly I discovered how these traditions are still alive, not just in lands that, with a mix of disquiet and envy, Western cultures call primitive and uncivilized. Returning to the islands of my ancestors, with wonder and relief, I found animistic religions in the rolling hills and flowering gardens of Britain. To my surprise and delight, I found too that here my passion for science was as nurtured as my soul’s artistic creativity. There was nothing in quantum physics or molecular biology, or the theories of the physiology of consciousness that could negate my growing understanding and experience of sanctity. I found the power of reason here, naturally inherent within the language of a religion. ~ Emma Restall Orr, #NFDB
791:Our sages say burying someone is considered the truest form of kindness and respect, as the deceased will not be able to thank you for it."
That’s kind of funny, actually, since Dad was not exactly prone to expressing gratitude to his children when he was still alive. You were either screwing up, or you were invisible. He was quiet and stern in a way that led you to expect an Eastern European accent. He had soft blue eyes and unusually thick forearms, and when he made a fist it looked like he could punch through anything. He mowed his own lawn, washed his own car, and painted his own house. He did all these things capably, painstakingly, and in a way that silently passed judgment on anyone who paid for someone else to do it. He rarely laughed at jokes, just nodded his understanding, as if it was all pretty much what he’d expected. Of course, there was a lot more to him that that, it’s just that none of it is coming to me right now. At some point you lose sight of your actual parents; you just see a basketful of history and unresolved issues. ~ Jonathan Tropper,#NFDB
792:Jason Todd: Bruce, I forgive you for not saving me. But why? Why on God's Earth is HE still alive? Ignoring what he's done in the past. Blindly, stupidly, disregarding the entire graveyards he's filled, the thousands who have suffered, the friends he's crippled. You know, I thought... I thought I'd be the last person you'd ever let him hurt. If it had been you he beat to a bloody pulp, if he had taken you from this world, I would've done nothing but search the planet for this pathetic pile of evil death-worshiping garbage and sent him off to Hell.
Bruce: You don't understand. I don't think you've ever understood.
Jason: What? What, your moral code just won't allow for that? It's too hard to cross that line?
Bruce: No! God almighty, no. It'd be too damned easy. All I've ever wanted to do is kill him. But if I do that... if I allow myself to go down into that place... I'll never come back.
Jason: Why? I'm not talking about killing Penguin, or Scarecrow, or Dent. I'm talking about him. Just him. And doing it because... because he took me away from you. ~ Judd Winick,#NFDB
793:The most poignant time this happened was when I read a woman whose parents lived together in an assisted living facility. They were very ill for years, and the father took care of the mother, who had very bad dementia or Alzheimer’s--ironically, I can’t remember which. As these situations often go, it was the caretaker, the father, who died first, and the ill mother was still alive but unable to communicate very well. During the reading, I channeled the father, who said to his daughter, “I’ve been sitting at the end of your mother’s bed, calling her for weeks. But she doesn’t come. She’s so stubborn!” And then I heard the mother’s soul chime in, “I’m not stubborn! I’m just not ready to go!” The two went back and forth like this for a while, even though the mom wasn’t dead. But as they carried on, I could feel that the mother was growing increasingly at peace with the idea of crossing over. “Don’t worry,” the father’s soul finally assured his daughter. “When Mom passes, my soul will be there to greet her.” Do you know, four hours later, the mom died? Incredible. ~ Theresa Caputo, #NFDB
794:And now, over to Romulus for our popular feature ‘Pals of Potter.’”
“Thanks, River,” said another very familiar voice; Ron started to speak, but Hermione forestalled him in a whisper.
“We know it’s Lupin!”
“Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time you’ve appeared on our program, that Harry Potter is still alive?”
“I do,” said Lupin firmly. “There is no doubt at all in my mind that his death would be proclaimed as widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at the morale of those resisting the new regime. ‘The Boy Who Lived’ remains a symbol of everything for which we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting.”
A mixture of gratitude and shame welled up in Harry. Had Lupin forgiven him, then, for the terrible things he had said when they had last met?
“And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?”
“I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” said Lupin, then hesitated slightly. “And I’d tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right. ~ J K Rowling,#NFDB
795:For John Dillinger
In hope he is still alive
Thanksgiving Day, November 28, 1986
In hope he is still alive
Thanks for the wild turkey and the Passenger Pigeons, destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts; thanks for a Continent to despoil and poison; thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger; thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin, leaving the carcass to rot; thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes; thanks for the American Dream to vulgarize and falsify until the bare lies shine through; thanks for the KKK; for nigger-killing lawmen feeling their notches; for decent church-going women with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces; thanks for Kill a Queer for Christ stickers; thanks for laboratory AIDS; thanks for Prohibition and the War Against Drugs; thanks for a country where nobody is allowed to mind his own business; thanks for a nation of finks—yes, thanks for all the memories all right, lets see your arms; you always were a headache and you always were a bore; thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams. ~ William S Burroughs,#NFDB
796:Fine, fuck it," Clay said, tossing the plate into the yard. The chicken parts bounced nicely, breading themselves with a light coating of sand, ants, and dried grass. "When did chicken become like plutonium anyway, for Christ's sake? You can't let it touch you or it's certain fucking death. And eggs and hamburgers kill you unless you cook them to the consistency of limestone! And if you turn on your fucking cell phone, the plane is going to plunge out of the sky in a ball of flames? And kids can't take a dump anymore but they have to have a helmet and pads on make them look like the Road Warrior. Right? Right? What the fuck happened to the world? When did everything get so goddamn deadly? Huh? I've been going to sea for thirty damned years, and nothing's killed me. I've swum with everything that can bite, sting, or eat you, and I've done every stupid thing at depth that any human can -- and I'm still alive. Fuck, Clair, I was unconscious for an hour underwater less than a week ago, and it didn't kill me. Now you're going to tell me that I'm going to get whacked by a fucking chicken leg? Well, just fuck it then! ~ Christopher Moore, #NFDB
797:Ideally my penultimate day would be spent attending a giant beach party thrown in my honor. Everyone would gather around me at sunset, and the golden light would make my skin and hair beautiful as I told hilarious stories and gave away my extensive collection of moon art to my ex-lovers. I and all of my still-alive friends (which, let’s face it, will mostly be women) would sing and dance late into the night. My sons would be grown and happy. I would be frail but adorable. I would still have my own teeth, and I would be tended to by handsome and kind gay men who pruned me like a bonsai tree. Once the party ended, everyone would fall asleep except for me. I would spend the rest of the night watching the stars under a nice blanket my granddaughter made with her Knit-Bot 5000. As the sun began to rise, an unexpected guest would wake and put the coffee on. My last words would be something banal and beautiful. “Are you warm enough?” my guest would ask. “Just right,” I would answer. My funeral would be huge but incredibly intimate. I would instruct people to throw firecrackers on my funeral pyre and play Purple Rain on a loop. ~ Amy Poehler, #NFDB
798:In March 2015, sixteen accused policemen were acquitted of their involvement in the Hashimpura massacre, making minorities even more cynical about the promises of justice from secular parties. The case dated back to 1987 when riots had erupted in Meerut. Men from UP’s Provincial Armed Constabulary (PAC) dragged out young Muslim men, most of them poor daily wagers and weavers, drove them to the Upper Ganga Canal in Ghaziabad instead of to the police station, and threw them in one by one. V. N. Rai, who was superintendent of police in Ghaziabad, wrote a chilling account of how the police—who described Meerut as a ‘mini Pakistan’ and held the Muslims solely responsible for the violence—had behaved. ‘Every survivor who hit the ground after being shot at tried hard to pretend he is dead and most hanged on the canal’s embankments with their heads in water and the body clutched by weeds to show to their killers that they were dead and no more gunshots fired at them. Even after the PAC personnel had left, they lay still between water, blood and slush. They were too scared and numbed even to help those who were still alive or half dead. ~ Barkha Dutt, #NFDB
799:You and he were never ...you know. You were our best fighters. You bickered all the time, but you brought out the best in each other as warriors. Going into battle to you turned him on more than any woman could.'
I give her a dubious look and she laughs.'Maybe a slight exaggeration, but he really did love it.' Her smiles fades.'And you and Jude were inseparable. That's why it made no sense that you would take the opposite side to either one of them - let alone both...It got worse after you and Jude disappeared last year. We thought he'd gone back to the Sanctuary to be with you. And when we heard you'd both dies...Honestly, I though Rafa was going to harm himself. He wouldn't talk to anyone for weeks. He drifted in and out of our operations, and then a few months ago he lost interest completely and stopped answering calls. We only know he was still alive because he's send Zak an occasional text. We he told Zak about the possibility you'd resurfaced there was no doubt he's come looking for you-'
A fist bangs on the door. 'Gabe' Rafa barks. 'Your boyfriend's here. Get your arse into gear.'
'Yeah' I get to my feet. 'I'm the wind beneath his wings. ~ Paula Weston,#NFDB
800:The most problematic depression episodes plunge me into a feeling of disconnection. I am no longer a part of the world. All the colours, meaning and richness become hidden or lost to me. There is a numbing absence of feeling that strips away any inspiration and creativity. I become dead to myself, a husk, a shell. The fall into this state can be violently fast, although the triggers have all been external. Life does not treat many of us kindly. Most of the time, I draw inspiration from the world around me. That sense of connection to all other living and perhaps-not-living things nourishes and sustains me. Being pushed out of that sense of belonging is brutal. I have self-esteem issues and, subjected as I was to barrages of abuse, bitter criticism, invasive scrutiny and some terrifying processes in my life, I’ve been crushed, repeatedly. I’ve come to places where I’ve felt so awful that the only imaginable way out, I thought, was to die. I’m still alive because of the love and dedication of my husband. I hold the hope that I won’t have to crawl through hell again anytime soon, that I can build internal reserves strong enough to resist external pressures. ~ Cat Treadwell, #NFDB
801:To help him through mine school, Frank had borrowed some money from his brother Reef, who in those days was known for promoting quick cash out of the air. “Don’t know when I can pay this back, old Reefer.” “Whenever that is, if I’m still alive, that would be payback enough for me, so don’t worry.” As usual, Reef wasn’t thinking that closely about what he was saying, finding it in fact impossible to imagine any kind of a future in which being dead was preferable to living. Part of the same rooster-in-the-morn attitude that kept him winning at games of chance. Or winning enough. Or he thought it did. One day out of the usual nowhere, Reef showed up in Golden to find Frank with his nose in a metallurgy book. “I have a chore to run, sort of romantic chore, nothing too difficult, you want to come along?” “Where to? Being’s I’ve got this exam?” Flapping the book pages at his brother for emphasis. “Well you look like you could use a break. Why don’t we go up Castle Rock to that amusement park and have us a few beers.” Why didn’t they? Frank had no idea. Next thing he knew it was daytime again, Reef had squared everything with the Professor, and they were headed for Nevada. ~ Thomas Pynchon, #NFDB
802:The essence of cool, after all, is not giving a fuck. And let’s face it: I most definitely give a fuck now. I give a huge fuck. The hugest. Everything else—everything—pales. To pretend otherwise, by word or deed, would be a monstrous lie. There will be no more Dead Boys T-shirts. Whom would I be kidding? Their charmingly nihilistic worldview in no way mirrors my own. If Stiv Bators were still alive and put his filthy hands anywhere near my baby, I’d snap his neck—then thoroughly cleanse the area with baby wipes. There is no hope of hipness. As my friend A. A. Gill points out, after your daughter reaches a certain age—like five—the most excruciating and embarrassing thing she could possibly imagine is seeing her dad in any way threatening to rock. Your record collection may indeed be cooler than your daughter’s will ever be, but this is a meaningless distinction now. She doesn’t care. And nobody else will. If you’re lucky, long after you’re gone, a grandchild will rediscover your old copy of Fun House. But it will be way too late for you to bask in the glory of past coolness. There is nothing cool about “used to be cool.” All of this, I think, is only right and appropriate. ~ Anthony Bourdain, #NFDB
803:From early childhood he had experienced the wish to die, to commit suicide, as they say, but never was totally concentrated. He could never come to terms with being born into a world that basically repulsed him in every detail from the very beginning. He grew older and thought that his wish to die would suddenly no longer be there, but this wish grew more intense from year to year, without ever becoming totally intense and concentrated. My constant curiosity got in the way of my suicide, so he said, I thought. We never forgive our fathers for having sired us, nor our mothers for having brought us into the world, he said, nor our sisters for continuing to be witnesses to our unhappiness. To exist means nothing other than we despair, he said. When I go to bed I have no other wise than to die, never to wake up, but then I wake up again and the awful process repeats itself, finally repeats itself for fifty years, he said. To think that for fifty years we don't wish for anything other than to be dead and are still alive and can't change it because we are thoroughly inconsistent, so he said. Because we are wretched, vile creatures. No musical ability! he cried out, no life ability! ~ Thomas Bernhard, #NFDB
804:A thousand years or more ago,
When I was newly sewn,
There lived four wizards of renown,
Whose name are still well-known:
Bold Gryffindor from wild moor,
Fair Ravlenclaw from glen,
Sweet Hufflepuff from valley broad,
Shrewd Slytherin from fen.
They share a wish, a hope, a dream,
They hatched a daring plan,
To educate young sorcerers,
Thus Hogwarts school began.
Now each of these four founders
Formed their own house, for each
Did value different virtues,
In the ones they had to teach.
By Gryffindor, the bravest were
Prized far beyond the rest;
For Ravenclaw, the cleverest
Would always be the best;
For Hufflepuff, hardworkers were
Most worthy of admission;
And power-hungry Slytherin
Loved those of great ambition.
While still alive they did divide
Their favourates from the throng,
Yet how to pick the worthy ones
When they were dead and gone?
'Twas Gryffindor who found the way,
He whipped me off his head
The founders put some brains in me
So I could choose instead!
Now slip me snug around your ears,
I've never yet been wrong,
I'll have alook inside your mind
And tell where you belong! ~ J K Rowling,#NFDB
805:Soon after DIVA’s recruitment, Nate had committed the unthinkable operational transgression by sleeping with her. Risking everything. Risking her, his agent’s life. Risking a career that kept him whole and independent, risking the work that defined him. But her blue eyes and edgy temper and wry smile had blinded him. Her ballerina’s body was matchless and responsive. Her passion for her country and her rage at those who coveted power had him in awe of her. And he could still hear the way she said his name—Neyt.
Their lovemaking had been drastic, clutching, urgent, guilty. They were professional intelligence officers and both knew how badly they were behaving. Typically, Dominika didn’t care. As a woman, she desired him outside the limits of the agent–case officer relationship. Nate could not—would not—commit to such an arrangement, for he worried about his standing, about operational security, about tradecraft. The irony of the situation was not lost on either of them: The hidebound Russian was more willing to break the rules to feed their passion than was the informal, loose-limbed American. But until she reappeared, until he knew she was still alive, Nate had a new Russian to handle. ~ Jason Matthews,#NFDB
806:When we are angry, what do we usually do? We shout, scream, and try to blame someone else for our problems. But looking at anger with the eyes of impermanence, we can stop and breathe. Angry at each other in the ultimate dimension, we close our eyes and look deeply. We try to see three hundred years into the future. What will you be like? What will I be like? Where will you be? Where will I be? We need only to breathe in and out, look at our future and at the other person's future.
Looking at the future, we see that the other person is very precious to us. When we know we can lose them at any moment, we are no longer angry. We want to embrace her or him and say: "How wonderful, you are still alive. I am so happy. How could I be angry with you? Both of us have to die someday, and while we are still alive and together it is foolish to be angry at each other."
The reason we are foolish enough to make ourselves suffer and make the other person suffer is that we forget that we and the other person are impermanent. Someday when we die we will lose all our possessions, our power, our family, everything. Our freedom, peace, and joy in the present moment is the most important thing we have. ~ Thich Nhat Hanh,#NFDB
807:It was an invention with huge potential in saving money and lives, but Otis faced a skeptical and fearful public. So he rented out the main exhibit hall of what was then New York City’s largest convention center. On the floor of the hall he constructed an open elevator platform and a shaft in which the platform could rise and descend. One afternoon, he gathered convention-goers for a demonstration. He climbed onto the platform and directed an assistant to hoist the elevator to its top height, about three stories off the ground. Then, as he stood and gazed down at the crowd, Otis took an ax and slashed the rope that was suspending the elevator in midair. The audience gasped. The platform fell. But in seconds, the safety brake engaged and halted the elevator’s descent. Still alive and standing, Otis looked out at the shaken crowd and said, “All safe, gentlemen. All safe.”1 The moment marked two firsts. It was the first demonstration of an elevator safe enough to carry people. (Otis, you might have guessed by now, went on to found the Otis Elevator Company.) And more important for our purposes, it was a simple, succinct, and effective way to convey a complex message in an effort to move others—the world’s first elevator pitch. ~ Daniel H Pink, #NFDB
808:Wise Blood has reached the age of ten and is still alive. My critical powers are just sufficient to determine this, and I am gratified to be able to say it. The book was written with zest and, if possible, it should be read that way. It is a comic novel about a Christian malgré lui, and as such, very serious, for all comic novels that are any good must be about matters of life and death. Wise Blood was written by an author congenitally innocent of theory, but one with certain preoccupations. That belief in Christ is to some a matter of life and death has been a stumbling block for some readers who would prefer to think it a matter of no great consequence. For them, Hazel Motes's integrity lies in his trying with such vigor to get rid of the ragged figure who moves from tree to tree in the back of his mind. For the author, Hazel's integrity lies in his not being able to do so. Does one's integrity ever lie in what he is not able to do? I think that usually it does, for free will does not mean one will, but many wills conflicting in one man. Freedom cannot be conceived simply. It is a mystery and one which a novel, even a comic novel, can only be asked to deepen.
(Preface to second edition, 1962) ~ Flannery O Connor,#NFDB
809:To decide that a man must be definitively punished is to deny him any further opportunity whatsoever to make reparation for his acts... This right to live that coincides with the opportunity for reparation is the natural right of every man, even the worst. The most wretched criminal and the worthiest judge here find themselves side by side, equally miserable and jointly responsible. Without this right, the moral life is strictly impossible. None among us is entitled to despair of a single man, unless it be after his death, which transforms his life into destiny and admits of a final judgment. But to pronounce this final judgment before death, to decree the closing of accounts when the creditor is still alive, is the privilege of no man. On these grounds, at least, he who judges absolutely condemns himself absolutely. ...It is because man is not fundamentally good that no one among us can set himself up as an absolute judge, for no one among us can pretend to absolute innocence. The verdict of capital punishment destroys the only indisputable human community there is, the community in the face of death, and such a judgment can only be legitimated by a truth or a principle that takes its place above all men, beyond the human condition. ~ Albert Camus, #NFDB
810:You’re awfully quiet,” Mark observed.
“I was just wondering,” I said. “Wondering if he’ll ever tell her.”
Mark cocked his head to one side, his eyes on Elaine and Alex. “I doubt it,” he said after a moment. “Crawford strikes me as the true-blue type. Now that Jo O’Connor’s dead…” He let his voice trail off.
“Pretty much what I was thinking,” I said.
“Of course,” Mark said promptly, “if he knew that Jo was still alive…”
“You never give up, do you?” I asked.
He gave me his devil’s grin. “Nope. So whaddaya think, Calloway? Do I get that dance?”
“Let’s see the cummerbund.”
His expression blandly agreeable, Mark stood up. I laughed before I could help myself.
Mark’s cummerbund was black with hot pink polka dots.
“I believe I specified plaid,” I said.
“Give me a break here, will you Calloway? I got the ugliest one I could find.”
“You definitely did do that,” I said. I looked up, meeting his eyes. “One dance,” I said. “We’re supposed to be working, you know.”
“One dance,” he agreed as the first dance ended and the crowd applauded.
He held out a hand. I took it and let him ease me out onto the dance floor. The band settled into its first slow number and Mark London pulled me slowly but surely into his arms. ~ Cameron Dokey,#NFDB
811:Eternal Friendship
Who once has had a friend has found
The link 'twixt mortal and divine;
Though now he sleeps in hallowed ground,
He lives in memory's sacred shrine;
And there he freely moves about,
A spirit that has quit the clay,
And in the times of stress and doubt
Sustains his friend throughout the day.
No friend we love can ever die;
The outward form but disappears;
I know that all my friends are nigh
Whenever I am moved to tears.
And when my strength and hope are gone,
The friends, no more, that once I knew,
Return to cheer and urge me on
Just as they always used to do.
They whisper to me in the dark
Kind words of counsel and of cheer;
When hope has flickered to a spark
I feel their gentle spirits near.
And Oh! because of them I strive
With all the strength that I can call
To keep their friendship still alive
And to be worthy of them all.
Death does not end our friendships true;
We all are debtors to the dead;
There, wait on everything we do
The splendid souls who've gone ahead.
To them I hold that we are bound
By double pledges to be fine.
Who once has had a friend has found
The link 'twixt mortal and divine.
~ Edgar Albert Guest,#NFDB
812:Although Breaking Bad owes a great deal of its success to its talented cast and crew, fundamentally the program utilized a simple formula to keep people tuning in. At the heart of every episode — and also across each season’s narrative arc — is a problem the characters must resolve. For example, during an episode in the first season, Walter White must find a way to dispose of the bodies of two rival drug dealers. Challenges prevent resolution of the conflict and suspense is created as the audience waits to find out how the storyline ends. In this particular episode, White discovers one of the drug dealers is still alive and is faced with the dilemma of having to kill someone he thought was already dead. Invariably, each episode’s central conflict is resolved near the end of the show, at which time a new challenge arises to pique the viewer’s curiosity. By design, the only way to know how Walter gets out of the mess he is in at the end of the latest episode is to watch the next episode. The cycle of conflict, mystery and resolution is as old as storytelling itself, and at the heart of every good tale is variability. The unknown is fascinating and strong stories hold our attention by waiting to reveal what happens next. In a phenomenon called “experience-taking, ~ Nir Eyal, #NFDB
813:No, my dear. Leave poor Hari Kumar to work out his own salvation, if he’s still alive to work it out and if there’s a salvation of any kind for a boy like him. He is the leftover, the loose end of our reign, the kind of person we created—I suppose with the best intentions. But for all Nehru’s current emergence as a potential moral force in world affairs, I see nothing in India that will withstand the pressure of the legacy of the division we English have allowed her to impose on herself, and are morally responsible for. In allowing it we created a precedent for partition just at the moment when the opposite was needed, allowed it—again with the best intentions—as a result of tiredness, and failing moral and physical pretensions that just wouldn’t stand the strain of looking into the future to see what abdication on India’s terms instead of ours was going to mean. Perhaps finally we had no terms of our own because we weren’t clever enough to formulate them in twentieth century dress, and so the world is going to divide itself into isolated little pockets of dogma and mutual resistance, and the promise that always seemed to lie behind even the worst aspects of our colonialism will just evaporate into history as imperial mystique, foolish glorification of a severely practical and greedy policy. ~ Paul Scott, #NFDB
814:The music still came from the house. It was past midnight. What kind of old lady plays rock music after midnight? One who still plays old vinyl records. One who keeps a weird tombstone in her wooded backyard. One who has strange visitors in a black car with a license plate number engraved on that same weird tombstone. One who told a teenage boy that his dead father was still alive. “What’s this?” Ema asked. I snapped back to the present. “What?” “Behind here.” She was pointing to the back of the tombstone. “There’s something carved into the back.” I walked over slowly, but I knew. I just knew. And when I reached the back of the tombstone and shined the light on it, I was barely surprised. A butterfly with animal eyes on its wings. Ema gasped. The music in the house stopped. Just like that. Like someone had flicked the off switch the moment my eyes found that dang symbol. Ema looked up at my face and saw something troubling. “Mickey?” Nope, there was no surprise. Not anymore. There was rage now. I wanted answers. I was going to get them, no matter what. I wasn’t going to wait for Mr. Shaved Head with the British accent to contact me. I wasn’t going to wait for Bat Lady to fly down and leave me another cryptic clue. Heck, I wasn’t even going to wait until tomorrow. I was going to find out now. “Mickey? ~ Harlan Coben, #NFDB
815:a photograph of the original letter that Dumbledore had written Grindelwald, with Dumbledore’s familiar thin, slanting writing. He hated seeing absolute proof that Dumbledore really had written those words, that they had not been Rita’s invention. ‘The signature,’ said Hermione. ‘Look at the signature, Harry!’ He obeyed. For a moment he had no idea what she was talking about, but, looking more closely with the aid of his lit wand, he saw that Dumbledore had replaced the ‘A’ of Albus with a tiny version of the same triangular mark inscribed upon The Tales of Beedle the Bard. ‘Er – what are you –?’ said Ron tentatively, but Hermione quelled him with a look and turned back to Harry. ‘It keeps cropping up, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘I know Viktor said it was Grindelwald’s mark, but it was definitely on that old grave in Godric’s Hollow, and the dates on the headstone were long before Grindelwald came along! And now this! Well, we can’t ask Dumbledore or Grindelwald what it means – I don’t even know whether Grindelwald’s still alive – but we can ask Mr Lovegood. He was wearing the symbol at the wedding. I’m sure this is important, Harry!’ Harry did not answer immediately. He looked into her intense, eager face and then out into the surrounding darkness, thinking. After a long pause, he said, ‘Hermione, we don’t need ~ J K Rowling, #NFDB
816:years old or thereabouts, may she be spared. Still alive. She did a little singing way back and she sang with old Blind Blake many a time.” “She did?” I said. “She sang with him?” “She sure did,” said the gnarled old guy. “She sang with just about anybody passing through. You got to remember this old town lay right on the big road to Atlanta. That old county road out there used to come on down through here straight on south into Florida. It was the only route through Georgia north to south. Of course now you got the highway runs right by without stopping off, and you got airplanes and all. No importance to Margrave now, nobody coming on through anymore.” “So Blind Blake stopped off here?” I prompted him. “And your sister sang with him?” “Everybody used to stop off here,” he said. “North side of town was just pretty much a mess of bars and rooming houses to cater to the folks passing through. All these fancy gardens between here and the firehouse is where the bars and rooming houses used to be. All tore down now, or else all fell down. Been no passing trade at all for a real long time. But back then, it was a different kind of a town altogether. Streams of people in and out, the whole time. Workers, crop pickers, drummers, fighters, hoboes, truckers, musicians. All kinds of those guys used to stop off and play and my old sister would be right in there ~ Lee Child, #NFDB
817:This false solution is last for a reason. Doing without is the final resting place of many who have tried the first six false solutions. It is where people go who have given up hoping for relationship. It is a place of quiet despair. When doing the same, the opposite, too much, nothing, for others, and to yourself fall through, you are left looking at yourself, alone, in a mirror. The very isolation of the dilemma is a judgment on you. It judges in several ways, telling you things like: You aren’t meant for safe people. You don’t qualify. You’ve been asking for too much. You can’t get it right. You are too damaged to have relationships. You aren’t spiritual enough. Typically, people who are trying this last false solution don’t make a big fuss about things. They get their lives in order. They bury themselves in work, service, or other worthwhile venues. And they try not to think about what they’re doing without. The disconnected part of the soul isn’t a very rude or demanding entity. It tends to die quietly, gradually withering away like a starving infant. After a period of time, you may no longer even be able to feel the pain of isolation. At that point, less pain but more damage is occurring. If you are in this position, part of you is still alive. You’re reading this book—even if you’re weary, cynical, and with no hope. But you are taking a step. ~ Henry Cloud, #NFDB
818:ARE MY CHILDREN still alive?" Sara Prague asked the question in a quiet, steady voice that he heard very clearly despite the noise around her. Cops coming and going, keyboards clicking, phones ringing. She looked haggard. Hard. She hadn't always, Vince figured. The worry lines bracketing her eyes, her mouth, the dry skin, the chapped lips, the sense that she really didn't give a damn what she looked like—those things had been strangers to her that first day. The day her kids hadn't come home from school. Now those lines, that hardness, had made themselves at home. It looked as if they planned to stay awhile. This shouldn't have happened to Sara Prague, a PTA mom whose world revolved around her kids. It shouldn't have happened to her husband. Mike, full-time plumber and part-time Little League coach. It shouldn't happen to anyone. Ever. Vince walked around his desk and eased Sara Prague into a cracked vinyl chair, ignoring the chaos around them. He poured her some stale coffee from the pot on the nearby stand, just as he had every day for the past three weeks. She came in here like clockwork—something the Center for Missing and Exploited Children had probably told her to do. He thought she would keep doing it, too. For years, if necessary. It wouldn't be necessary, though. She took the foam cup and sipped automatically. It was all part of their daily ~ Maggie Shayne, #NFDB
819:What!" said the king; "is that wretch still alive? Go and behead him at once. I authorise you." "Sire," said Saouy, "I thank your Majesty for the justice you do me. I would further beg, as Noureddin publicly affronted me, that the execution might be in front of the palace, and that it might be proclaimed throughout the city, so that no one may be ignorant of it." The king granted these requests, and the announcement caused universal grief, for the memory of Noureddin's father was still fresh in the hearts of his people. Saouy, accompanied by twenty of his own slaves, went to the prison to fetch Noureddin, whom he mounted on a wretched horse without a saddle. Arrived at the palace, Saouy went in to the king, leaving Noureddin in the square, hemmed in not only by Saouy's slaves but by the royal guard, who had great difficulty in preventing the people from rushing in and rescuing Noureddin. So great was the indignation against Saouy that if anyone had set the example he would have been stoned on his way through the streets. Saouy, who witnessed the agitation of the people from the windows of the king's privy chambers, called to the executioner to strike at once. The king, however, ordered him to delay; not only was he jealous of Saouy's interference, but he had another reason. A troop of horsemen was seen at that moment riding at full gallop towards the square. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
820:When he described the dramatic arrival of the Christ, instead of drawing on the conventional imagery of Jewish apocalypse, he used terminology that was quite new to the Jesus movement, presenting Jesus’s return as an official visit of an emperor or king to a provincial city. When the command is given, when the archangel’s voice is heard, when God’s trumpet sounds, then the Lord himself will descend from heaven; first the dead who belong to the Messiah will arise, then we who are still alive shall join them, caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air.59 The word parousia (“presence”), which referred to the ceremonial “arrival” of the visiting emperor, recurs throughout the letter.60 As soon as the officials heard that the emperor was actually approaching the city, the trumpet would sound and a delegation of local dignitaries would pour through the city gates and surge toward him for the ritualized apantesis (“meeting”).61 In Paul’s description, of course, Jesus, the true Kyrios, has replaced Claudius and the people who throng to meet him are Paul’s converts, who are no longer the weak and oppressed inhabitants of the city but its most privileged citizens. They will go up in the air to greet their Lord and bring him down to earth. In the person of Jesus, his representative, God would, as it were, leave the heavenly realm and join the common people. ~ Karen Armstrong, #NFDB
821:An old woman with snow-white hair was holding a one-year-old child in her arms and singing to it and tickling it. The child was cooing with delight. The parents were looking on with tears in their eyes. The father was holding the hand of a boy about 10 years old and speaking to him softly; the boy was fighting his tears. The father pointed to the sky, stroked his head and seemed to explain something to him. At that moment the S.S. man at the pit shouted something to his comrade. The latter counted off about twenty persons and instructed them to go behind the earth mound… I well remember a girl, slim and with black hair, who, as she passed close to me, pointed to herself and said: “twenty-three years old.” I walked around the mound and found myself confronted by a tremendous grave. People were closely wedged together and lying on top of each other so that only their heads were visible. Nearly all had blood running over their shoulders from their heads. Some of the people were still moving. Some were lifting their arms and turning their heads to show that they were still alive. The pit was already two-thirds full. I estimated that it contained about a thousand people. I looked for the man who did the shooting. He was an S.S. man, who sat at the edge of the narrow end of the pit, his feet dangling into the pit. He had a tommy gun on his knees and was smoking a cigarette. ~ William L Shirer, #NFDB
822:We did not know, as yet, which was the better side, right or left, which road led to prison and which to the crematoria. Still, I was happy, I was near my father. Our procession continued slowly to move forward. Another inmate came over to us: “Satisfied?” “Yes,” someone answered. “Poor devils, you are heading for the crematorium.” He seemed to be telling the truth. Not far from us, flames, huge flames, were rising from a ditch. Something was being burned there. A truck drew close and unloaded its hold: small children. Babies! Yes, I did see this, with my own eyes…children thrown into the flames. (Is it any wonder that ever since then, sleep tends to elude me?) So that was where we were going. A little farther on, there was another, larger pit for adults. I pinched myself: Was I still alive? Was I awake? How was it possible that men, women, and children were being burned and that the world kept silent? No. All this could not be real. A night- mare perhaps…Soon I would wake up with a start, my heart pounding, and find that I was back in the room of my childhood, with my books… My father's voice tore me from my daydreams: “What a shame, a shame that you did not go with your mother…I saw many children your age go with their mothers…” His voice was terribly sad. I understood that he did not wish to see what they would do to me. He did not wish to see his only son go up in flames. ~ Anonymous, #NFDB
823:He did not come floating off the mountain as though walking on air. He did not run down shouting “Hallelujah” and “Bless the Lord.” He did not radiate light and joy. There were no choirs of angels, no music of the heavens. No elation, no ecstasy, no golden aura surrounding him. No sense of his absolute, foreordained, unquestionable role as the messenger of God. Not even the whole of the Quran fully revealed, but only a few brief verses. In short, Muhammad did none of the things that might seem essential to the legend of a man who had just done the impossible and crossed the border between this world and another—none of the things that might make it easy to cry foul, to denigrate the whole story as an invention, a cover for something as mundane as delusion or personal ambition. On the contrary: he was convinced that what he had encountered could not be real. At best it must be a hallucination: a trick of the eye or the ear, or his own mind working against him. At worst, possession, and he had been seized by an evil jinn, a spirit out to deceive him, even to crush the life out of him. In fact he was so sure that he could only be majnun, literally possessed by a jinn, that when he found himself still alive, his first instinct had been to finish the job himself, to leap off the highest cliff and escape the terror of what he had experienced by putting an end to all experience. ~ Lesley Hazleton, #NFDB
824:troubles started on the first page. In Genesis 1, it says that God created the plants first, then the animals, and people last. But in Genesis 2, it says that God created Adam first, then the plants, then the animals, and Eve last. Which was it? Not even God can have it both ways. Then comes the talking snake and the angel with the flaming sword. Actually, the idea of a talking snake didn’t stretch my imagination too much. But after Adam and Eve get kicked out of the Garden of Eden, God posts an angel with a flaming sword at the garden gate to make sure nobody ever tries moving back in. That means that the Garden—and the angel with the flaming sword—are still there today, somewhere on the banks of the Euphrates. What if someone sent an army to conquer Eden? Sure, an angel with a flaming sword can hold off Arab raiders on camelback—but how about a fleet of tanks? Then there’s Cain’s wife. At the start of Genesis 4, Eve gives birth to two sons, Cain and Abel. After he kills Abel, Cain goes off and finds himself a wife. Cain and his wife have children of their own, then grandchildren, then great-grandchildren, then great-great grandchildren. And then—and only then—Adam and Eve, who are still alive and kicking, give birth to their third child. So if Adam and Eve are the parents of the whole human race, where did Cain’s wife come from? After that, there’s a lot of begetting—which gets ~ Sam Torode, #NFDB
825:One fine day you decide to talk less and less about the things you care most about, and when you have to say something, it costs you an effort . . . You’re good and sick of hearing yourself talk . . . you abridge . . . You give up … For thirty years you’ve been talking . . . You don’t care about being right anymore. You even lose your desire to keep hold of the small place you’d reserved yourself among the pleasures of life . . . You’re fed up … From that time on you’re content to eat a little something, cadge a little warmth, and sleep as much as possible on the road to nowhere. To rekindle your interest, you’d have to think up some new grimaces to put on in the presence of others . . . But you no longer have the strength to renew your repertory. You stammer. Sure, you still look for excuses for hanging around with the boys, but death is there too, stinking, right beside you, it’s there the whole time, less mysterious than a game of poker. The only thing you continue to value is petty regrets, like not finding time to run out to Bois-Colombes to see your uncle while he was still alive, the one whose little song died forever one afternoon in February. That horrible little regret is all we have left of life, we’ve vomited up the rest along the way, with a good deal of effort and misery. We’re nothing now but an old lamppost with memories on a street where hardly anyone passes anymore. ~ Louis Ferdinand C line, #NFDB
826:Yeah, I miss those days some. But all I gotta do is get a whiff of blood, anybody’s blood, and all those days of sunlight on girls’ hair and sunlight on chicory flowers and the hot wind blowin’ in your face and shine money and sheriffs swearing a blue streak ’cause I cut their tires, all of it just blows away. If Mitch Lily was still alive and walked in some bar, I’d drink with him and talk about old times for as long as I could stand it, and then, when that hot brick of hunger started cookin’ my guts, I’d ask him what he’s drivin’ now, and he’d say, “Aw, nothing like in them days,” and I’d say, “Show me anyway, Mitch Lily,” and out we’d go to the parking lot and I’d bend him down between two cars and first he’d think I was playin’ a joke and I’d laugh, too, and then he’d try to stand up and say, “Quit horsin’,” and say, “I ain’t,” real cold and he’d smell death in my mouth under the whiskey and he’d get a little scared and start tryin’ hard to stand up and push me off and he’d be surprised that he couldn’t stop me and I’d open up his throat and drink. Because as strong as he was, I’m stronger now. And as good as those days were, these nights are better, and the reason is blood and blood and blood. No shine, no pussy, and no love of Jesus ever tasted as good as the dirtiest nigger junkie’s blood, and that’s how it is. And that’s all right. Life, or whatever this is, is all right. ~ Christopher Buehlman, #NFDB
827:Nick made himself release his grip on the timber. He swung free for one terrifying moment. He felt Sayer’s grip tighten to a crushing vise and a mighty tug upward as the runner hauled him just far enough to balance his weight on top of the crackling wood.
“Move forward,” Sayer muttered, retaining his hold on Nick’s arm, and together they maneuvered away from the perilous fall. When they had both retreated from the beam and found the safety of some relatively sound planking, they collapsed side by side, gasping violently.
“Damn,” Sayer rasped when he had sufficient breath to speak, “you’re a heavy bastard, Sydney.”
Disoriented, his body racked with pain, Nick tried to make himself comprehend that he was still alive. He drew his sleeve over his sweat-soaked brow and found that his arm was cramping and shaking, the abused muscles going berserk.
Sayer sat up and regarded him with clear anxiety. “It looks like you’ve strained some muscles. And your hand looks like it’s been pushed through a sieve.”
But he was alive. It was too miraculous to believe. Nick had gotten a reprieve he didn’t deserve, and by all that was holy, he was going to take advantage of it. As he thought of Lottie, he was seized with dark longing.
“Sayer,” he managed to say hoarsely, “I’ve just decided something.”
“Oh?”
“From now on, you’ll have to find your own fucking way around Fleet Ditch.”
-Sayer & Nick ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
828:Unlike many at court, who tried to spend as much time in front of the king as they could, Destin valued his privacy. So, in addition to his apartment within the palace, he kept a suite of rooms at the Cup and Comfort Inn on the riverfront. Any kind of pleasure could be had at the Cup and Comfort for a price, but what Destin treasured most was anonymity. This was a place where he could be himself.
So it was with not a little alarm that he unlocked the door to his rooms at the inn to find Lila Barrowhill sleeping in his fireside chair.
He froze in the doorway, but she must have heard him, because she opened her eyes and smiled at him sleepily. “I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in. I didn’t want to draw attention by sitting outside your door.”
Destin stepped inside and shut and locked the door behind him. Then turned to glare at her, his arms folded.
Lila grinned when she saw his expression. “Blood and bones, Karn, I’m so glad you’re still alive. It always seems that I’m a lot happier to see you than you are to see me. Well, except for that time you came to Oden’s Ford. Then there was that time in King Gerard’s garden—”
“How did you find this place?”
“I needed a cup and some comfort, and this place was recommended,” she said. She held up a cup she’d no doubt filled down in the taproom. “It’s truly amazing. You really can get anything you want here.” She winked at him. ~ Cinda Williams Chima,#NFDB
829:Christopher observed the passage of the coach from his sight and then turned his gaze to the pair of men who approached them. It was Farrell and Captain Daniels, and while the latter was smiling broadly, the former frowned in sharp disapproval at the couple. Christopher thrust out a hand in greeting to his captain, then looked to his wife’s brother. “Farrell, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” Christopher smiled as he extended his hand. “I am Lord Saxton.”
The young man’s eyes widened, and he searched the softly smiling visage of his sister as he mechanically accepted the hand. “Lord Saxton? The Lord Saxton?”
“Aye, I am the one who wore the mask and walked with a limp,” Christopher confessed. “ ’Twas done partly to fool the thieves into believing the man they had murdered was still alive, and then too, I desired to wed your sister and found no other way. I hope you will value the friendship we began when you knew me as the cripple.”
Farrell tried to grasp all the facts and put them together in their proper places. “You are really married to my sister, and you are the father of her…” Erienne blushed as she glanced hesitantly toward the sea captain, who seemed to be enjoying the whole exchange. His smile broadened as her husband gave a reply. “You needn’t sharpen your skill with firearms to avenge your sister’s honor,” Christopher replied. The teasing gleam in his eyes shone brighter. “ ’Twas quite properly made, I assure you.”
-Christopher & Farrell ~ Kathleen E Woodiwiss,#NFDB
830:A Jack-At-All-Views
So, Estee, you are still alive! I thought
That you had died and were a blessed ghost
I know at least your coffin once was bought
With Railroad money; and 'twas said by most
Historians that Stanford made a boast
The seller 'threw you in.' That goes for naught
Man takes delight in fancy's fine inventions,
And woman too, 'tis said, if they are French ones.
Do you remember, Estee-ah, 'twas long
And long ago!-how fierce you grew and hot
When anything impeded the straight, strong,
Wild sweep of the great billow you had got
Atop of, like a swimmer bold? Great Scott!
How fine your wavemanship! How loud your song
Of 'Down with railroads!' When the wave subsided
And left you stranded you were much divided.
Then for a time you were content to wade
The waters of the 'robber barons'' moat.
To fetch, and carry was your humble trade,
And ferry Stanford over in a boat,
Well paid if he bestowed the kindly groat
And spoke you fair and called you pretty maid.
And when his stomach seemed a bit unsteady
You got your serviceable basin ready.
Strange man! how odd to see you, smug and spruce,
There at Chicago, burrowed in a Chair,
Not made to measure and a deal too loose,
And see you lift your little arm and swear
Democracy shall be no more! If it's a fair
And civil question, and not too abstruse,
Were you elected as a 'robber baron,'
Or as a Communist whose teeth had hair on?
~ Ambrose Bierce,#NFDB
831:Then the true name for religion,' Fat said, 'is death.'
'The secret name,' I agreed. 'You got it. Jesus died; Asklepios died - they killed Mani worse than they killef jesus, but nobody even cares; nobody even remembers. They killed the Catharist in southern France by the tens of thousands. In the Thirty Years War, hundreds of people died. Protestants and Catholics - manual slaughter. Death is the real name for it; not God, not the Savior, not love - death. Kevin is rights about his cat. It's all there in his dead cat. The Great Judge can't answer Kevin: "Why did my cat die?" Answer: "Damned i I knoe." There is no answer; there is only a dead animal that just wanted to cross the street. We're all animals that want to cross the street only something mows us down half-way across that we never saw. Go ask Kevin. "Your cat was stupid." "Who made the cat? Why did he make the cat stupid? Did the cat learn by being killed, and if so, what did he learn? Did Sherri learn anything from dying of cancer? did gloria learn anything-'
'Okay, enough,' Fat said.
'Kevin is right,' I said. 'Go out and get laid.'
'By who? they're all dead.'
I said, 'There's more. Still alive. Lay one of them before she dies or you die or somebody dies, some person or animal. You said it yourself: the universe is irrational because the mind behind it is irrational. You are irrational and you know it. We all are and we know it, on some level. I'd write a book about it but no one would believe a group of human being could be as irrational as we are, as we've acted. ~ Philip K Dick,#NFDB
832:Psalm 34:7 This is one of the most remarkable passages in the Psalms. We can claim it as our own. But you might say, “I don’t see or feel God’s angels around me. Actually, I feel like I am under the power of the devil and am being led to hell.” My answer would be, “Don’t let yourself think that way! If you had been handed over to the devil, he wouldn’t let you live one hour without plunging you into a life of crime. As a matter of fact, he probably wouldn’t even give you time to do anything wrong, but would kill you right away. You are still alive because of the protection of the holy angels. The time will come when you have to leave this earth, and with God’s permission, you may be subjected to Satan’s anger. But God, in his mercy and grace, will strengthen you through his Word.” When you are handed over to Satan, it will only be for a very short time. This isn’t to condemn you but to test you, to bring about salvation and endless blessings. Christ said, “Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds” (John 12:24). In the same way, Christ was handed over to murderers, but only for a short time and to bring about salvation. So when you feel Satan bothering and tempting you, pray and thank God that you won’t fail but that you are only going through a trial in order to be purified. Jeremiah comforts us by saying, “Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his com-passions never fail” (Lamentations 3:21–22). ~ Martin Luther, #NFDB
833:Is the rift dividing them in fact a bottomless chasm; is that why such powerful turbulences have been released? And is it a rift between Black and White? Or Poor or Rich? Stranger and Friend? Or between those whose father's have died and those whose father's are still alive? Or those with curly hair and those with straight? Those who call their dinner fufu and those that call it stew? Or those who like to wear yellow, red, and green t-shirts and those who prefer neckties? Or those who like to drink water and those who prefer beer? Or between speakers of one language or another? How many borders exist within a single universe? Or, to ask it differently, what is the one true, crucial border?
... it's just a matter of a few pigments in the material that's known as skin in all the languages of the world, meaning that the violence on display here is not at all the harbinger of a storm in the center of the universe but is in fact due merely to an absurd misunderstanding that has been dividing humankind and preventing it from realizing how enormously long the lifespan of a planet is compared to the life and breath of any one human being. Whether you clothe your body in hand-me-down pants and jackets from a donation bin, brand-name sweater's, expensive or cheap dresses, or uniforms with a helmet and visor- underneath this clothing, every one of us is naked and must surely, let's hope, have taken pleasure in sunshine and wind, in water and snow, have eaten or drunk this and that tasty thing, perhaps even have loved someone and been loved in return before dying one day. ~ Jenny Erpenbeck,#NFDB
834:bleeds into itself; the heart muscle softens and has hemorrhages into its chambers, and blood squeezes out of the heart muscle as the heart beats, and it floods the chest cavity. The brain becomes clogged with dead blood cells, a condition known as sludging of the brain. Ebola attacks the lining of the eyeball, and the eyeballs may fill up with blood: you may go blind. Droplets of blood stand out on the eyelids: you may weep blood. The blood runs from your eyes down your cheeks and refuses to coagulate. You may have a hemispherical stroke, in which one whole side of the body is paralyzed, which is invariably fatal in a case of Ebola. Even while the body’s internal organs are becoming plugged with coagulated blood, the blood that streams out of the body cannot clot; it resembles whey being squeezed out of curds. The blood has been stripped of its clotting factors. If you put the runny Ebola blood in a test tube and look at it, you see that the blood is destroyed. Its red cells are broken and dead. The blood looks as if it has been buzzed in an electric blender. Ebola kills a great deal of tissue while the host is still alive. It triggers a creeping, spotty necrosis that spreads through all the internal organs. The liver bulges up and turns yellow, begins to liquefy, and then it cracks apart. The cracks run across the liver and deep inside it, and the liver completely dies and goes putrid. The kidneys become jammed with blood clots and dead cells, and cease functioning. As the kidneys fail, the blood becomes toxic with urine. The spleen turns into a single huge, hard blood clot the size of a ~ Richard Preston, #NFDB
835:heart bleeds into itself; the heart muscle softens and has hemorrhages into its chambers, and blood squeezes out of the heart muscle as the heart beats, and it floods the chest cavity. The brain becomes clogged with dead blood cells, a condition known as sludging of the brain. Ebola attacks the lining of the eyeball, and the eyeballs may fill up with blood: you may go blind. Droplets of blood stand out on the eyelids: you may weep blood. The blood runs from your eyes down your cheeks and refuses to coagulate. You may have a hemispherical stroke, in which one whole side of the body is paralyzed, which is invariably fatal in a case of Ebola. Even while the body’s internal organs are becoming plugged with coagulated blood, the blood that streams out of the body cannot clot; it resembles whey being squeezed out of curds. The blood has been stripped of its clotting factors. If you put the runny Ebola blood in a test tube and look at it, you see that the blood is destroyed. Its red cells are broken and dead. The blood looks as if it has been buzzed in an electric blender. Ebola kills a great deal of tissue while the host is still alive. It triggers a creeping, spotty necrosis that spreads through all the internal organs. The liver bulges up and turns yellow, begins to liquefy, and then it cracks apart. The cracks run across the liver and deep inside it, and the liver completely dies and goes putrid. The kidneys become jammed with blood clots and dead cells, and cease functioning. As the kidneys fail, the blood becomes toxic with urine. The spleen turns into a single huge, hard blood clot the size of a ~ Richard Preston, #NFDB
836:Nawat grinned. “I was helping to steal soldiers who couldn't keep up.”
“What do you do with them?” she asked, curious. “I haven't heard of bodies being found.”
“Nor will you,” Nawat informed her, sitting on a corner of the worktable. “They were still alive when we gave them to my warriors at the edge of the jungle.”
He picked up Aly's hand and laced his fingers with hers. “My warriors will be able to say they last saw the missing soldiers alive, when the troops went on a visit to the jungle.”
Aly walked her free fingers over their entwined hands. “But why would Crown soldiers visit the jungle?”
“They didn't think they would at first,” Nawat admitted. “So my warriors show them the beauties of the deep jungle. They take away all the things the soldiers have of the civilized world, such as clothes and weapons and armor, so the soldiers will appreciate the jungle with their entire bodies. But my warriors have seen jungle before, so they get bored and leave. The soldiers stay longer.”
“Like the tax collectors,” Aly whispered, awed by the beauty of what he described. “Take away all they have and leave them to survive the jungle. If you're questioned under truthspell, you can say they were alive when you left them. And the only way they could survive naked out there . . .”
Nawat was shaking his head. Aly nodded. “I take it you don't leave them near any trails.”
“They are there to appreciate the jungle that has been untouched by humans,” Nawat told her, a teacher to a student who did not quite understand.
Aly sighed. “I am limp with envy,” she told him. “Simply limp. ~ Tamora Pierce,#NFDB
837:Hey,” Andi says as we pass the Alilaguna stop on our way back to Piazza San Marco. “I just figured out what ‘Alilaguna’ means: ‘Wings of the Lagoon.’ I love that! Doesn’t it sound like a romance novel?”
“Totally!” Paige agrees enthusiastically.
“Wings of the Lagoon!” Andi continues. “A beautiful American girl comes to Venice in the nineteenth century and gets swept away by a handsome gondolier…”
“Only her rich and powerful parents are way too snobby to allow them to date…,” Kendra chimes in.
“So they run away together in the gondola,” Andi says, “but get caught up in a terrible storm…”
“And her parents think they’re dead…,” Kendra adds.
“So they send out a search party and find them floating in the gondola, arms wrapped around each other,” Kelly suggests. “Still alive, but barely…”
“And the parents forgive her and say they can be together…,” Andi says.
“And then it turns out he’s the son of a Venetian duke who was going to have an arranged marriage, but he ran away to be a gondolier ’cause he wanted to find a girl who loved him for himself…” Kelly’s voice is getting stronger and more confident.
“And they both live happily ever after!” Paige carols happily. “I love this story!”
She, Kelly, Andi, and Kendra exchange high fives.
“It’s nice when a story has a happy ending,” Luca says softly in my ear. I hadn’t realized he was so close to me. “In real life, it’s not so easy…”
I swallow hard at the sound of his voice, at his words. All I can do is shake my head vehemently. No. It’s not so easy. You come to Italy and meet the son of a Florentine prince and you don’t live happily ever after. Not at all. ~ Lauren Henderson,#NFDB
838:He reached for me, and fast as lightning, he boxed my ears. All I remember is the world exploding. Cassandra says she helped me back to our room, and there was blood coming from my left ear. My right ear mended in a day or two, but I could only hear a little out of the left one, and there was a beating pain deep down. Soon I took ill with fever. Mama said that had nothing to do with the ear, but I think it did."
Pandora paused, unwilling to relate any of the distasteful details of her ear suppurating and draining. She glanced cautiously at Gabriel, whose face was averted. He was no longer playing with her braid. His hand had clenched around it until the muscles of his forearms and wrist stood out.
"Even after I recovered from the fever," Pandora said, "the hearing didn't come back all the way. But the worst part was that I kept losing my balance, especially at night. It made me afraid of the dark. Ever since then-" She stopped as Gabriel lifted his head.
His face was hard and murderous, the hellfrost in his eyes frightening her more than her father's fury ever had.
"That bloody son of a bitch," he said softly. "If he were still alive, I'd beat him with a thresher's flail."
Pandora reached out with a fluttering motion, patting the air near him. "No," she said breathlessly, "no, I wouldn't want that. I hated him for a long time, but now I feel sorry for him."
Gabriel caught her hand in midair, swift but gentle, as if it were a bird he wanted to hold without injuring. His eyes had dilated until she could see reflections of herself in the dark centers. "Why?" he whispered after a long moment.
"Because hurting me was the only way to hide his own pain. ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
839:How was I ever going to explain to him, or to myself, why I couldn’t go to his home and meet his family, though every part of me was dying to? Oliver wife. Oliver sons. Oliver pets. Oliver study, desk, books, world, life. What had I expected? A hug, a handshake, a perfunctory hail-fellow-well-met, and then the unavoidable Later! ?
The very possibility of meeting his family suddenly alarmed me—too real, too sudden, too in-my-face, not rehearsed enough. Over the years I’d lodged him in the permanent past, my pluperfect lover, put him on ice, stuffed him with memories and mothballs like a hunted ornament confabulating with the ghost of all my evenings. I’d dust him off from time to time and then put him back on the mantelpiece. He no longer belonged to earth or to life. All I was likely to discover at this point wasn’t just how distant were the paths we’d taken, it was the measure of loss that was going to strike me—a loss I didn’t mind thinking about in abstract terms but which would hurt when stared at in the face, the way nostalgia hurts long after we’ve stopped thinking of things we’ve lost and may never have cared for.
Or was it that I was jealous of his family, of the life he’d made for himself, of the things I never shared and couldn’t possibly have known about? Things he had longed for, loved, and lost, and whose loss had crushed him, but whose presence in his life, when he had them, I wasn’t there to witness and wouldn’t know the first thing about. I wasn’t there when he’d acquired them, wasn’t there when he’d given them up. Or was it much, much simpler? I had come to see if I felt something, if something was still alive. The trouble was I didn’t want anything to be alive either. ~ Andr Aciman,#NFDB
840:Fine!” I threw my hands up in the air. “Yes, you mean something to me. What you did for me on Thanksgiving—that made me…” My voice cracked. “That made me happy. You made me happy. And I still care about you. Okay? You mean something to me—something I can’t really even put
into words because everything seems too lame in comparison. I’ve always wanted you, even when I hated you. I want you even though you drive me freaking insane. And I know I screwed everything up. Not just for you and me, but for Dee.”
My breath caught on a sob. The words rushed from me, one after another. “And I never felt this way with anyone else. Like I’m falling every time I’m around you, like I can’t catch my breath, and I feel alive —not just standing around and letting my life walk past me. There’s been nothing like that with anyone else.” Tears pricked my eyes as I stepped back. My chest was swelling so fast it hurt. “But none of this matters, because I know you really hate me now . I understand that. I just wish I could go back and change everything! I—”
Daemon was suddenly in front of me, clasping my cheeks in his warm hands. “I never hated you.”
I blinked back the wetness gathering in my eyes. “But—”
“I don’t hate you now , Kat.” He stared intently into my eyes. “I’m mad at you—at myself. I’m so angry, I can taste it. I want to find Blake and rearrange parts of his body. But do you know w hat I thought about all day yesterday? All night? The one single thought I couldn’t escape, no matter how pissed off I am at you?”
“No,” I whispered.
“That I’m lucky, because the person I can’t get out of my head, the person who means more to me than I can stand, is still alive. She’s still there. And that’s you. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,#NFDB
841:You don’t have to hide your happiness, your peace, your victory, or your possessions. You don’t have to dress down and look poor and pitiful and depressed to show people you are humble. When you wear your blessings well, giving God all the credit, talking about His goodness, thanking Him for what He has done, that’s what really brings honor to our God.
If God has blessed you with financial success or helped you through a challenge in a relationship, a job, your health, or your finances, wear that blessing well. Tell everyone what God has done for you. If they make fun of you like they make fun of me and ask why you are so happy, just tell them, “I’m wearing my blessing well. God has been so good to me I can’t keep it to myself. I’ve got to tell somebody. I once was lost, but now I’m found. I should be dead, but I’m still alive. Look what the Lord has done.”
Some critics and doubters may tell you to calm down or chill out on the happiness stuff. Let that go in one ear and out the other. Keep wearing your blessings well, and over time, instead of them affecting you, you will inject them. You will help them come up higher.
When you dress your best, you’re wearing your blessings well. When you step up and take that promotion, you’re wearing your blessings well. When God opens the door and you move into that new house you’ve been believing for, others may be critical. But don’t allow those who are negative, jealous, judgmental, bitter, angry, and nonsmiling to bring you down.
If you want to please God and live in happiness, don’t drag around broke, defeated, or depressed. Wear your blessings well. Step up to a new level. Enjoy God’s favor. Be proud of who you are and of what God has done in your life. ~ Joel Osteen,#NFDB
842:The Chick Being Born Every crack is also an opening. When in the midst of great change, it is helpful to remember how a chick is born. From the view of the chick, it is a terrifying struggle. Confined and curled in a dark shell, half-formed, the chick eats all its food and stretches to the contours of its shell. It begins to feel hungry and cramped. Eventually, the chick begins to starve and feels suffocated by the ever-shrinking space of its world. Finally, its own growth begins to crack the shell, and the world as the chick knows it is coming to an end. Its sky is falling. As the chick wriggles through the cracks, it begins to eat its shell. In that moment—growing but fragile, starving and cramped, its world breaking—the chick must feel like it is dying. Yet once everything it has relied on falls away, the chick is born. It doesn't die, but falls into the world. The lesson is profound. Transformation always involves the falling away of things we have relied on, and we are left with a feeling that the world as we know it is coming to an end, because it is. Yet the chick offers us the wisdom that the way to be born while still alive is to eat our own shell. When faced with great change—in self, in relationship, in our sense of calling—we somehow must take in all that has enclosed us, nurtured us, incubated us, so when the new life is upon us, the old is within us. The next chance you get, watch something being born. If moved by this notion, actively pursue this. Go to a zoo. Or a farm. Or a nursery. Or an aquarium. Or walk the floor of newborns at your local hospital. As you witness birth of some kind, note what detail touches you. Take it as a teacher and see if it describes something struggling to be born in you. ~ Mark Nepo, #NFDB
843:What! alive and so bold, O Earth?
Art thou not overbold?
What! leapest thou forth as of old
In the light of thy morning mirth,
The last of the flock of the starry fold?
Ha! leapest thou forth as of old?
Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled,
And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead?
How! is not thy quick heart cold?
What spark is alive on thy hearth?
How! is not HIS death-knell knolled?
And livest THOU still, Mother Earth?
Thou wert warming thy fingers old
Oer the embers covered and cold
Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled--
What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead?
'Who has known me of old,' replied Earth,
'Or who has my story told?
It is thou who art overbold.'
And the lightning of scorn laughed forth
As she sung, 'To my bosom I fold
All my sons when their knell is knolled,
And so with living motion all are fed,
And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.
'Still alive and still bold,' shouted Earth,
'I grow bolder and still more bold.
The dead fill me ten thousandfold
Fuller of speed, and splendour, and mirth.
I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold,
Like a frozen chaos uprolled,
Till by the spirit of the mighty dead
My heart grew warm. I feed on whom I fed.
'Ay, alive and still bold.' muttered Earth,
'Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled,
In terror and blood and gold,
A torrent of ruin to death from his birth.
Leave the millions who follow to mould
The metal before it be cold;
And weave into his shame, which like the dead
Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled.'
Published with Hellas, 1821.
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lines Written On Hearing The News Of The Death Of Napoleon
,#NFDB
844:And now, over to Romulus for our popular feature ‘Pals of Potter.’”
“Thanks, River,” said another very familiar voice; Ron started to speak, but Hermione forestalled him in a whisper.
“We know it’s Lupin!”
“Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time you’ve appeared on our program, that Harry Potter is still alive?”
“I do,” said Lupin firmly. “There is no doubt at all in my mind that his death would be proclaimed as widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at the morale of those resisting the new regime. ‘The Boy Who Lived’ remains a symbol of everything for which we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting.”
A mixture of gratitude and shame welled up in Harry. Had Lupin forgiven him, then, for the terrible things he had said when they had last met?
“And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?”
“I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” said Lupin, then hesitated slightly. “And I’d tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right.”
Harry looked at Hermione, whose eyes were full of tears.
“Nearly always right,” she repeated.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” said Ron in surprise. “Bill told me Lupin’s living with Tonks again! And apparently she’s getting pretty big too…”
“…and our usual update on those friends of Harry Potter’s who are suffering for their allegiance?” Lee was saying.
“Well, as regular listeners will know, several of the more outspoken supporters of Harry Potter have now been imprisoned, including Xenophilius Lovegood, erstwhile editor of The Quibbler,” said Lupin.
“At least he’s still alive!” muttered Ron. ~ J K Rowling,#NFDB
845:You see, Brother William,” the abbot said, “to achieve the immense and holy task that enriches those walls”—and he nodded toward the bulk of the Aedificium, which could be glimpsed from the cell’s windows, towering above the abbatial church itself—“devout men have toiled for centuries, observing iron rules. The library was laid out on a plan which has remained obscure to all over the centuries, and which none of the monks is called upon to know. Only the librarian has received the secret, from the librarian who preceded him, and he communicates it, while still alive, to the assistant librarian, so that death will not take him by surprise and rob the community of that knowledge. And the secret seals the lips of both men. Only the librarian has, in addition to that knowledge, the right to move through the labyrinth of the books, he alone knows where to find them and where to replace them, he alone is responsible for their safekeeping. The other monks work in the scriptorium and may know the list of the volumes that the library houses. But a list of titles often tells very little; only the librarian knows, from the collocation of the volume, from its degree of inaccessibility, what secrets, what truths or falsehoods, the volume contains. Only he decides how, when, and whether to give it to the monk who requests it; sometimes he first consults me. Because not all truths are for all ears, not all falsehoods can be recognized as such by a pious soul; and the monks, finally, are in the scriptorium to carry out a precise task, which requires them to read certain volumes and not others, and not to pursue every foolish curiosity that seizes them, whether through weakness of intellect or through pride or through diabolical prompting. ~ Umberto Eco, #NFDB
846:Lost Things"
There are many ways to understand the word
lost, my love. When you were born, the last
Pyrenean ibex, a tawny female named Celia,
had not yet lived to see the view from Torla
overlooking Monte Perdido, but her great-
grandsire stood on the cliffs of Ordesa,
positioned on hoof-tips dainty as dimes,
and he shook his impregnable skull, a coffer
of brass and nobility crowned with bayonets,
as though in defiance of all who dwelt
in the highlands from Catalonia to Aquataine.
Their kind is vanished now. Forever lost. Perdido.
And when you dressed in a Girl Guide’s
uniform of Persian blue on Tuesday nights,
my love, in the long-lost basement of Grace
United Church, to play indoor baseball
and make believe that faerie magic
could make you rich or important or happy,
pods of baiji dolphins still swam in a river
you’d never heard of and would not think about
until years later, when together we would learn
from the evening news that the baiji
were lost, at last, from the Yangtze,
and in their place there came a universal emptiness.
There are many ways to understand the word
lost, but it does not help to imagine a secret
place where lost things go. When last
I held you in my arms, my love, the West
African black rhinoceros was still magnificent
and still alive, but now the gentleness of your breath
on my bare neck is as lost as the dusty, confident
snort of that once breath-taking beast. Great strength
is no protection, and neither is love. We are born,
and our births are lost. We can’t go back to them.
Each embrace ends with an ending. When we become,
what we once thought we’d be is lost. We keep becoming. ~ Paul Vermeersch,#NFDB
847:I read the first chapter of A Brief History of Time when Dad was still alive, and I got incredibly heavy boots about how relatively insignificant life is, and how compared to the universe and compared to time, it didn't even matter if I existed at all. When Dad was tucking me in that night and we were talking about the book, I asked if he could think of a solution to that problem. "Which problem?" "The problem of how relatively insignificant we are." He said, "Well, what would happen if a plane dropped you in the middle of the Sahara Desert and you picked up a single grain of sand with tweezers and moved it one millimeter?" I said, "I'd probably die of dehydration." He said, "I just mean right then, when you moved that single grain of sand. What would that mean?" I said, "I dunno, what?" He said, "Think about it." I thought about it. "I guess I would have moved one grain of sand." "Which would mean?" "Which would mean I moved a grain of sand?" "Which would mean you changed the Sahara." "So?" "So? So the Sahara is a vast desert. And it has existed for millions of years. And you changed it!" "That's true!" I said, sitting up. "I changed the Sahara!" "Which means?" he said. "What? Tell me."
"Well I'm not talking about painting the Mona Lisa or curing cancer. I'm just talking about moving that one grain of sand one millimeter." "Yeah? If you hadn't done it, human history would have been one way..." "Uh-huh?" "But you did do it, so...?" I stood on the bed, pointing one of my fingers at the fake stars, and screamed: "I changed the course of human history!" "That's right." "I changed the universe!" "You did." "I'm God!" "You're an atheist." "I don't exist!" I fell back onto the bed, into his arms, and we cracked up together. ~ Jonathan Safran Foer,#NFDB
848:When Once The Twilight Locks No Longer
When once the twilight locks no longer
Locked in the long worm of my finger
Nor damned the sea that sped about my fist,
The mouth of time sucked, like a sponge,
The milky acid on each hinge,
And swallowed dry the waters of the breast.
When the galactic sea was sucked
And all the dry seabed unlocked,
I sent my creature scouting on the globe,
That globe itself of hair and bone
That, sewn to me by nerve and brain,
Had stringed my flask of matter to his rib.
My fuses are timed to charge his heart,
He blew like powder to the light
And held a little sabbath with the sun,
But when the stars, assuming shape,
Drew in his eyes the straws of sleep
He drowned his father's magics in a dream.
All issue armoured, of the grave,
The redhaired cancer still alive,
The cataracted eyes that filmed their cloth;
Some dead undid their bushy jaws,
And bags of blood let out their flies;
He had by heart the Christ-cross-row of death.
Sleep navigates the tides of time;
The dry Sargasso of the tomb
Gives up its dead to such a working sea;
And sleep rolls mute above the beds
Where fishes' food is fed the shades
Who periscope through flowers to the sky.
When once the twilight screws were turned,
And mother milk was stiff as sand,
I sent my own ambassador to light;
By trick or chance he fell asleep
167
And conjured up a carcass shape
To rob me of my fluids in his heart.
Awake, my sleeper, to the sun,
A worker in the morning town,
And leave the poppied pickthank where he lies;
The fences of the light are down,
All but the briskest riders thrown
And worlds hang on the trees.
~ Dylan Thomas,#NFDB
849:Perhaps you know of her? Lauren Jakes?” The effect on Xairn couldn’t have been more profound if Lock had shoved a double barreled shotgun into his gut and pulled the trigger. “Lauren? You’re looking for Lauren?” He looked shocked at first, but then his voice dropped to a low, menacing growl and he seemed to grow bigger somehow. It reminded Kat of how Sylvan had looked when he went into rage while protecting Sophie. “Lauren is mine. She’s mine,” Xairn snarled. “And I do not intend to surrender her to anyone.” “So you do have her.” Lock’s voice was mild but his eyes were hard. “You bastard.” Deep glared at the Scourge. “What have you done to the poor girl? Or maybe I should ask if there’s anything you haven’t done. Is she even still alive?” Xairn’s red-on-black eyes flashed crimson. “Of course she is! Do you think me some kind of a monster?” “Actually, we do,” Deep said. “We know exactly how you Scourge treat your females.” Xairn lifted his chin. “Not me. I have never touched a female in anger—this I swear.” “What about lust?” Deep raised an eyebrow. “Ever touched a female that way?” Xairn looked suddenly ill at ease. “I…do not act on those emotions. I do not engage in the practices of my father and the rest of my people.” “We’ll believe it when we see it.” Deep’s black eyes narrowed. “Where is Lauren now?” Xairn bristled. “Someplace safe.” “Can we see her?” Kat asked. “I mean, can I see her? I’m no threat,” she went on softly, meeting his strange, burning eyes. “And I think if we could hear from Lauren herself that you haven’t hurt her, it would make it a lot easier for us to trust you.” Xairn looked at her appraisingly. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to let another female speak to Lauren. But I will not tolerate another male near her.” He glared at Deep and Lock and then nodded at Kat. “Come with me.” She ~ Evangeline Anderson, #NFDB
850:That treacherous old bleeder!” Ron panted, emerging from beneath the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it to Harry. “Hermione, you’re a genius, a total genius, I can’t believe we got out of that!”
“Cave Inimicum…Didn’t I say it was an Erumpent horn, didn’t I tell him? And now his house has been blown apart!”
“Serves him right,” said Ron, examining his torn jeans and the cuts to his legs. “What d’you reckon they’ll do to him?”
“Oh, I hope they don’t kill him!” groaned Hermione. “That’s why I wanted the Death Eaters to get a glimpse of Harry before we left, so they knew Xenophilius hadn’t been lying!”
“Why hide me, though?” asked Ron.
“You’re supposed to be in bed with spattergroit, Ron! They’ve kidnapped Luna because her father supported Harry! What would happen to your family if they knew you’re with him?”
“But what about your mum and dad?”
“They’re in Australia,” said Hermione. “They should be all right. They don’t know anything.”
“You’re a genius,” Ron repeated, looking awed.
“Yeah, you are, Hermione,” agreed Harry fervently. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
She beamed, but became solemn at once.
“What about Luna?”
“Well, if they’re telling the truth and she’s still alive--” began Ron.
“Don’t say that, don’t say it!” squealed Hermione. “She must be alive, she must!”
“Then she’ll be in Azkaban, I expect,” said Ron. “Whether she survives the place, though…Loads don’t…”
“She will,” said Harry. He could not bear to contemplate the alternative. “She’s tough, Luna, much tougher than you’d think. She’s probably teaching all the inmates about Wrackspurts and Nargles.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Hermione. She passed a hand over her eyes. “I’d feel so sorry for Xenophilius if--”
“--if he hadn’t just tried to sell us to the Death Eaters, yeah,” said Ron. ~ J K Rowling,#NFDB
851:Janner plopped to the ground beside Tink, and the weariness of the day fell on him like a blanket. He leaned his head back on the stone and looked at the sky. White clouds slid across the deep blue dome, peaceful as a sigh. His eyes drooped shut, and wind tickled his face and the hairs on his forearms. The rockroach den, then the trolls, Peet’s capture, the foggy despair of the flat beside the river, the dizzy sight of the Dark Sea, the troll breathing at Janner’s back—and Nugget. He opened his eyes and looked at the sky again. Where was Peet now? Janner was afraid for him but felt sure Peet was still alive. He had survived terrible things for years, and something about the way Zouzab watched him from the troll’s shoulder made Janner believe Gnag wanted the Sock Man alive for some reason. For a long time they sat among the ruins. Podo and Leeli finally came back to where the others rested, and though her face still bore the weight of her sorrow, Janner could see that his sister was present. Her eyes didn’t stare into nothing. They saw the situation, grieved for it, and faced it. As Janner drifted to sleep, he was aware of Nugget’s absence; no giggles from Leeli; no big, whiny yawns; no sense of safety knowing that, whatever lay in wait for them in the shadows, at least this huge, happy monster was on their side. Janner woke with a start. Dusk approached, and the clearing lay in cool shadow. Leeli slept on Nia’s lap. Oskar lay on his back, hissing with pain while Podo worked to remove the old fellow’s bandages. Tink assisted Podo with a sick look on his face. Janner wondered for a moment where Nugget and Peet were, until he remembered with a shiver that the day hadn’t been some awful dream. “Hold on now,” Podo said. “I’m almost finished. Tink, hand me the knife, eh?” Tink passed a small knife to his grandfather, who used it to cut away the clotted bandage. ~ Andrew Peterson, #NFDB
852:LOVING-KINDNESS MEDITATION PLEASE PUT THE ATTENTION on the breath for just a moment to become centered. Take a look into your heart and see whether there is any worry, fear, grief, dislike, resentment, rejection, uneasiness, anxiety. If you find any of those, let them float away like the black clouds that they are… Then let warmth and friendship arise in your heart for yourself, realizing that you have to be your own best friend. Surround yourself with loving thoughts for yourself and a feeling of contentment within you… Now surround the person nearest to you in the room with loving thoughts and fill that person with peace and wish for that person’s happiness… Now surround everyone here with loving thoughts… Let the feeling of peacefulness extend to everyone here, and think of yourself as everyone’s good friend… Think of your parents, whether they are still alive or not. Surround them with love. Fill them with peace and gratitude for what they have done for you, be their good friend… Think of those people who are nearest and dearest to you. Embrace them with love, fill them with peace as a gift from you, without expecting them to return it to you… Think of your friends. Open up your heart to them, to show them your friendship, your concern, your love, giving it to them without expecting anything in return… Think of your neighbors who live near you, the people you meet at work, on the street, in the shops, make them all your friends; let them enter into your heart without any reservation. Show them love… Think of anyone for whom you have dislike or with whom you may have had an argument, who has made difficulties for you, whom you do not consider your friend. Think of that person with gratitude, as your teacher, teaching you about your own reactions. Let your heart go out to that person because he or she too has difficulties. Forgive and forget. Make him or her your friend… ~ Ayya Khema, #NFDB
853:My time in camp with Kaden had become awkward several times, or perhaps I was just more self-conscious now.
I had known he cared about me. It was hardly a secret. It was the reason I was still alive, but I hadn’t quite grasped how much he cared. And in spite of myself, I knew in my own way, I cared about him too. Not Kaden the assassin, but the Kaden I had known back in Terravin, the one who had caught my attention the minute he walked through the tavern door. The one who was calm and had mysterious, but kind, eyes.
I remembered dancing with him at the festival, his arms pulling me closer, and the way he struggled with his thoughts, holding them back. He didn’t hold back the night he was drunk. The fireshine had loosened his lips and he laid it all out quite blatantly. Slurred and sloshy but clear. He loved me. This from a barbarian who was sent to kill me.
I lay back, staring into the cloudless sky, a shade bluer and brighter than yesterday.
Did he even know what love was? For that matter, did I? Even my parents didn’t seem to know. I crossed my arms behind my head as a pillow. Maybe there was no one way to define it. Maybe there were as many shades of love as the blues of the sky.
I wondered if his interest had begun when I tended his shoulder. I remembered his odd look of surprise when I touched him, as if no one had ever shown him a kindness before. If Griz, Finch, and Malich were any indication of his past, maybe no one had. They showed a certain steely devotion to one another, but it in no way resembled kindness. And then there were those scars on his chest and back. Only cruel savage could have delivered those. Yet somewhere along the way, Kaden had learned kindness. Tenderness, even. It surfaced in small actions. He seemed like he was two separate people, the intensely loyal Vendan assassin and someone else far different, someone he had locked away, a prisoner just like me. ~ Mary E Pearson,#NFDB
854:I thought about everything he’d told me about his past, and I wished he’d told me more. I thought of what he’d said to me about his dreams for the future, what he wanted in life, and I realized how little of that I knew. He wanted to fix Annie. Beyond that? I had no idea. Was there a future he’d wanted? One he’d imagined? Or had he just concentrated on the present and getting through it?
Only he hadn’t gotten through it. He hadn’t fixed Annie. He’d come to Salmon Creek to find me for answers, and I’d gotten him killed. No future. Not for Rafe. Just…gone.
I looked down at the leather band on my wrist--his bracelet--and thought, I don’t deserve this. I was ready to pull it off, climb a tree, and leave it there, in his memory. Then I stopped.
I didn’t deserve his bracelet, but maybe I still could earn it. Find Annie, if she was still alive. Help her. Finish what he started.
I took a deep breath and touched the bracelet’s cat’s-eye stone. I’m going to fix this. I know I can’t--my breath caught--can’t fix it all, but I’ll do what I can. I promise.
I squeezed my eyes shut and I sent out the promise again, fingers on the stone. I sensed him close by. Felt him, smelled him--
“I knew I’d find you here,” a voice said behind me. “Sooner or later.”
My heart stopped and I knew I was hearing wrong, that it must be Daniel, come to find me, but my mind was still fixed on--
“Rafe,” I whispered.
I turned. He was walking out of the forest and he was grinning and…and there was no “and” because that was all I could think.
My eyes shut. I didn’t want them to. I didn’t care if it was an illusion, I wanted to see him one more time before the vision disappeared and I was left with that last horrible memory of him falling from the helicopter.
“I know I’m looking a little rough,” he said. “But I didn’t think it was that bad.”
His voice came closer. “Open your eyes, Maya,” he whispered. “It’s me. ~ Kelley Armstrong,#NFDB
855:No, when the stresses are too great for the tired metal, when the ground mechanic who checks the de-icing equipment is crossed in love and skimps his job, way back in London, Idlewild, Gander, Montreal; when those or many things happen, then the little warm room with propellers in front falls straight down out of the sky into the sea or on to the land, heavier than air, fallible, vain. And the forty little heavier-than-air people, fallible within the plane's fallibility, vain within its larger vanity, fall down with it and make little holes in the land or little splashes in the sea. Which is anyway their destiny, so why worry? You are linked to the ground mechanic's careless fingers in Nassau just as you are linked to the weak head of the little man in the family saloon who mistakes the red light for the green and meets you head-on, for the first and last time, as you are motoring quietly home from some private sin. There's nothing to do about it. You start to die the moment you are born. The whole of life is cutting through the pack with death. So take it easy. Light a cigarette and be grateful you are still alive as you suck the smoke deep into your lungs. Your stars have already let you come quite a long way since you left your mother's womb and whimpered at the cold air of the world. Perhaps they'll even let you go to Jamaica tonight. Can't you hear those cheerful voices in the control tower that have said quietly all day long, 'Come in BOAC. Come in Panam. Come in KLM'? Can't you hear them calling you down too: 'Come in Transcarib. Come in Transcarib'? Don't lose faith in your stars. Remember that hot stitch of time when you faced death from the Robber's gun last night. You're still alive, aren't you? There, we're out of it already. It was just to remind you that being quick with a gun doesn't mean you're really tough. Just don't forget it. This happy landing at Palisadoes Airport comes to you courtesy of your stars. Better thank them. ~ Ian Fleming, #NFDB
856:They'll be coming for you, Mr. Jones. They'll be coming any moment now. I hate to say this, but I must. It is my duty to warn you what will happen to you, an enemy spy. You'll be tortured, Mr. Jones—not simply everyday tortures like pulling out your teeth and toe-nails, but unspeakable tortures I can't mention with Miss Ellison here—and then you'll finish in the gas chambers. If you're still alive.'
Mary clutched his arm. 'Would they—would they really do that?'
'Good God, no!' Smith stared at her in genuine surprise.
'What on earth would they want to do that for?' He raised his voice again: 'You'll die in a screaming agony, Mr. Jones, an agony beyond your wildest nightmares. And you'll take a long time dying. Hours. Maybe days. And screaming. Screaming all the time.'
'What in God's name am I to do?' The desperate voice from above was no longer quavering, it vibrated like a broken bed-spring. 'What can I do?'
'You can slide down that rope,' Smith said brutally. 'Fifteen feet. Fifteen little feet, Mr. Jones. My God, you could do that in a pole vault.'
'I can't.' The voice was a wail. 'I simply can't.'
'Yes, you can,' Smith urged. 'Grab the rope now, close your eyes, out over the sill and down. Keep your eyes closed. We can catch you.'
'I can't! I can't!'
'Oh God!' Smith said despairingly. 'Oh, my God! It's too late now.'
'It's too—what in heaven's name do you mean?'
'The lights are going on along the passage, Smith said, his voice low and tense. 'And that window. And the next. They're coming for you, Mr. Jones, they're coming now. Oh God, when they strip you off and strap you down on the torture table—'
Two seconds later Carnaby-Jones was over the sill and sliding down the nylon rope. His eyes were screwed tightly shut. Mary said, admiringly: You really are the most fearful liar ever.'
'Schaffer keeps telling me the same thing,' Smith admitted. 'You can't all be wrong. ~ Alistair MacLean,#NFDB
857:One of my constant preoccupations is trying to understand how it is that other people exist, how it is that there are souls other than mine and consciousnesses not my own, which, because it is a consciousness, seems to me unique. I understand perfectly that the man before me uttering words similar to mine and making the same gestures I make, or could make, is in some way my fellow creature. However, I feel just the same about the people in illustrations I dream up, about the characters I see in novels or the dramatis personae on the stage who speak through the actors representing them.
I suppose no one truly admits the existence of another person. One might concede that the other person is alive and feels and thinks like oneself, but there will always be an element of difference, a perceptible discrepancy, that one cannot quite put one's finger on. There are figures from times past, fantasy-images in books that seem more real to us than these specimens of indifference-made-flesh who speak to us across the counters of bars, or catch our eye in trams, or brush past us in the empty randomness of the streets. The others are just part of the landscape for us, usually the invisible landscape of the familiar.
I feel closer ties and more intimate bonds with certain characters in books, with certain images I've seen in engravings, that with many supposedly real people, with that metaphysical absurdity known as 'flesh and blood'. In fact 'flesh and blood' describes them very well: they resemble cuts of meat laid on the butcher's marble slab, dead creatures bleeding as though still alive, the sirloin steaks and cutlets of Fate.
I'm not ashamed to feel this way because I know it's how everyone feels. The lack of respect between men, the indifference that allows them to kill others without compunction (as murderers do) or without thinking (as soldiers do), comes from the fact that no one pays due attention to the apparently abstruse idea that other people have souls too. ~ Fernando Pessoa,#NFDB
858:Whatever any of us may have thought about Hatsumomo, she was like an empress in our okiya since she earned the income be which we all lived. And being an empress she would have been very displeased, upon returning late at night, to find her palace dark and all the servants asleep. That is to say, when she came home too drunk to unbutton her socks, someone had to unbutton them for her; and if she felt hungry, she certainly wasn't going to stroll into the kitchen and prepare something by herself--such as an umeboshi ochazuke, which was a favorite snack of hers, made with leftover rice and pickled sour plums, soaked in hot tea. Actually our okiya wasn't at all unusual in this respect. The job of waiting up to bow and welcome the geisha home almost always fell to the most junior of the "cocoons"--as the young geisha-in-training were often called. And from the moment I began taking lessons at the school, the most junior cocoon in our okiya was me. Long before midnight, Pumpkin and the two elderly maids were sound asleep on their futons only a meter or so away on the wood floor of the entrance hall; but I had to go on kneeling there, struggling to stay awake until sometimes as late as two o'clock in the morning. Granny's room was nearby and she slept with her light on and her door opened a crack. The bar of light that fell across my empty futon made me think of a day, not long before Satsu [Chiyo's sister] and I were taken away from our village, when I'd peered into the back room of our house to see my mother asleep there. My father had draped fishing nets across the paper screens to darken the room, but it looked so gloomy I decided to open one of the windows; and when I did, a strip of bright sunlight fell across my mother's futon and showed her hand so pale and bony. To see the yellow lights streaming from Granny's room onto my futon...I had to wonder if my mother was still alive. We ere so much alike, I felt sure I would have known if she'd died; but of course, I'd had no sign one way or the other. ~ Arthur Golden, #NFDB
859:Reagan Truman’s cell phone clamored in the darkness. It took several rings to find it.
“Hello,” she mumbled, hoping she didn’t wake her uncle in the next room.
“Rea, this is Noah.”
“It’s late, Noah.” She pulled she string on an old Tiffany-style lamp that was probably five times her age. Something was wrong; not even Noah called this late.
“I know, Rea. But I need to talk to you.”
She shoved her hair out of her face and tried to force sleep away. “All right, what’s up?”
“I’m in the hospital, Rea. I was hurt tonight in Memphis.”
“How bad?” she laughed nervously. She’d almost asked if he was still alive. There was a long pause on the line. “I don’t know. Bad. Broken arm, two ribs, but it’s my back that has me worried.” He didn’t speak for a moment. When he began again, he sounded more like a frightened boy than a man of twenty. “I’m hurt bad enough to maybe kick me off the circuit. When I hit the dirt, I was out cold. They said I kept yelling your name in the ambulance, but I don’t remember. All I remember is the pain.”
“Noah, what can I do? Do you want me to go over to your folk’s house? I think they’re in town. I could call your sister, Alex.”
“No, I don’t want them to worry. I know mom. She’ll freak out and dad will start lecturing me like I’m still a kid. I don’t want them to know anything until I know how serious it is. They’re still not telling me much yet.” He paused, and she knew he was fighting to keep his voice calm. “Rea, I got to face this before I ask them to. If it’s nothing, they don’t even need to know. If it’s crippling, I got to have a plan.”
She understood. Noah had always been their positive, sunny child. The McAllens had already lost one son eight years ago. She’d seen the panic in their eyes once when Noah had been admitted to the hospital after an accident. She understood why he’d want to save them pain.
“What can I do?”
He was silent for a moment, and then he said simply, “Come get me. No matter how bad it is, I want you near when I find out. ~ Jodi Thomas,#NFDB
860:Jules: Emma? You haven't said anything since we left the church.
Emma: You're in love with me. Still.
Jules: What are you talking about?
Emma: I thought you didn't love me anymore. But that isn't true, is it?
Jules: Why are you saying that? Why now?
Emma: Because of the church. Because of what happened. We burned a church down, Julian, we melted stone.
Jules: What does that have to do with anyhing?
Emma: It has everything to do with. You don't understand. You can't.
Jules: You're right. I don't understand. I don't understand any of it, Emma. I don't understand why you suddenly decided you didn't want me, you wanted Mark, and then you decided you didn't wnat him either and you dropped him like he was nothing, in fron of everyone. What the hell were you thinking ...
Emma: What do you care? What do you care how I feel about Mark?
Jules: Because I needed you to love him. Because if you threw me away and everything we had, it had better be for something that meant more to you, it had better be for something real, but maybe none of this is ever real to you ...
Emma: Not real to me? You don't know what you're talking about, Julian Blackthron! You don't know what I've given up, what my reasons are for anything, you don't know what I'm trying to do ...
Jules: What you're trying to do? How about you did do? How about breaking my heart and breaking Cameron's and breaking Mark's? What, am I missing someone else, some other person whose life you want to wreck forever?
Emma: Your life isn't wrecked. You're still alive. You can have a good life! You kissed that faerie girl...
Jules: She was a leanansidhe! A shape-shifter! I thought se was you!
Emma: Oh. Oh.
Jules: Yes, oh. You really think I'm going to fall in love with someon else? You think I get to do that? I'm not you, I don't geet to fall in love every week with someone different. I wish it wasn't you, Emma, but it is, it'll always be you, so don't tell me life isn't wrecked when you don't know the first thing about it! ~ Cassandra Clare,#NFDB
861:I waited for him to say something more, but he was quiet.
"Was there something you wanted?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away, but I could feel him struggling, so I waited.
"If I asked you something, would you tell me the truth?"
It was my turn to hesitate. "I don't know everything," I hedged.
"You would know this. When we were walking... me and Jeb... he was telling me some things. Things he thought, but I don't know if he's right."
Melanie was suddenly very in my head.
Jamie's whisper was hard to hear, quieter than my breathing. "Uncle Jeb thinks that Melanie might still be alive. Inside there with you, I mean."
Melanie sighed.
I said nothing to either of them.
"I didn't know that could happen. Does that happen?" His voice broke and I could hear that he was fighting tears. He was not a boy to cry, and here I'd grieved him this deeply twice in one day. A pain pierced through the general region of my chest.
"Does it, Wanda?"
"Why won't you answer me?" Jamie was really crying now but trying to muffle the sound.
I crawled off the bed, squeezing into the hard space between the mattress and the mat, and threw my arm over his shaking chest. I leaned my head against his hair and felt his tears, warm on my neck.
"Is Melanie still alive, Wanda? Please?"
He was probably a tool. The old man could have sent him just for this, Jeb was smart enough to see how easily Jamie broke through my defenses.
Jamie's body shook beside me.
Melanie cried. She battered ineffectually at my control.
But I couldn't blame this on Melanie if it turned out to be a huge mistake. I knew who was speaking now.
"She promised she would come back, didn't she?" I murmured. "Would Melanie break a promise to you?"
Jamie slid his arms around my waist and clung to me for a long time. After a few minutes, he whispered. "Love you, Mel."
"She loves you, too. She's so happy that you're here and safe."
He was silent long enough for the tears on my skin to dry, leaving a fine, salty dust behind. ~ Stephenie Meyer,#NFDB
862:A few years ago, Ed and I were exploring the dunes on Cumberland Island, one of the barrier islands between the Atlantic Ocean and the mainland of south Georgia. He was looking for the fossilized teeth of long-dead sharks. I was looking for sand spurs so that I did not step on one. This meant that neither of us was looking very far past our own feet, so the huge loggerhead turtle took us both by surprise. She was still alive but just barely, her shell hot to the touch from the noonday sun. We both knew what had happened. She had come ashore during the night to lay her eggs, and when she had finished, she had looked around for the brightest horizon to lead her back to the sea. Mistaking the distant lights on the mainland for the sky reflected on the ocean, she went the wrong way. Judging by her tracks, she had dragged herself through the sand until her flippers were buried and she could go no farther. We found her where she had given up, half cooked by the sun but still able to turn one eye up to look at us when we bent over her. I buried her in cool sand while Ed ran to the ranger station. An hour later she was on her back with tire chains around her front legs, being dragged behind a park service Jeep back toward the ocean. The dunes were so deep that her mouth filled with sand as she went. Her head bent so far underneath her that I feared her neck would break. Finally the Jeep stopped at the edge of the water. Ed and I helped the ranger unchain her and flip her back over. Then all three of us watched as she lay motionless in the surf. Every wave brought her life back to her, washing the sand from her eyes and making her shell shine again. When a particularly large one broke over her, she lifted her head and tried her back legs. The next wave made her light enough to find a foothold, and she pushed off, back into the water that was her home. Watching her swim slowly away after her nightmare ride through the dunes, I noted that it is sometimes hard to tell whether you are being killed or saved by the hands that turn your life upside down. ~ Barbara Brown Taylor, #NFDB
863:As long as there have been humans, we have searched for our place in the Cosmos. In the childhood of our species (when our ancestors gazed a little idly at the stars), among the Ionian scientists of ancient Greece, and in our own age, we have been transfixed by this question: Where are we? Who are we? We find that we live on an insignificant planet of a humdrum star lost between two spiral arms in the outskirts of a galaxy which is a member of a sparse cluster of galaxies, tucked away in some forgotten corner of a universe in which there are far more galaxies than people. This perspective is a courageous continuation of our penchant for constructing and testing mental models of the skies; the Sun as a red-hot stone, the stars as celestial flame, the Galaxy as the backbone of night. Since Aristarchus, every step in our quest has moved us farther from center stage in the cosmic drama. There has not been much time to assimilate these new findings. The discoveries of Shapley and Hubble were made within the lifetimes of many people still alive today. There are those who secretly deplore these great discoveries, who consider every step a demotion, who in their heart of hearts still pine for a universe whose center, focus and fulcrum is the Earth. But if we are to deal with the Cosmos we must first understand it, even if our hopes for some unearned preferential status are, in the process, contravened. Understanding where we live is an essential precondition for improving the neighborhood. Knowing what other neighborhoods are like also helps. If we long for our planet to be important, there is something we can do about it. We make our world significant by the courage of our questions and by the depth of our answers. We embarked on our cosmic voyage with a question first framed in the childhood of our species and in each generation asked anew with undiminished wonder: What are the stars? Exploration is in our nature. We began as wanderers, and we are wanderers still. We have lingered long enough on the shores of the cosmic ocean. We are ready at last to set sail for the stars. ~ Carl Sagan, #NFDB
864:When I've thought about him dying - which admittedly isn't that much - I always thought of it like you said, that all strings inside him broke. But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings break, or maybe our ships think, or maybe we're grass - our roots are so interdependent that no one is dead as long as soneone is still alive. We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. If you choose the strings, then you're imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose grass, you're saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. The metaphors have implications...
I like the strings, I always have. Because that's how it feels. But the strings make pain seem more fatal than it is...We are not as frail as the strings would make us believe. And I like the grass, too. The grass got me to you, helped me imagine you as an actual person. But we're not different sprouts from the same plant. I can't be you. You can't be me. You can imagine another well- but not quite perfectly, you know?
"Maybe, it's more like you said before, all of us being cracked open. Like each of us starts out as a watertight vessel. And these things happen-these people leave us, or don't love us, or don't get us, or we don't get them, and we lose and fail and hurt one another. And the vessel starts to crack open in places. And I mean, yeah, once the vessel cracks open, the end becomes inevitable...But there is all this time between when the cracks start to open up and when we finally fall apart. And it's only in that time that we can see each other, because we see out of ourselves through our cracks and into others through theirs. When did we see each other face-to-face? Not until you saw into my cracks and I saw into yours. Before that we were just looking at ideas of each other, like looking at your window shade but never looking inside. But once the vessel cracks, the light can get in. The light can get out. ~ John Green,#NFDB
865:When I've thought about him dying - which admittedly isn't that much - I always thought of it like you said, that all strings inside him broke. But there are a thousand ways to look at it: maybe the strings break, or maybe our ships think, or maybe we're grass - our roots are so interdependent that no one is dead as long as soneone is still alive. We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters. If you choose the strings, then you're imagining a world in which you can become irreparably broken. If you choose grass, you're saying that we are all infinitely interconnected, that we can use these root systems not only to understand one another but to become one another. The metaphors have implications...
I like the strings, I always have. Because that's how it feels. But the strings make pain seem more fatal than it is...We are not as frail as the strings would make us believe. And I like the grass, too. The grass got me to you, helped me imagine you as an actual person. But we're not different sprouts from the same plant. I can't be you. You can't be me. You can imagine another well- but not quite perfectly, you know?
"Maybe, it's more like you said before, all of us being cracked open. Like each of us starts out as a watertight vessel. And these things happen-these people leave us, or don't love us, or don't get us, or we don't get them, and we lose and fail and hurt one another. And the vessel starts to crack open in places. And I mean, yeah, once the vessel cracks open, the end becomes inevitable...But there is all this time between when the cracks start to open up and when we finally fall apart. And it's only in that time that we can see each other, because we see out of ourselves through our cracks and into others through theirs. When did we see each other face-to-face? Not until you saw into my cracks and I saw into yours. Before that we were just looking at ideas of each other, like looking at your window shade but never looking inside. But once the vessel cracks, the like can get in. The like can get out. ~ John Green,#NFDB
866:The Garden Shukkei-En
By way of a vanished bridge we cross this river
as a cloud of lifted snow would ascend a mountain.
She has always been afraid to come here.
It is the river she most
remembers, the living
and the dead both crying for help.
A world that allowed neither tears nor lamentation.
The matsu trees brush her hair as she passes
beneath them, as do the shining strands of barbed wire.
Where this lake is, there was a lake,
where these black pine grow, there grew black pine.
Where there is no teahouse I see a wooden teahouse
and the corpses of those who slept in it.
On the opposite bank of the Ota, a weeping willow
etches its memory of their faces into the water.
Where light touches the face, the character for heart is written.
She strokes a burnt trunk wrapped in straw:
I was weak and my skin hung from my fingertips like cloth
Do you think for a moment we were human beings to them?
She comes to the stone angel holding paper cranes.
Not an angel, but a woman where she once had been,
who walks through the garden Shukkei-en
calling the carp to the surface by clapping her hands.
Do Americans think of us?
So she began as we squatted over the toilets:
If you want, I'll tell you, but nothing I say will be enough.
16
We tried to dress our burns with vegetable oil.
Her hair is the white froth of rice rising up kettlesides, her mind also.
In the postwar years she thought deeply about how to live.
The common greeting dozo-yiroshku is please take care of me.
All hibakusha still alive were children then.
A cemetery seen from the air is a child's city.
I don't like this particular red flower because
it reminds me of a woman's brain crushed under a roof.
Perhaps my language is too precise, and therefore difficult to understand?
We have not, all these years, felt what you call happiness.
But at times, with good fortune, we experience something close.
As our life resembles life, and this garden the garden.
And in the silence surrounding what happened to us
it is the bell to awaken God that we've heard ringing.
~ Carolyn Forché,#NFDB
867:The affinities of all the beings of the same class have sometimes been represented by a great tree.I believe this simile largely speaks the truth. The green and budding twigs may represent existing species; and those produced during former years may represent the long succession of extinct species. At each period of growth all the growing twigs have tried to branch out on all sides, and to overtop and kill the surrounding twigs and branches, in the same manner as species and groups of species have at all times overmastered other species in the great battle for life. The limbs divided into great branches, and these into lesser and lesser branches, were themselves once, when the tree was young, budding twigs; and this connection of the former and present buds by ramifying branches may well represent the classification of all extinct and living species in groups subordinate to groups. Of the many twigs which flourished when the tree was a mere bush, only two or three, now grown into great branches, yet survive and bear the other branches; so with the species which lived during long-past geological periods, very few have left living and modified descendants. From the first growth of the tree, many a limb and branch has decayed and dropped off; and these fallen branches of various sizes may represent those whole orders, families, and genera which have now no living representatives, and which are known to us only in a fossil state. As we here and there see a thin straggling branch springing from a fork low down in a tree, and which by some chance has been favoured and is still alive on its summit, so we occasionally see an animal like the Ornithorhynchus or Lepidosiren, which in some small degree connects by its affinities two large branches of life, and which has apparently been saved from fatal competition by having inhabited a protected station. As buds give rise by growth to fresh buds, and these, if vigorous, branch out and overtop on all sides many a feebler branch, so by generation I believe it has been with the great Tree of Life, which fills with its dead and broken branches the crust of the earth, and covers the surface with its ever-branching and beautiful ramifications. ~ Charles Darwin, #NFDB
868:What finally turned me back toward the older traditions of my own [Chickasaw] and other Native peoples was the inhumanity of the Western world, the places--both inside and out--where the culture's knowledge and language don't go, and the despair, even desperation, it has spawned. We live, I see now, by different stories, the Western mind and the indigenous. In the older, more mature cultures where people still live within the kinship circles of animals and human beings there is a connection with animals, not only as food, but as 'powers,' a word which can be taken to mean states of being, gifts, or capabilities.
I've found, too, that the ancient intellectual traditions are not merely about belief, as some would say. Belief is not a strong enough word. They are more than that: They are part of lived experience, the on-going experience of people rooted in centuries-old knowledge that is held deep and strong, knowledge about the natural laws of Earth, from the beginning of creation, and the magnificent terrestrial intelligence still at work, an intelligence now newly called ecology by the Western science that tells us what our oldest tribal stories maintain--the human animal is a relatively new creation here; animal and plant presences were here before us; and we are truly the younger sisters and brothers of the other animal species, not quite as well developed as we thought we were. It is through our relationships with animals and plants that we maintain a way of living, a cultural ethics shaped from an ancient understanding of the world, and this is remembered in stories that are the deepest reflections of our shared lives on Earth.
That we held, and still hold, treaties with the animals and plant species is a known part of tribal culture. The relationship between human people and animals is still alive and resonant in the world, the ancient tellings carried on by a constellation of stories, songs, and ceremonies, all shaped by lived knowledge of the world and its many interwoven, unending relationships. These stories and ceremonies keep open the bridge between one kind of intelligence and another, one species and another.
(from her essay "First People") ~ Linda Hogan,#NFDB
869:Two starving kids and tree-hugging vegetarians. I’m going to kill Chase.”
Phoebe didn’t blame him. Despite her lack of experience in the cattle-drive department, even she could see the potential for trouble. Then a familiar figure standing beside the driver caught her attention, and she waved. Maya grinned and waved back.
“It’s Maya,” Phoebe said.
Zane turned and followed her gaze. “Just perfect,” he muttered as his ex-stepsister walked toward them.
“You’re looking grim, Zane,” Maya said cheerfully when she joined them. “Who died?” She smiled. “Oh, I forgot. You’re just being your usual charming self.” She squeezed his arm. “You’ve missed me, I know.”
Zane’s eyes narrowed. “Like foot fungus.”
She laughed and turned to Phoebe. “You’re still alive. I see Zane didn’t bore you to death.”
“Not even close.” Phoebe hugged her friend.
Maya waved forward the bus driver, a pretty woman in her fifties. “Phoebe, this is Elaine Mitchell.”
“You’re the one Maya worked for in high school?” Phoebe asked.
“I am.”
Maya put her arm around Phoebe’s shoulders. “And this is my BFF, Phoebe.”
“Welcome to Fool’s Gold,” Elaine said with a smile.
Instead of her usual suit and high heels, Maya wore jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and boots. Her blond hair was pulled back in a braid.
“You look like a local,” Phoebe said.
“Speaking of locals,” Maya began, a note of warning in her voice.
“Oh, shit,” Zane said before she could continue.
Phoebe looked toward the bus and immediately saw why Zane’s face had gone a little ashen. The two crazy old women who had cornered her at his truck in town had just gotten off the bus. Eddie and Gladys, if she remembered right. The skinny one was wearing stiff, dark blue jeans and a plaid Western shirt with pearly snaps along the front. The plump one, who still looked as if she had asked for one of everything at the cosmetic counter, was wearing jeans, too, and leather chaps with fringe along the sides. They both had cowboy hats perched atop their white curls.
Besides her Zane muttered under his breath. She caught a handful of words. Something about being old, broken bones and a reference to hanging Chase from the lightning rod in the middle of a storm. ~ Susan Mallery,#NFDB
870:In the 1950s Detroit was undergoing changes in the city and factories with enormous political consequences. When I arrived in Detroit the city had just begun Urban Renewal (which blacks renamed “Negro Removal”) in the area near downtown where most blacks were concentrated. Hastings Street and John R, the two main thoroughfares that were the hub of the commerce and nightlife of the black community, were still alive with pedestrians. Large sections of the inner city, however, were being bulldozed to build the Ford Freeway crisscrossing the city from east to west, the Lodge Freeway bisecting the city from north to south, and the Fisher and Chrysler Freeways coming from Toledo and proceeding all the way north to the Upper Peninsula. These freeways were built to make it easy to live in the suburbs and work in the city and at the same time to expand the car market. So in 1957 whites began pouring out of the city by the tens of thousands until by the end of the decade one out of every four whites who had lived in the city had left. Their exodus left behind thousands of houses and apartments for sale and rental to blacks who had formerly been confined inside Grand Boulevard, a horseshoe-shaped avenue delimiting the inner city, many of whom had been uprooted by Negro Removal. Blacks who had been living on the East Side, among them Annie Boggs, began buying homes on the West Side and the North End. The black community was not only expanding but losing the cohesiveness it had enjoyed (or endured) when it was jammed together on the Lower East Side. New neighbors no longer served as extended family to the young people growing up in the new black neighborhoods. Small businesses owned by blacks and depending on black customers went bankrupt, eliminating an entrepreneurial middle class that had played a key role in stabilizing the community. By the end of the 1950s one-fourth of the buildings inside the Boulevard stood vacant. At the same time all Americans, regardless of race, creed, or national origin, were being seduced by the consumerism being fostered by large corporations so that they could sell the abundance of goods coming off the American assembly lines. All around us in the black community parents were determined to give their children “the things I didn’t have. ~ Grace Lee Boggs, #NFDB
871:Ancestors
To tell the truth, we should not exist. We, not any collective plural, just you and me. Let us use our imaginations to visualize for a moment the circumstances and conditions of the life of our parents, then our grandparents, then great-grandparents, thus further and further back. Even if among them all there happened to be wealthy individuals or men of privilege, the stench and filth in which they lived, as that then was the rule, would have astonished us who use showers and toilets. What was even more certain was among them the presence of starvelings, for whom a piece of dry bread in pre-harvest time meant happiness. Our ancestors died like flies from epidemics, from starvation, from wars, though children swarmed, for every twelve of them only one or two survived. And what strange tribes, what ugly snouts behinds you and me, what bloody rites in honor of gods carved in the trunk of a linden tree! Back to those who are stalking through the undergrowth of a murky primeval forest with chipped stones for their only weapons, in order to split the skulls of their enemies. It would seem as if we had only parents and that's all, but those other pre-pre-predecessors exist, and with them their afflictions, manias, mental illnesses, syphilis, tuberculosis, and whatnot, and how do you know they do not continue on in you? And what was the probability that among the children of your great-great-grandparents the one survived who would beget your ancestor? And what the probability that this would repeat itself in the next generation?
Altogether, a very slim chance that we would be born in these skins, as these, not other, individuals, in whom the genes met those of the devil knows what whores and oafs. The very fact that our species survived and even multiplied beyond measure is astonishing, for it had much against it, and the primeval forest full of animals stronger than humans may serve till now as a metaphor for man's precarious situation - let us add viruses, bacteria, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, floods, but also his own works, atomic weapons and the pollution of nature. Our species should have disappeared a long time ago, and it is still alive, incredibly resistant. That you and I happen to be part of it should be enough to give us pause for meditation. ~ Czes aw Mi osz,#NFDB
872:The last time I saw Collin was in 1917, at the foot of Mort-Homme.
Before the great slaughter, Collin’d been an avid angler. On that day, he was standing at the hole, watching maggots swarm among blow flies on two boys that we couldn’t retrieve for burial without putting our own lives at risk.
And there, at the loop hole, he thought of his bamboo rods, his flies and the new reel he hadn’t even tried out yet.
Collin was imaging himself on the riverbank, wine cooling in the current his stash of worms in a little metal box and a maggot on his hook, writhing like… Holy shit. Were the corpses getting to him?
Collin. The poor guy didn’t even have time to sort out his thoughts.
In that split second, he was turned into a slab of bloody meat. A white hot hook drilled right through him and churned through his guts, which spilled out of a hole in his belly.
He was cleared out of the first aid station. The major did triage. Stomach wounds weren’t worth the trouble. There were all going to die anyway, and besides, he wasn’t equipped to deal with them.
Behind the aid station, next to a pile of wood crosses, there was a heap of body parts and shapeless, oozing human debris laid out on stretchers, stirred only be passing rats and clusters of large white maggots.
But on their last run, the stretcher bearers carried him out after all… Old Collin was still alive.
From the aid station to the ambulance and from the ambulance to the hospital, all he could remember was his fall into that pit, with maggots swarming over the open wound he had become from head to toe… Come to think of it, where was his head? And what about his feet?
In the ambulance, the bumps were so awful and the pain so intense that it would have been a relief to pass out. But he didn’t. He was still alive, writhing on his hook.
They carved up old Collin good. They fixed him as best they could, but his hands and legs were gone. So much for fishing.
Later, they pinned a medal on him, right there in that putrid recovery room.
And later still, they explained to him about gangrene and bandages packed with larvae that feed on death tissue. He owed them his life. From one amputation and operation to the next – thirty-eight in all – the docs finally got him “back on his feet”. But by then, the war was long over. ~ Jacques Tardi,#NFDB
873:I reach out and take his hand.
“Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out,” I say mischievously.
“Yeah, about that,” says Peeta, entwining his fingers in mine. “Don’t try something like that again.”
“Or what?” I ask.
“Or . . . or . . .” He can’t think of anything good. “Just give me a minute.”
“What’s the problem?” I say with a grin.
“The problem is we’re both still alive. Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing,” says Peeta.
“I did do the right thing,” I say.
“No! Just don’t, Katniss!” His grip tightens, hurting my hand, and there’s real anger in his voice. “Don’t die for me. You won’t be doing me any favors. All right?”
I’m startled by his intensity but recognize an excellent opportunity for getting food, so I try to keep up. “Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta, did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren’t the only one who . . . who worries about . . . what it would be like if. . .”
I fumble. I’m not as smooth with words as Peeta. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don’t want him to die. And it’s not about the sponsors. And it’s not about what will happen back home.
And it’s not just that I don’t want to be alone. It’s him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread.
“If what, Katniss?” he says softly.
I wish I could pull the shutters closed, blocking out this moment from the prying eyes of Panem. Even if it means losing food. Whatever I’m feeling, it’s no one’s business but mine.
“That’s exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of,” I say evasively, although Haymitch never said anything of the kind. In fact, he’s probably cursing me out right now for dropping the ball during such an emotionally charged moment. But Peeta somehow catches it.
“Then I’ll just have to fill in the blanks myself,” he says, and moves in to me.
This is the first kiss that we’re both fully aware of. Neither of us hobbled by sickness or pain or simply unconscious. Our lips neither burning with fever or icy cold. This is the first kiss where I actually feel stirring inside my chest. Warm and curious.
This is the first kiss that makes me want another.
But I don’t get it. Well, I do get a second kiss, but it’s just a light one on the tip of my nose because Peeta’s been distracted.
“I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it’s bedtime anyway,” he says. ~ Suzanne Collins,#NFDB
874:Because no one of us lives for himself and no one dies for himself. For if we live, then we live for the Lord; and if we die, then we die for the Lord. Therefore whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord.'
Pastor Jón Prímus to himself: That's rather good.
With that he thrust the manual into his cassock pocket, turned towards the coffin, and said:
That was the formula, Mundi. I was trying to get you to understand it, but it didn't work out; actually it did not matter. We cannot get round this formula anyway. It's easy to prove that the formula is wrong, but it is at least so right that the world came into existence. But it is a waste of words to try to impute to the Creator democratic ideas or social virtues; or to think that one can move Him with weeping and wailing, and persuade Him with logic and legal quibbles. Nothing is so pointless as words. The late pastor Jens of Setberg knew all this and more besides. But he also knew that the formula is kept in a locker. The rest comes by itself. The Creation, which includes you and me, we are in the formula, this very formula I have just been reading; and there is no way out of it. Because no one lives for himself and so on; and whether we live or die, we and so on.
You are annoyed that demons should govern the world and that consequently there is only one virtue that is taken seriously by the newspapers: killings.
You said they had discovered a machine to destroy everything that draws breath on earth; they were now trying to agree on a method of accomplishing this task quickly and cleanly; preferably while having a cocktail. They are trying to break out of the formula, poor wretches. Who can blame them for that? Who has never wanted to do that?
Many consider the human being to be the most useless animal on earth or even the lowest stage of evolution in all the universe put together, and that it is more than high time to wipe this creature out, like the mammoth in the tundras. We once knew a war maiden, you and I. There was only one word ever found for her: Úa. So wonderful was this creation that it's no exaggeration to say that she was completely unbearable; indeed I think that we two helped one another to destroy her, and yet perhaps she is still alive. There was never anything like her.
...
In conclusion I, as the local pastor, thank you for having participated in carrying the Creation on your shoulders alongside me. ~ Halld r Kiljan Laxness,#NFDB
875:If he noticed a female convict with a baby in her arms, he would approach, fondle the baby and snap his fingers at it to make it laugh. These things he did for many years, right up to his death; eventually he was famous all over Russia and all over Siberia, among the criminals, that is. One man who had been in Siberia told me that he himself had witnessed how the most hardened criminals remembered the general, and yet the general, when he visited the gangs of convicts, was rarely able to give more than twenty copecks to each man. It’s true that he wasn’t remembered with much affection, or even very seriously. Some ‘unfortunate wretch’, who had killed twelve people, or put six children to the knife solely for his own amusement (there were such men, it is said), would suddenly, apropos of nothing, perhaps only once in twenty years, sigh and say: ‘Well, and how’s the old general now, is he still alive?’ He would even, perhaps, smile as he said it – and that would be all. How can you know what seed had been cast into his soul for ever by this ‘old general’, whom he had not forgotten in twenty years? How can you know, Bakhmutov, what significance this communication between one personality and another may have in the fate of the personality that is communicated with?… I mean, we’re talking about the whole of a life, and a countless number of ramifications that are hidden from us. The very finest player of chess, the most acute of them, can only calculate a few moves ahead; one French player, who was able to calculate ten moves ahead, was described in the press as a miracle. But how many moves are here, and how much is there that is unknown to us? In sowing your seed, sowing your ‘charity’, your good deeds in whatever form, you give away a part of your personality and absorb part of another; a little more attention, and you are rewarded with knowledge, with the most unexpected discoveries. You will, at last, certainly view your deeds as a science; they will take over the whole of your life and may fill it. On the other hand, all your thoughts, all the seeds you have sown, which perhaps you have already forgotten, will take root and grow; the one who has received from you will give to another. And how can you know what part you will play in the future resolution of the fates of mankind? If this knowledge, and a whole lifetime of this work, exalts you, at last, to the point where you are able to sow a mighty seed, leave a mighty idea to the world as an inheritance, then… ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky, #NFDB
876:Arya?”
“Yes?” She drew the word out, her voice rising and falling with a faint lilt.
“What do you want to do once this is all over?” If we’re still alive, that is.
“What do you want to do?”
He fingered Brisingr’s pommel as he considered the question. “I don’t know. I haven’t let myself think much past Urû-baen…It would depend on what she wants, but I suppose Saphira and I might return to Palancar Valley. I could build a hall on one of the foothills of the mountains. We might not spend much time there, but at least we would have a home to return to when we weren’t flying from one part of Alagaësia to another.” He half smiled. “I’m sure there will be plenty to keep us busy, even if Galbatorix is dead…But you still haven’t answered my question: what will you do if we win? You must have some idea. You’ve had longer to think about it than I have.”
Arya drew one leg up onto the stool, wrapped her arms around it, and rested her chin on her knee. In the dim half-light of the tent, her face appeared to float against a featureless black background, like an apparition conjured out of the night.
“I have spent more time among humans and dwarves than I have among the älfakyn,” she said, using the elves’ name in the ancient language. “I have grown used to it, and I would not want to return to live in Ellesméra. Too little happens there; centuries can slip by without notice while you sit and stare at the stars. No, I think I will continue to serve my mother as her ambassador. The reason I first left Du Weldenvarden was because I wanted to help right the balance of the world. As you said, there will still be much htat needs doing if we manage to topple Galbatorix, much that needs putting right, and I would be a part of it.”
“Ah.” It was not exactly what he had hoped she might say, but at least it presented the possibility that they would not entirely lose contact after Urû’baen, and that he would still be able to see her now and then.
If Arya noticed his discontent, she gave no sign of it.
They talked for another few minutes, then Arya made her excuses and rose to leave.
As she stepped past him, Eragon reached toward her, as if to stop her, then quickly drew back his hand. “Wait,” he said softly, unsure of what he hoped for, but hoping nevertheless. The beat of his heart increased, pounding in his ears, and his cheeks grew warm.
Arya paused with her back to him by the entrance of the tent. “Good night, Eragon,” she said. Then she slipped out between the entrance flaps and vanished into the night, leaving him to sit alone in the dark. ~ Christopher Paolini,#NFDB
877:HOW DO THEY RECEIVE ME? They call me “little girl,” “dear daughter,” “dear child.” Probably if I was of their generation they would behave differently with me. Calmly and as equals. Without joy and amazement, which are the gifts of the meeting between youth and age. It is a very important point, that then they were young and now, as they remember, they are old. They remember across their life—across forty years. They open their world to me cautiously, to spare me: “I got married right after the war. I hid behind my husband. Behind the humdrum, behind baby diapers. I wanted to hide. My mother also begged: ‘Be quiet! Be quiet! Don’t tell.’ I fulfilled my duty to the Motherland, but it makes me sad that I was there. That I know about it…And you are very young. I feel sorry for you…” I often see how they sit and listen to themselves. To the sound of their own soul. They check it against the words. After long years a person understands that this was life, but now it’s time to resign yourself and get ready to go. You don’t want to, and it’s too bad to vanish just like that. Casually. In passing. And when you look back you feel a wish not only to tell about your life, but also to fathom the mystery of life itself. To answer your own question: Why did all this happen to me? You gaze at everything with a parting and slightly sorrowful look…Almost from the other side…No longer any need to deceive anyone or yourself. It’s already clear to you that without the thought of death it is impossible to make out anything in a human being. Its mystery hangs over everything. War is an all too intimate experience. And as boundless as human life… Once a woman (a pilot) refused to meet with me. She explained on the phone: “I can’t…I don’t want to remember. I spent three years at war…And for three years I didn’t feel myself a woman. My organism was dead. I had no periods, almost no woman’s desires. And I was beautiful…When my future husband proposed to me…that was already in Berlin, by the Reichstag…He said: ‘The war’s over. We’re still alive. We’re lucky. Let’s get married.’ I wanted to cry. To shout. To hit him! What do you mean, married? Now? In the midst of all this—married? In the midst of black soot and black bricks…Look at me…Look how I am! Begin by making me a woman: give me flowers, court me, say beautiful words. I want it so much! I wait for it! I almost hit him…I was about to…He had one cheek burned, purple, and I see: he understood everything, tears are running down that cheek. On the still-fresh scars…And I myself can’t believe I’m saying to him: ‘Yes, I’ll marry you.’ “Forgive me…I can’t…” I understood her. ~ Svetlana Alexievich, #NFDB
878:What is important is that you get your house in order at each stage of the journey so that you can proceed. “If some day it be given to you to pass into the inner temple, you must leave no enemies behind.”—de Lubicz For example, if you never got on well with one of your parents and you have left that parent behind on your journey in such a way that the thought of that parent arouses anger or frustration or self-pity or any emotion . . . you are still attached. You are still stuck. And you must get that relationship straight before you can finish your work. And what, specifically, does “getting it straight” mean? Well, it means re-perceiving that parent, or whoever it may be, with total compassion . . . seeing him as a being of the spirit, just like you, who happens to be your parent . . . and who happens to have this or that characteristic, and who happens to be at a certain stage of his evolutionary journey. You must see that all beings are just beings . . . and that all the wrappings of personality and role and body are the coverings. Your attachments are only to the coverings, and as long as you are attached to someone else’s covering you are stuck, and you keep them stuck, in that attachment. Only when you can see the essence, can see God, in each human being do you free yourself and those about you. It’s hard work when you have spent years building a fixed model of who someone else is to abandon it, but until that model is superceded by a compassionate model, you are still stuck. In India they say that in order to proceed with one’s work one needs one’s parents’ blessings. Even if the parent has died, you must in your heart and mind, re-perceive that relationship until it becomes, like every one of your current relationships, one of light. If the person is still alive you may, when you have proceeded far enough, revisit and bring the relationship into the present. For, if you can keep the visit totally in the present, you will be free and finished. The parent may or may not be . . . but that is his karmic predicament. And if you have been truly in the present, and if you find a place in which you can share even a brief eternal moment . . . this is all it takes to get the blessing of your parent! It obviously doesn’t demand that the parent say, “I bless you.” Rather it means that he hears you as a fellow being, and honors the divine spark within you. And even a moment in the Here and Now . . . a single second shared in the eternal present . . . in love . . . is all that is required to free you both, if you are ready to be freed. From then on, it’s your own individual karma that determines how long you can maintain that high moment. ~ Ram Dass, #NFDB
879:Without screaming or weeping these people undressed, stood around in family groups, kissed each other, said farewells and waited for a sign from another S.S. man, who stood near the pit, also with a whip in his hand. During the fifteen minutes that I stood near the pit I heard no complaint or plea for mercy… An old woman with snow-white hair was holding a one-year-old child in her arms and singing to it and tickling it. The child was cooing with delight. The parents were looking on with tears in their eyes. The father was holding the hand of a boy about 10 years old and speaking to him softly; the boy was fighting his tears. The father pointed to the sky, stroked his head and seemed to explain something to him. At that moment the S.S. man at the pit shouted something to his comrade. The latter counted off about twenty persons and instructed them to go behind the earth mound… I well remember a girl, slim and with black hair, who, as she passed close to me, pointed to herself and said: “twenty-three years old.” I walked around the mound and found myself confronted by a tremendous grave. People were closely wedged together and lying on top of each other so that only their heads were visible. Nearly all had blood running over their shoulders from their heads. Some of the people were still moving. Some were lifting their arms and turning their heads to show that they were still alive. The pit was already two-thirds full. I estimated that it contained about a thousand people. I looked for the man who did the shooting. He was an S.S. man, who sat at the edge of the narrow end of the pit, his feet dangling into the pit. He had a tommy gun on his knees and was smoking a cigarette. The people, completely naked, went down some steps and clambered over the heads of the people lying there to the place to which the S.S. man directed them. They lay down in front of the dead or wounded people; some caressed those who were still alive and spoke to them in a low voice. Then I heard a series of shots. I looked into the pit and saw that the bodies were twitching or the heads lying already motionless on top of the bodies that lay beneath them. Blood was running from their necks. The next batch was approaching already. They went down into the pit, lined themselves up against the previous victims and were shot. And so it went, batch after batch. The next morning the German engineer returned to the site. I saw about thirty naked people lying near the pit. Some of them were still alive… Later the Jews still alive were ordered to throw the corpses into the pit. Then they themselves had to lie down in this to be shot in the neck… I swear before God that this is the absolute truth.47 ~ William L Shirer, #NFDB
880:With a sigh, I whisked the moisture off my cheeks, then studied Narian’s handsome features, creating a portrait in my mind. I traced his cheekbones and jaw, lingering over his lips. Impulsively, I leaned down to kiss him and his eyelids flicked open.
“I will always love you, Alera,” he murmured, momentarily regaining clarity.
“And I will always love you.” I curled up beside him, my arm across his chest, willing him to stay with me for as long as possible. I continually fought against drowsiness, but exhaustion and grief eventually got the best of me, and I drifted off to sleep.
Someone was shaking my shoulder and I slowly came awake to see London crouched down beside me. I bolted upright, then reached out to touch his face, certain I was seeing a ghost.
“Alera, it’s all right. I’m here to bring you safely home.”
I nodded, then shifted onto my knees, my voice urgent. “The High Priestess has poisoned Narian. She doesn’t want him to fight against her if she sends reinforcements to Hytanica.”
London placed a hand upon Narian’s chest, feeling for a heartbeat, for the rise and fall of breathing, for warmth.
“He’s still alive,” he told me. “How long ago was he poisoned?”
“About ten hours now. He can’t have much time left. According to what the High Priestess told me about the poison, he should already be dead.”
“Listen to me. He may still have some of Nantilam’s healing power inside of him.”
“From when the Overlord tried to kill him?”
London nodded and hope surged within me. It had been the residual effect of Nantilam’s healing abilities that had enabled the deputy captain to withstand the Overlord’s torture.
“That’s probably why his dying is prolonged,” London continued. “With any luck, she may have miscalculated what it will take to kill him. But we need to help him fight, Alera.”
“How?”
London retrieved his water flask and bedroll from his horse, handing them to me.
“Get as much water as possible into him, to dilute the toxin in his bloodstream, and we’ll cover him with all the blankets and cloaks we have. He’s fevered, so let’s help his body sweat out some of the poison.”
I began to cover Narian while London added wood to the fire. Then he removed his own cloak and tossed it to me.
“I’m going to gather some herbs that might help. I’ve learned a few things about Cokyrian compounds over the years, knowledge that I’m guessing the High Priestess would like to take away from me about now. You stay here and care for him as you have been doing. And, Alera, keep talking to him. He is strong and will fight to hear the sound of your voice--fight to come back to you.”
“I think the High Priestessis in love with you, London.”
“Just proves folly knows no limit. ~ Cayla Kluver,#NFDB
881:She looks surprised, and then suspicious. “What do you mean?” “I mean that smells and scents have strong evocations for people, and usually, when you cannot place what is making you comfortable with someone or some place, it is often the smell of them.” It is the longest sentence he has spoken to her, and she likes the sound and timbre of his voice. It is reassuring and gentle. “Are you trying to get me to smell you?” “No,” he laughs. “Only if you want to.” “No, thank you. Some things should be kept for the future.” She cannot think why she has said that. About the future. Without any thought, it just flew out of her mouth, and now he is smiling, he looks happy, as though he is hoping to see her again. She smiles too, suddenly. After all, something has drawn her to this man; perhaps his eyes, which are open and honest and intelligent. “How old are you?” she asks. “Do you want to guess?” “No,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “I just want to know. I can’t tell from the look of you, whether you are eighteen or thirty.” “I am twenty five” “Like me.” She smiles, as though this satisfies her in some way, and then she closes her eyes. Etched into the skin between those eyes is a furrow of concentration. Alexander watches her, pausing only to ask the girl to pour two more drinks. When Katya opens her eyes, she sees the young man standing before her with his own eyes tightly shut, and a look of absorption on his face. She laughs. “What are you doing?” “I’m trying to see what you were concentrating on so suddenly.” “And? What was it?” “The music?” he ventures, and she smiles her affirmation. The musicians are playing more quietly now, and are almost drowned out under the rising of voices made freer by alcohol and laughter, but the music is there, behind everything, and it is soft and emotive. An older man has joined them, and with his balalaika is wafting a mournful tune that twines out over the heads of the crowd like a long curl of blue-tinged smoke. “I love this song,” Katya says, so quietly that Alexander can barely hear her. “So do I. Doesn’t it remind you of your childhood?” “Yes. That’s exactly it.” She looks away from him. “My grandmother used to sing it. She’d make my father play the piano to accompany her, and she’d sing it to my brother and me before we went to sleep.” “Is she still alive?” Katya shakes her head, but offers nothing more and Alexander looks around, at the deaf crowd, and then back at the liquid eyes of the girl before him. “Nobody can hear it except for us, I think.” “Perhaps he is only playing it for us,” she suggests. Alexander smiles at the idea. “Yes,” he says, and he quickly asks her to dance again, for she seems to be on the verge of tears, as she stands there, alone, listening. His question wakes her from some faraway reverie, from unbid ~ Shamim Sarif, #NFDB
882:Luce closed her eyes,trying to remember exactly what he'd looked like. There were no words for it.It was just an incredible, joyous connection.
"I saw him."
"Who,Daniel? Yeah,I saw him,too. He was the guy who dropped the ax when it was his turn to do the chopping. Big mistake. Huge."
"No,I really saw him. As he truly is." Her voice shook. "He was so beautiful."
"Oh,that." Bill tossed his head, annoyed.
"I recognized him.I think I've seen him before."
"Doubt it." Bill coughed. "That was the first and last time you'll be able to see him like that.You saw him, and then you died.That's what happens when mortal flesh looks upon an angel's unbridled glory. Instant death. Burned away by the angel's beauty."
"No,it wasn't like that."
"You saw what happened to everyone else. Poof. Gone." Bill plopped down beside her and patted her knee. "Why do you think the Mayans started doing sacrifices by fire after that? A neighboring tribe discovered the charred remains and had to explain it somehow."
"Yes,they burst into flames right away. But I lasted longer-"
"A couple of extra seconds? When you were turned away? Congratulations."
"You're wrong.And I know I've seen that before."
"You've seen his wings before, maybe.But Daniel shedding his human guise and showing you his true form as an angel? Kills you every time."
"No." Luce shook her head. "You're saying he can never show me who he really is?"
Bill shrugged. "Not without vaporizing you and everyone around you.Why do you think Daniel's so cautious about kissing you all the time? His glory shines pretty damn bright when you two get hot and heavy."
Luce felt like she could barely hold herself up. "That's why I sometimes die when we kiss?"
"How 'bout a round of applause for the girl, folks?" Bill said snarkily.
"But what about all those other times, when I die before we kiss, before-"
"Before you even have a chance to see how toxic your relationship might become?"
"Shut up."
"Honestly,how many times do you have to see the same story line before you realize nothing is ever going to change?"
"Something has changed," Luce said. "That's why I'm on this journey, that's why I'm still alive. If I could just see him again-all of him-I know I could handle it."
"You don't get it." Bill's voice was rising. "You're talking about this whole thing in very mortal times." As he grew more agitated,spit flew from his lips. "This is the big time,and you clearly cannot handle it."
"Why are you so angry all of a sudden?"
"Because! Because." He paced the ledge, gnashing his teeth. "Listen to me: Daniel slipped up this once, he showed himself,but he never does that again.Never.He learned his lesson. Now you've learned one,too: Mortal flesh cannot gaze upon an angel's true form without dying. ~ Lauren Kate,#NFDB
883:The Wind(Four Fragments Concerning Blok)
Who’ll be honoured and praised,
who’ll be dead, and abused,
that’s only known these days
to power’s sycophantic crew.
To honour Pushkin or not:
perhaps no one would know,
were it not for their dissertations
that shed light on our darkness so.
But Blok, happily, isn’t like that,
his case is a different one.
He didn’t come down from Sinai
or adopt us as his sons.
Eternal, owned by no programme,
beyond systems and schools,
he’s not been manufactured
or thrust down our throats by fools.
As the wind: like the wind. Like the wind
that shrieked on the estate in those days,
when Fil’ka, the postilion still galloped
at the head of a team of six bays.
And grandfather was still alive
crystal-pure Jacobin, radical soul,
his gusty grandson close behind
by a fingerbreadth, and as bold.
That wind, that penetrated
under his ribs, into his spirit,
entered his verse, and was praised,
in good times and in evil.
146
That wind’s everywhere. The house,
trees, country, and rain,
in his third book of poetry,
in The Twelve, in death – the same.
Wide, wide, wide,
river and field stretch away.
It’s haymaking time
it’s communal work today.
And the mowers at the bend
have no time to stand and gaze.
The mowing made Blok wild,
the young squire grasped a scythe,
missed a hedgehog at a swipe,
then two adders were sliced.
But his lessons weren’t complete.
‘You idler, you slacker’, they cried.
Ah, childhood! Ah, school, so dry!
Oh, the songs of the makers of hay!
At twilight, clouds from the east,
north and south are overcast.
Wind, unseasonable and fierce,
suddenly blows in, and hacks
at mower’s scythes, at the reeds,
hacks at the prickly copse,
where the river bends, runs deep.
Ah, childhood! Ah, school, so dry!
Oh, the songs of the makers of hay!
Wide, wide, wide,
river and field stretch away.
The horizon’s sinister, sudden,
and dawn is streaked with blood,
147
like unhealed lacerations
on a reaper’s legs, dark blood.
No counting the gaps in the sky,
tempests and storms, the omen,
and the air of the marsh is high
with water that’s rust and iron.
Over woods, gullies, and roads
over villages and farms,
the lightning in the clouds
prophesies earth’s harm.
When the rim of the city sky
is purple like that, and rusty
the State’s shaken, by and by,
a hurricane strikes our country.
Blok read the writing above.
To him the heavens were set,
on foul weather, presages of
whirlwind, cyclone, tempest.
Blok foresaw that storm and stress.
It etched, with its fiery features,
fear and longing for that excess,
on his life, and his verses.
~ Boris Pasternak,#NFDB
884:Tell me, why did it matter to you who won? I mean, even if you’d won, you still could have released me from the bargain. You could have said I didn’t have to spend those two days with you.”
“I could have,” he acknowledged. “But after…after you told me about your father, I wanted you to have his horse back. Rava should have had more respect for his memory. She shouldn’t have taken him--them--away.”
Tears stung my eyes, and I swallowed several times to loosen my throat. What a stupid reaction.
“Thank you,” I murmured, and I felt his hand close around mine, giving it a squeeze. I sighed contentedly, letting myself enjoy the moment. “What was your father like?”
“I don’t know,” he said offhandedly.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” As usual, my typical phrasing was somewhat coarse, driven by my curiosity, and I caught myself, adopting a more considerate tone. “Did he die when you were young?”
“No, he’s still alive.”
I turned my head to gape at him, greatly confused. “He left you?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I sat up again, close to exasperation; he just looked at me, bemused, my hand still in his.
“Father’s don’t raise their children in Cokyri. They aren’t trusted with such an important responsibility. I never knew mine.”
This was not an answer I could have foreseen, and I shifted uneasily, trying to figure out how to proceed.
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely.
He was quiet at first, his eyes fixed on the darkened sky as he pondered our different experiences.
“I never felt sorry about it. My mother was a good woman--she and her maidens took care of me. But like I told you before, I had to work harder than you can imagine to achieve my military rank, and only because I’m a man. I can do everything Rava can do. I always could, but no one would see it, not even her. A struggle like that makes you question things.”
“So now you wish you’d known your father?”
Again, he reflected. “No. I wish I’d known yours.”
I looked away, once more fighting tears. I didn’t understand how he could affect me so deeply.
“I’m not sure my father would have been to your liking,” I finally said, meeting his eyes. “I found him brave for his willingness to fight, even when there was no more hope. You would probably have found him weak.”
He sat up and gazed earnestly at me. “There is a way to accomplish things, but it’s rarely to declare a war, private or otherwise.”
“Sometimes the war is not of your making,” I retorted. “You must fight, otherwise you’re a lamb. And lambs are slaughtered, Saadi.”
His brows drew together, and we stared at each other for much longer than we should have, and I knew I had rattled him. Then he shook his head.
“See those lights up there? They’re called stars.”
I laughed. “I can take a hint. We should go back.”
We caught and saddled our mounts, then took our time returning to the city, neither of us really wanting the day to end. ~ Cayla Kluver,#NFDB
885:On May 26th, 2003,
Aaron Ralston was hiking,
a boulder fell on his right hand,
he waited four days,
he then amputated
his own arm with a pocketknife.
On New Year’s Eve,
a woman was bungee jumping,
the cord broke,
she fell into a river
and had to swim back to land
in crocodile-infested waters
with a broken collarbone.
Claire Champlin was smashed in the face
by a five-pound watermelon
being propelled by a slingshot.
Mathew Brobst was hit by a javelin.
David Striegl was actually
punched in the mouth by a kangaroo.
The most amazing part of these stories
is when asked about the experience
they all smiled, shrugged and said
“I guess things could’ve been worse.”
So go ahead,
tell me you’re having a bad day.
Tell me about the traffic.
Tell me about your boss.
Tell me about the job you’ve been trying to quit for the past four years.
Tell me the morning is just a townhouse burning to the ground and the snooze button is a fire extinguisher.
Tell me the alarm clock
stole the keys to your smile,
drove it into 7 am
and the crash totaled your happiness.
Tell me.
Tell me how blessed are we to have tragedy
so small it can fit on the tips of our tongues.
When Evan lost his legs he was speechless.
When my cousin was assaulted
she didn’t speak for 48 hours.
When my uncle was murdered,
we had to send out a search party
to find my father’s voice.
Most people have no idea
that tragedy and silence
often have the exact same address.
When your day is a museum of disappointments,
hanging from events that were outside of your control,
when you feel like your guardian angel put in his two weeks notice two months ago
and just decided not to tell you,
when it seems like God
is just a babysitter that’s always on the phone,
when you get punched in the esophagus by a fistful of life.
Remember,
every year
two million people die of dehydration.
So it doesn’t matter if
the glass is half full or half empty.
There’s water in the cup.
Drink it and stop complaining.
Muscle is created by lifting things
that are designed to weigh us down.
When your shoulders are heavy
stand up straight and call it exercise.
Life is a gym membership
with a really complicated cancellation policy.
Remember,
you will survive,
things could be worse,
and we are never given
anything we can’t handle.
When the whole world crumbles,
you have to build a new one
out of all the pieces that are still here.
Remember,
you are still here.
The human heart beats
approximately 4,000 times per hour
and each pulse,
each throb,
each palpitation is a trophy,
engraved with the words
“You are still alive.”
You are still alive.
So act like it. ~ Rudy Francisco,#NFDB
886:Marcus released the countess as if he had been burned. His first reaction was a piercing relief that Lillian was still alive. However, the relief was followed immediately by the awareness that she was far from safe. In light of St. Vincent’s need of a fortune, it made perfect sense for him to abduct Lillian. Marcus turned from his mother, never wanting to look at her again, unable to bring himself to speak to her. His gaze locked with Simon Hunt’s. Predictably, Hunt was already making rapid calculations. “He’ll take her to Gretna Green, of course,” Hunt murmured, “and they’ll have to travel east to the main road in Hertfordshire. He won’t risk traveling the back ways and getting mired in mud, or having the wheels damaged from broken road. From Hertfordshire it will be approximately forty-five hours to Scotland… and at a speed of ten miles per hour, with occasional stops for fresh relay horses…”
“You’ll never overtake them,” the countess cried with a cackling laugh. “I told you I would have my way, Westcliff!”
“Oh, shut up, you evil hag!” cried Daisy Bowman impatiently from the doorway, her eyes huge in her pale face. “Lord Westcliff, shall I run to the stables and tell them to saddle a horse?”
“Two horses,” Simon Hunt said resolutely. “I’m going with him.”
“Which ones—”
“Ebony and Yasmin,” Marcus replied. They were his best Arabians, bred for speed over long distance. They were not as lightning-fast as thoroughbreds, but they would endure a punishing pace for hours, traveling at least three times as fast as St. Vincent’s coach.
Daisy disappeared in a flash, and Marcus turned to his sister. “See that the countess is gone by the time I return,” he said curtly. “Pack whatever she needs, and get her off the estate.”
“Where do you wish me to send her?” Livia asked, pale but composed.
“I don’t give a damn, so long as she knows not to return.”
Realizing that she was being banished, and most likely exiled, the countess rose from her chair. “I will not be disposed of in this manner! I won’t have it, my lord!”
“And tell the countess,” Marcus said to Livia, “that if the slightest harm comes to Miss Bowman, she had better pray that I never find her.”
Marcus strode from the room, shoving through a small crowd that had gathered in the hallway. Simon Hunt followed, pausing only to murmur briefly to Annabelle and press a kiss to her forehead. She stared after him with an anxious frown, biting her lip to keep from calling after him.
After a lengthy pause, the countess was heard to mutter, “It matters not what becomes of me. I am content in the knowledge that I have prevented him from befouling the family lineage.”
Livia turned to give her mother a half-pitying, half-contemptuous glance. “Marcus never fails,” she said softly. “Most of his childhood was spent learning to overcome impossible odds. And now that Marcus has finally found someone worth fighting for… do you really think he would let anything stop him? ~ Lisa Kleypas,#NFDB
887:Genesis Bk Xix
(ll. 1167-1180) And after Cainan Mahalaleel possessed the land
and treasure many a year. The prince lived five-and-sixty
winters, and begat a son. An heir was born unto his house, and
his kinsmen called him Jared, as I have heard. Mahalaleel lived
long, enjoying bliss on earth, the joys of men, and worldly
treasure. And all the years of Mahalaleel were eight hundred
five-and-ninety winters, and he died, and gave the land and rule
unto his son.
(ll. 1180-1196) A long time Jared dealt out gold to men. He was
a righteous prince, a noble earl, dear to his kinsmen He lived
an hundred five-and-sixty winters in the world, and, when her
time was come, his wife brought forth her first-born, a goodly
son. And his name was Enoch. Eight hundred years his father
lived, and increased his tribe. And all the years of Jared were
nine hundred five-and-sixty winters, and he died, and gave the
land and rule unto his son, the wise and well-loved prince.
(ll. 1197-1217) And Enoch ruled the folk, led them in ways of
peace, and no wise let his sway and power lessen, while he was
lord over his kinsmen. Now Enoch prospered and increased his
tribe three hundred years. And God, the Lord of heaven, was
gracious unto him! In his natural body he entered into heavenly
joy and the glory of God, dying no mortal death as men do here,
the young and old, what time God taketh from them wealth and
substance and earthly treasure and their life; but with the King
of angels he departed still alive out of this fleeting life, in
the same vestments which his soul received before his mother bare
him. He left the people to his eldest son. And all the years of
Enoch were three hundred five-and-sixty winters, and he died.
(ll. 1217-1224) Then Methuselah held sway among his kinsmen, and
longest of all men enjoyed the pleasures of this world. He begat
a multitude of sons and daughters before his death. And all the
years of Methuselah were nine hundred and seventy winters, and he
died.
(ll. 1224-1236) And Lamech, his son, succeeded him and kept the
treasure. Long time he ruled the land. He lived an hundred and
29
two winters, and begat children. And the lord and leader of the
folk lived five hundred five-and-ninety years, enjoying many
winters under heaven, ruling the folk with wisdom. And Lamech
increased his tribe, begetting sons and daughters. He called the
name of the first-born Noah; and Noah ruled the land after the
death of Lamech.
(ll. 1237-1247) Now Noah, the lord of men, lived five hundred
winters, as the books say, and begat children. The first-born
son of Noah was Shem, and the second Ham, and the third Japheth.
And the folk grew in number under heaven, and the multitude of
the race of men increased throughout the earth. The tribe of
Seth, the well-loved prince, was still exceeding dear to God, and
blessed in His love!
~ Caedmon,#NFDB
888:She was not quite fair
But she was bright
She wore a necklace of coral beads
In great astonishment I used to look at her
With her large black eyes
She looked straight
She was about my age
This adolescent maid.
Her image is still alive in my mind.
The southern gate of the room was open
Against the pale blue sky
The almond tree
With its newly sprouted leaves
Was gleaming in the morning light.
She was dressed in a white sari
Its black borders
Winding around her young tender body
Had fallen on her feet.
On her two lovely hands
Two gold bangles she had.
On holidays at noon
When I read books of stories
On their pages only her image I found.
She used to take me often to a mysterious land
Which an unknown deity creates
Beyond our reach
Beyond my childish dreams.
A fantasy embodied
She cast the tender touch of her invisible shadow
On my body and mind.
To talk to her I was not so bold.
I felt in my heart only a pain
Like a softly sung tune -
She was far, too far,
As far as the highest branches of the shirish
That sends a soft fragrance to the mind.
It was the wedding ceremony of her dolls
I was invited to attend
In great fun
The invitees made gleeful noises
In diffidence I remained at one end
I was tongue-tied and shy
It seemed
That evening passed in vain
I dont remember what was served on my plate
But I remember to have seen
A pair of feet hurrying back and forth
Covered by the dancing border of a sari.
In a stolen glance I also saw
In her bangles were caught
The pure golden rays of the sun.
In her sweet voice
She made repeated requests
Back home half the night
They resonated in my mind.
Then by and by
We became known to each other more
Freely we began to mix.
I began to call her by her nickname.
I got over my shyness
We began to cut jokes.
Often for made-up mistakes
She was mad with me in a mocking rage.
Sometimes her rude words and cruel jokes
Gave me pain.
Sometimes she blamed me
For my carelessness.
Sometimes I saw her carelessly dressed
She was busy in cooking
She didnt feel embarrassed.
For my idiocy which is natural in a male
She used to rebuke me severely
In her arrogance of womanly superior knowledge.
One day she told me,
I know how to read palms.
She took my hand in her hand
And read it with her head bent
She told me
You are luckless in love.
I gave no reply
The real proof, her loving touch,
Conclusively disproved my lucklessness in love.
Yet after all these I cannot forget the pain
I couldnt know her more!
One can hardly be nearest to what is beautiful
It ever remains far
When nearer it urges one ever
To know it ever more.
My days, filled with joys and sorrows,
Are ending in the western sky
The harshness of summer
Is mellowing in blue
The glow of autumn on golden corn
Is playing the holiday flute.
Laden with dreams
My boat is slowly sailing
To an unknown land.
Transcreation of the poem Shyama from the collection Akashpradip by Rabindranath Tagore. The theme is the memories of his notun-bouthan or new sister-in-law Kadambaridevi, the wife of his elder brother Jyotirindranath Tagore. Transcreation by Kumud Biswas.
~ Rabindranath Tagore, Shyama
,#NFDB
889:What was she thinking?” muttered Alexander, closing his eyes and imagining his Tania.
“She was determined. It was like some kind of a personal crusade with her,” Ina said. “She gave the doctor a liter of blood for you—”
“Where did she get it from?”
“Herself, of course.” Ina smiled. “Lucky for you, Major, our Nurse Metanova is a universal donor.”
Of course she is, thought Alexander, keeping his eyes tightly shut.
Ina continued. “The doctor told her she couldn’t give any more, and she said a liter wasn’t enough, and he said, ‘Yes, but you don’t have more to give,’ and she said, ‘I’ll make more,’ and he said, ‘No,’ and she said, ‘Yes,’ and in four hours, she gave him another half-liter of blood.”
Alexander lay on his stomach and listened intently while Ina wrapped fresh gauze on his wound.
He was barely breathing.
“The doctor told her, ‘Tania, you’re wasting your time. Look at his burn. It’s going to get infected.’ There wasn’t enough penicillin to give to you, especially since your blood count was so
low.” Alexander heard Ina chuckle in disbelief. “So I’m making my rounds late that night, and who do I find next to your bed? Tatiana. She’s sitting with a syringe in her arm, hooked up to a
catheter, and I watch her, and I swear to God, you won’t believe it when I tell you, Major, but I see that the catheter is attached to the entry drip in your IV.” Ina’s eyes bulged. “I watch her
draining blood from the radial artery in her arm into your IV. I ran in and said, ‘Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind? You’re siphoning blood from yourself into him?’ She said to me in
her calm, I-won’t-stand-for-any-argument voice, ‘Ina, if I don’t, he will die.’ I yelled at her. I said, ‘There are thirty soldiers in the critical wing who need sutures and bandages and their wounds cleaned. Why don’t you take care of them and let God take care of the dead?’ And she said, ‘He’s not dead. He is still alive, and while he is alive, he is mine.’ Can you believe it, Major? But that’s what she said. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said to her. ‘Fine, die yourself. I don’t care.’ But the next morning I went to complain to Dr. Sayers that she wasn’t following procedure,
told him what she had done, and he ran to yell at her.” Ina lowered her voice to a sibilant, incredulous whisper. “We found her unconscious on the floor by your bed. She was in a dead faint, but you had taken a turn for the better. All your vital signs were up. And Tatiana got up from the floor, white as death itself, and said to the doctor coldly, ‘Maybe now you can give him the penicillin he needs?’ I could see the doctor was stunned. But he did. Gave you penicillin and more plasma and extra morphine. Then he operated on you, to get bits of the shell fragment out
of you, and saved your kidney. And stitched you. And all that time she never left his side, or yours. He told her your bandages needed to be changed every three hours to help with drainage,
to prevent infection. We had only two nurses in the terminal wing, me and her. I had to take care of all the other patients, while all she did was take care of you. For fifteen days and nights she unwrapped you and cleaned you and changed your dressings. Every three hours. She was a ghost by the end. But you made it. That’s when we moved you to critical care. I said to her, ‘Tania, this man ought to marry you for what you did for him,’ and she said, ‘You think so?’ ” Ina tutted again. Paused. “Are you all right, Major? Why are you crying? ~ Paullina Simons,#NFDB
890:In the words of Paul Johnson: The Temple, now, in Herod’s1 version, rising triumphantly over Jerusalem, was an ocular reminder that Judaism was about Jews and their history—not about anyone else. Other gods flew across the deserts from the East without much difficulty, jettisoning the inconvenient and embarrassing accretions from their past, changing, as it were, their accents and manners as well as their names. But the God of the Jews was still alive and roaring in his Temple, demanding blood, making no attempt to conceal his racial and primitive origins. Herod’s fabric was elegant, modern, sophisticated—he had, indeed, added some Hellenic decorative effects much resented by fundamentalist Jews who constantly sought to destroy them—but nothing could hide the essential business of the Temple, which was the ritual slaughter, consumption, and combustion of sacrificial cattle on a gigantic scale. The place was as vast as a small city. There were literally thousands of priests, attendants, temple-soldiers, and minions. To the unprepared visitor, the dignity and charity of Jewish disapora life, the thoughtful comments and homilies of the Alexandrian synagogue, was quite lost amid the smoke of the pyres, the bellows of terrified beasts, the sluices of blood, the abattoir stench, the unconcealed and unconcealable machinery of tribal religion inflated by modern wealth to an industrial scale. Sophisticated Romans who knew the Judaism of the diaspora found it hard to understand the hostility towards Jews shown by colonial officials who, behind a heavily-armed escort, had witnessed Jerusalem at festival time. Diaspora Judaism, liberal and outward-minded, contained the matrix of a universal religion, but only if it could be cut off from its barbarous origins; and how could so thick and sinewy an umbilical cord be severed? This description of “Herod’s” Temple (actually the Second Temple, built in the sixth century B.C. and rebuilt by Herod) is more than a bit overwrought. The God of the Jews did not roar in his Temple: the insoluble problem was that, since the destruction of the First Temple and, with it, the Ark of the Covenant, God had ceased to be present in his Temple. Nor would animal sacrifice have disgusted the gentiles, since Greeks, Romans, and all ancient peoples offered such sacrifices (though one cannot help wondering whether, had the Second Temple not been destroyed, it would today be ringed from morn to night by indignant animal-rights activists). But Johnson is right to emphasize that Judaism, in its mother city, could display a sweaty tribalism that gentiles would only find unattractive. The partisan, argumentative ambience of first-century Jerusalem, not unlike the atmosphere of the ultra-Orthodox pockets of the contemporary city, could repel any outsider, whether gentile or diaspora Jew. Perhaps most important is Johnson’s shrewd observation that Judaism “contained the matrix of a universal religion.” By this time, the more percipient inhabitants of the Greco-Roman world had come to the conclusion that polytheism, whatever manifestation it might assume, was seriously flawed. The Jews alone, by offering monotheism, offered a unitive vision, not the contradictory and flickering epiphanies of a fanciful pantheon of gods and goddesses. But could Judaism adapt to gentile needs, could it lose its foreign accent and outlandish manners? No one saw the opportunity more clearly than Luke; his gospel and its sequel, the Acts of the Apostles, present a Jesus and a Jesus Movement specifically tailored to gentile sensibility. ~ Thomas Cahill, #NFDB
891:Sharon did have house guests to keep her company, though. Abigail Folger, the heiress to the Folger Coffee Company and her boyfriend, Wojciech Frykowski, were also living at Cielo Drive. On the evening of August 8, 1969, Sharon made phone calls to her sister and her friend to cancel plans she had made, saying that she was tired and would spend the night in with another friend, Jay Sebring. The foursome, Sharon, Jay, Abigail, and Wojciech, ate at a local Mexican restaurant before returning to Sharon’s home at Cielo Drive. At 11.30 pm, Manson took his follower and right-hand man Tex Watson to one side and explained to him what he had to do. For the good of the family, Manson said, Tex had to lead the others to Cielo Drive to “totally destroy everyone in that house” and steal whatever they could. It’s unclear whether Manson even knew who was now living in that particular house, but he must have known they were rich and that they would serve as an example to the rest of the world that no one was safe. Manson rounded up Susan Atkins, Patricia Krenwinkel, and new follower Linda Kasabian. Dressed in black, the girls grabbed their knives and jumped into the car with Tex. Manson rested at Spahn Ranch, waiting for news from 10050 Cielo Drive. When the group arrived at the house, Tex climbed a telephone pole and snipped the wire. It was only now that the group had arrived that Tex told the girls exactly what they were there to do. If the girls were shocked, they didn’t show it, and they dutifully followed Tex’s lead in what came next. Steve Parent, an 18-year-old friend of the caretaker at Cielo Drive, was the first to be murdered. Parent was leaving the property in his car, having just visited his friend, when Tex shot him four times. Tex then entered the house through an open window and told the girls to follow him inside. New follower Kasabian was terrified and unable to help, so Tex told her to go back to the car and keep watch. In the sitting room of the house, Tex woke Wojciech who had fallen asleep on the couch, and Susan ventured upstairs where she found Abigail reading in bed. Abigail saw Susan but wasn’t alarmed at first. It wasn’t unusual for strangers to be in the house. But when Susan brandished a large knife and told Abigail, Sharon, and Jay to go with her downstairs, the group were terrified. Tex tied a rope around Wojciech’s throat, threw it over a beam in the house, and tied it around Sharon’s throat. Tex demanded money and grew furious when no one produced any, then he shot Jay in the stomach. As Sharon and Abigail screamed in terror, Tex stabbed Jay, over and over again. Realizing that no one was going to escape alive if he didn’t do something, Wojciech tried to break free, causing Susan to attack him with a knife. Wojciech was able to overpower Susan, so Tex shot him twice then battered him with the handle of his gun. Incredibly, Wojciech still managed to escape the house, but Tex caught up with him on the lawn and ended his life with a knife. Abigail also broke free of Patricia, but she caught her and stabbed her repeatedly. Tex finally ended Abigail’s life with his knife. Sharon was the only person still alive in the house; she pleaded for her life and the life of her unborn child. As Sharon begged, Susan Atkin’s began stabbing her, being sure to stab her directly through her pregnant stomach. Later, Susan said she “got sick of listening to her so I stabbed her and then I just stabbed her and she fell and I stabbed her again, just kept stabbing and stabbing.” The group almost left without writing the bloody graffiti Manson had explicitly told them to leave behind. Susan went back into the house and used a towel to write “PIG” on the front door of 10500 Cielo Drive in the victims’ blood. ~ Hourly History, #NFDB
892:O: You’re quite a writer. You’ve a gift for language, you’re a deft hand at plotting, and your books seem to have an enormous amount of attention to detail put into them. You’re so good you could write anything. Why write fantasy?
Pratchett: I had a decent lunch, and I’m feeling quite amiable. That’s why you’re still alive. I think you’d have to explain to me why you’ve asked that question.
O: It’s a rather ghettoized genre.
P: This is true. I cannot speak for the US, where I merely sort of sell okay. But in the UK I think every book— I think I’ve done twenty in the series— since the fourth book, every one has been one the top ten national bestsellers, either as hardcover or paperback, and quite often as both. Twelve or thirteen have been number one. I’ve done six juveniles, all of those have nevertheless crossed over to the adult bestseller list. On one occasion I had the adult best seller, the paperback best-seller in a different title, and a third book on the juvenile bestseller list. Now tell me again that this is a ghettoized genre.
O: It’s certainly regarded as less than serious fiction.
P: (Sighs) Without a shadow of a doubt, the first fiction ever recounted was fantasy. Guys sitting around the campfire— Was it you who wrote the review? I thought I recognized it— Guys sitting around the campfire telling each other stories about the gods who made lightning, and stuff like that. They did not tell one another literary stories. They did not complain about difficulties of male menopause while being a junior lecturer on some midwestern college campus. Fantasy is without a shadow of a doubt the ur-literature, the spring from which all other literature has flown. Up to a few hundred years ago no one would have disagreed with this, because most stories were, in some sense, fantasy. Back in the middle ages, people wouldn’t have thought twice about bringing in Death as a character who would have a role to play in the story. Echoes of this can be seen in Pilgrim’s Progress, for example, which hark back to a much earlier type of storytelling. The epic of Gilgamesh is one of the earliest works of literature, and by the standard we would apply now— a big muscular guys with swords and certain godlike connections— That’s fantasy. The national literature of Finland, the Kalevala. Beowulf in England. I cannot pronounce Bahaghvad-Gita but the Indian one, you know what I mean. The national literature, the one that underpins everything else, is by the standards that we apply now, a work of fantasy.
Now I don’t know what you’d consider the national literature of America, but if the words Moby Dick are inching their way towards this conversation, whatever else it was, it was also a work of fantasy. Fantasy is kind of a plasma in which other things can be carried. I don’t think this is a ghetto. This is, fantasy is, almost a sea in which other genres swim. Now it may be that there has developed in the last couple of hundred years a subset of fantasy which merely uses a different icongraphy, and that is, if you like, the serious literature, the Booker Prize contender. Fantasy can be serious literature. Fantasy has often been serious literature. You have to fairly dense to think that Gulliver’s Travels is only a story about a guy having a real fun time among big people and little people and horses and stuff like that. What the book was about was something else. Fantasy can carry quite a serious burden, and so can humor. So what you’re saying is, strip away the trolls and the dwarves and things and put everyone into modern dress, get them to agonize a bit, mention Virginia Woolf a few times, and there! Hey! I’ve got a serious novel. But you don’t actually have to do that.
(Pauses) That was a bloody good answer, though I say it myself. ~ Terry Pratchett,#NFDB
893:The Gospels were written in such temporal and geographical proximity to the events they record that it would have been almost impossible to fabricate events. Anyone who cared to could have checked out the accuracy of what they reported. The fact that the disciples were able to proclaim the resurrection in Jerusalem in the face of their enemies a few weeks after the crucifixion shows that what they proclaimed was true, for they could never have proclaimed the resurrection under such circumstances had it not occurred.
The Gospels could not have been corrupted without a great outcry on the part of orthodox Christians. Against the idea that there could have been a deliberate falsifying of the text, no one could have corrupted all the manuscripts. Moreover, there is no precise time when the falsification could have occurred, since, as we have seen, the New Testament books are cited by the church fathers in regular and close succession. The text could not have been falsified before all external testimony, since then the apostles were still alive and could repudiate any such tampering with the Gospels.
The miracles of Jesus were witnessed by hundreds of people, friends and enemies alike; that the apostles had the ability to testify accurately to what they saw; that the apostles were of such doubtless honesty and sincerity as to place them above suspicion of fraud; that the apostles, though of low estate, nevertheless had comfort and life itself to lose in proclaiming the gospel; and that the events to which they testified took place in the civilized part of the world under the Roman Empire, in Jerusalem, the capital city of the Jewish nation. Thus, there is no reason to doubt the apostles’ testimony concerning the miracles and resurrection of Jesus. It would have been impossible for so many to conspire together to perpetrate such a hoax. And what was there to gain by lying? They could expect neither honor, nor wealth, nor worldly profit, nor fame, nor even the successful propagation of their doctrine. Moreover, they had been raised in a religion that was vastly different from the one they preached. Especially foreign to them was the idea of the death and resurrection of the Jewish Messiah. This militates against their concocting this idea. The Jewish laws against deceit and false testimony were very severe, which fact would act as a deterrent to fraud.
Suppose that no resurrection or miracles occurred: how then could a dozen men, poor, coarse, and apprehensive, turn the world upside down? If Jesus did not rise from the dead, declares Ditton, then either we must believe that a small, unlearned band of deceivers overcame the powers of the world and preached an incredible doctrine over the face of the whole earth, which in turn received this fiction as the sacred truth of God; or else, if they were not deceivers, but enthusiasts, we must believe that these extremists, carried along by the impetus of extravagant fancy, managed to spread a falsity that not only common folk, but statesmen and philosophers as well, embraced as the sober truth. Because such a scenario is simply unbelievable, the message of the apostles, which gave birth to Christianity, must be true.
Belief in Jesus’ resurrection flourished in the very city where Jesus had been publicly crucified. If the people of Jerusalem thought that Jesus’ body was in the tomb, few would have been prepared to believe such nonsense as that Jesus had been raised from the dead. And, even if they had so believed, the Jewish authorities would have exposed the whole affair simply by pointing to Jesus’ tomb or perhaps even exhuming the body as decisive proof that Jesus had not been raised.
Three great, independently established facts—the empty tomb, the resurrection appearances, and the origin of the Christian faith—all point to the same marvelous conclusion: that God raised Jesus from the dead. ~ William Lane Craig,#NFDB
894:To The Spring
OR OF THE FABLES OF THE ANCIENTS.
Now that the sun the faded charms
Of heaven again restores,
And gentle zephyr the sick air revives,
And the dark shadows of the clouds
Are put to flight,
And birds their naked breasts confide
Unto the wind, and the soft light,
With new desire of love, and with new hope,
The conscious beasts, in the deep woods,
Amid the melting frosts, inspires;
May not to you, poor human souls,
Weary, and overborne with grief,
The happy age return, which misery,
And truth's dark torch, before its time, consumed?
Have not the golden rays
Of Phoebus vanished from your gaze
Forever? Say, O gentle Spring,
Canst thou this icy heart inspire, and melt,
That in the bloom of youth, the frost of age hath felt?
O holy Nature, art thou still alive?
Alive? And does the unaccustomed ear
Of thy maternal voice the accents hear?
Of white nymphs once, the streams were the abode.
And in the clear founts mirrored were their forms.
Mysterious dances of immortal feet
The mountain tops and lofty forests shook,-To-day the lonely mansions of the winds;-And when the shepherd-boy the noontide shade
Would seek, or bring his thirsty lambs
Unto the flowery margin of the stream,
Along the banks the clear song would he hear,
And pipe of rustic Fauns;
Would see the waters move,
And stand amazed, when, hidden from the view,
The quiver-bearing goddess would descend
141
Into the genial waves,
And from her snow-white arms efface
The dust and blood of the exciting chase.
The flowers, the herbs _once_ lived,
The groves with life were filled:
Soft airs, and clouds, and every shining light
Were with the human race in sympathy,
When thee, fair star of Venus, o'er
The hills and dales,
The traveller, in the lonely night,
Pursuing with his earnest gaze,
The sweet companion of his path,
The loving friend of mortals deemed:
When he, who, fleeing from the impious strife
Of cities filled with mutiny and shame,
In depths of woods remote,
The rough trees clasping to his breast,
The vital flame seemed in their veins to feel,
The breathing leaves of Daphne, or of Phyllis sad;
And seemed the sisters' tears to see, still shed
For him who, smitten by the lightning's blast,
Into the swift Eridanus was cast.
Nor were ye deaf, ye rigid rocks,
To human sorrow's plaintive tones,
While in your dark recesses Echo dwelt,
No idle plaything of the winds,
But spirit sad of hapless nymph,
Whom unrequited love, and cruel fate,
Of her soft limbs deprived. She o'er the grots,
The naked rocks, and mansions desolate,
Unto the depths of all-embracing air,
Our sorrows, not to her unknown,
Our broken, loud laments conveyed.
And _thou_, if fame belie thee not,
Didst sound the depths of human woe,
Sweet bird, that comest to the leafy grove,
The new-born Spring to greet,
And when the fields are hushed in sleep,
To chant into the dark and silent air,
The ancient wrongs, and cruel treachery,
142
That stirred the pity of the gods, to see.
But, no, thy race is not akin to ours;
No sorrow framed thy melodies;
Thy voice of crime unconscious, pleases less,
Along the dusky valley heard.
Ah, since the mansions of Olympus all
Are desolate, and without guide, the bolt,
That, wandering o'er the cloud-capped mountain-tops,
In horror cold dissolves alike
The guilty and the innocent;
Since this, our earthly home,
A stranger to her children has become,
And brings them up, to misery;
Lend thou an ear, dear Nature, to the woes
And wretched fate of mortals, and revive
The ancient spark within my breast;
If thou, indeed, dost live, if aught there is,
In heaven, or on the sun-lit earth,
Or in the bosom of the sea,
That pities? No; but _sees_ our misery.
~ Count Giacomo Leopardi,#NFDB
895: THE DANCING
SONG
One evening Zarathustra walked through a forest
with his disciples; and as he sought a well, behold, he
came upon a green meadow, silently surrounded by
trees and shrubs, and upon it girls were dancing with
each other. As soon as the girls recognized Zarathustra
they ceased dancing. But Zarathustra walked up to
them with a friendly gesture and spoke these words:
"Do not cease dancing, you lovely girls No killjoy
has come to you with evil eyes, no enemy of girls. God's
advocate am I before the devil: but the devil is the
spirit of gravity. How could I, you lightfooted ones, be
an enemy of godlike dances? Or of girls' feet with
pretty ankles?
"Indeed, I am a forest and a night of dark trees: but
he who is not afraid of my darkness will also find rose
slopes under my cypresses. And he will also find the
little god whom girls like best: beside the well he lies,
still, with his eyes shut. Verily, in bright daylight he
fell asleep, the sluggard Did he chase after butterflies
too much? Do not be angry with me, you beautiful
dancers, if I chastise the little god a bit. He may cry
and weep-but he is laughable even when he weeps.
And with tears in his eyes he shall ask you for a dance,
and I myself will sing a song for his dance: a dancing and mocking song on the spirit of gravity, my supreme and most powerful devil, of whom they say that
he is 'the master of the world.'"
And this is the song that Zarathustra sang while
Cupid and the girls danced together:
Into your eyes I looked recently, 0 life! And into
the unfathomable I then seemed to be sinking. But
you pulled me out with a golden fishing rod; and you
laughed mockingly when I called you unfathomable.
"Thus runs the speech of all fish," you said; "what
they do not fathom is unfathomable. But I am merely
changeable and wild and a woman in every way, and
not virtuous-even if you men call me profound, faithful, eternal, and mysterious. But you men always present us with your own virtues, 0 you virtuous men!"
Thus she laughed, the incredible one; but I never
believe her and her laughter when she speaks ill of
herself.
And when I talked in confidence with my wild wisdom she said to me in anger, "You will, you want, you
love-that is the only reason why you praise life." Then
109
I almost answered wickedly and told the angry woman
the truth; and there is no more wicked answer than
telling one's wisdom the truth.
For thus matters stand among the three of us: Deeply
I love only life-and verily, most of all when I hate life.
But that I am well disposed toward wisdom, and often
too well, that is because she reminds me so much of
life. She has her eyes, her laugh, and even her little
golden fishing rod: is it my fault that the two
look so similar?
And when life once asked me, "Who is this wisdom?"
I answered fervently, "Oh yes, wisdom One thirsts
after her and is never satisfied; one looks through veils,
one grabs through nets. Is she beautiful? How should
I know? But even the oldest carps are baited with her.
She is changeable and stubborn; often I have seen her
bite her lip and comb her hair against the grain. Perhaps she is evil and false and a female in every way;
but just when she speaks ill of herself she is most
seductive."
When I said this to life she laughed sarcastically and
closed her eyes. "Of whom are you speaking?" she
asked; "no doubt, of me. And even if you are right
-should that be said to my face? But now speak of
your wisdom too."
Ah, and then you opened your eyes again, 0 beloved
life. And again I seemed to myself to be sinking into
the unfathomable.
Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was over
and the girls had gone away, he grew sad.
"The sun has set long ago," he said at last; "the
meadow is moist, a chill comes from the woods. Something unknown is around me and looks thoughtfuL
What? Are you still alive, Zarathustra?
110
"Why? What for? By what? Whither? Where? How?
Is it not folly still to be alive?
"Alas, my friends, it is the evening that asks thus
through me. Forgive me my sadness. Evening has come;
forgive me that evening has come."
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche, THE DANCING SONG
,#NFDB
896:The Dream
It was the morning; through the shutters closed,
Along the balcony, the earliest rays
Of sunlight my dark room were entering;
When, at the time that sleep upon our eyes
Its softest and most grateful shadows casts,
There stood beside me, looking in my face,
The image dear of her, who taught me first
To love, then left me to lament her loss.
To me she seemed not dead, but sad, with such
A countenance as the unhappy wear.
Her right hand near my head she sighing placed;
'Dost thou still live,' she said to me, 'and dost
Thou still remember what we _were_ and are?'
And I replied: 'Whence comest thou, and how,
Beloved and beautiful? Oh how, how I
Have grieved, still grieve for thee! Nor did I think
Thou e'er couldst know it more; and oh, that thought
My sorrow rendered more disconsolate!
But art thou now again to leave me?
I fear so. Say, what hath befallen thee?
Art thou the same? What preys upon thee thus?'
'Oblivion weighs upon thy thoughts, and sleep
Envelops them,' she answered; 'I am dead,
And many months have passed, since last we met.'
What grief oppressed me, as these words I heard!
And she continued: 'In the flower of youth
Cut off, when life is sweetest, and before
The heart that lesson sad and sure hath learnt,
The utter vanity of human hope!
The sick man may e'en covet, as a boon,
That which withdraws him from all suffering;
But to the young, Death comes, disconsolate;
And hard the fate of hope, that in the grave
Is quenched! And yet, how vain that knowledge is,
That Nature from the inexperienced hides!
And a blind sorrow is to be preferred
To wisdom premature!'--'Hush, hush!' I cried,
'Unhappy one, and dear! My heart is crushed
With these thy words! And art thou dead, indeed,
78
O my beloved? and am I still alive?
And was it, then, in heaven decreed, that this,
Thy tender body the last damps of death
Should feel, and my poor, wretched frame remain
Unharmed? Oh, often, often as I think
That thou no longer livest, and that I
Shall never see thee on the earth again,
Incredible it seems! Alas, alas!
What _is_ this thing, that they call death? Oh, would
That I, this day, the mystery could solve,
And my defenceless head withdraw from Fate's
Relentless hate! I still am young, and still
Feel all the blight and misery of age,
Which I so dread; and distant far it seems;
But, ah, how little different from age,
The flower of my years!'--'We both were born,'
She said, 'to weep; unhappy were our lives,
And heaven took pleasure in our sufferings.'
'Oh if my eyes with tears,' I added, 'then,
My face with pallor veiled thou seest, for loss
Of thee, and anguish weighing on my heart;
Tell me, was any spark of pity or of love
For the poor lover kindled in thy heart,
While thou didst live? I, then, between my hope
And my despair, passed weary nights and days;
And now, my mind is with vain doubts oppressed.
Oh if but once compassion smote thee for
My darkened life, conceal it not from me,
I pray thee; let the memory console me,
Since of their future our young days were robbed!'
And she: 'Be comforted, unhappy one!
I was not churlish of my pity whilst
I lived, and am not now, myself so wretched!
Oh, do not chide this most unhappy child!'
'By all our sufferings, and by the love
Which preys upon me,' I exclaimed, 'and by
Our youth, and by the hope that faded from
Our lives, O let me, dearest, touch thy hand!'
And sweetly, sadly, she extended it.
And while I covered it with kisses, while
With sorrow and with rapture quivering,
I to my panting bosom fondly pressed it,
79
With fervent passion glowed my face and breast,
My trembling voice refused its utterance,
And all things swam before my sight; when she,
Her eyes fixed tenderly on mine, replied:
'And dost thou, then, forget, dear friend, that I
Am of my beauty utterly deprived?
And vainly thou, unhappy one, dost yield
To passion's transports. Now, a last farewell!
Our wretched minds, our feeble bodies, too,
Eternally are parted. Thou to me
No longer livest, nevermore shall live.
Fate hath annulled the faith that thou hast sworn.'
Then, in my anguish as I seemed to cry
Aloud, convulsed, my eyes o'erflowing with
The tears of utter, helpless misery,
I started from my sleep. The image still
Was seen, and in the sun's uncertain light
Above my couch she seemed to linger still.
~ Count Giacomo Leopardi,#NFDB
897:Does pleasant spring return once more?
Does earth her happy youth regain?
Sweet suns green hills are shining o'er;
Soft brooklets burst their icy chain:
Upon the blue translucent river
Laughs down an all-unclouded day,
The winged west winds gently quiver,
The buds are bursting from the spray;
While birds are blithe on every tree;
The Oread from the mountain-shore
Sighs, "Lo! thy flowers come back to thee
Thy child, sad mother, comes no more!"
Alas! how long an age it seems
Since all the earth I wandered over,
And vainly, Titan, tasked thy beams
The lovedthe lost oneto discover!
Though all may seekyet none can call
Her tender presence back to me
The sun, with eyes detecting all,
Is blind one vanished form to see.
Hast thou, O Zeus! hast thou away
From these sad arms my daughter torn?
Has Pluto, from the realms of day,
Enamoredto dark rivers borne?
Who to the dismal phantom-strand
The herald of my grief will venture?
The boat forever leaves the land,
But only shadows there may enter.
Veiled from each holier eye repose
The realms where midnight wraps the dead,
And, while the Stygian river flows,
No living footstep there may tread!
A thousand pathways wind the drear
Descent;none upward lead to-day;
No witness to the mother's ear
The daughter's sorrows can betray.
Mothers of happy human clay
Can share at least their children's doom;
And when the loved ones pass away,
Can trackcan join themin the tomb!
The race alone of heavenly birth
Are banished from the darksome portals;
The Fates have mercy on the earth,
And death is only kind to mortals!
Oh, plunge me in the night of nights,
From heaven's ambrosial halls exiled!
Oh, let the goddess lose the rights
That shut the mother from the child!
Where sits the dark king's joyless bride,
Where midst the dead her home is made;
Oh that my noiseless steps might glide,
Amidst the shades, myself a shade!
I see her eyes, that search through tears,
In vain the golden light to greet;
That yearn for yonder distant spheres,
That pine the mother's face to meet!
Till some bright moment shall renew
The severed hearts' familiar ties;
And softened pity steal in dew,
From Pluto's slow-relenting eyes!
Ah, vain the wish, the sorrows are!
Calm in the changeless paths above
Rolls on the day-god's golden car
Fast are the fixed decrees of Jove!
Far from the ever-gloomy plain,
He turns his blissful looks away.
Alas! night never gives again
What once it seizes as its prey!
Till over Lethe's sullen swell,
Aurora's rosy hues shall glow;
And arching through the midmost hell
Shine forth the lovely Iris-bow!
And is there naught of her; no token
No pledge from that beloved hand?
To tell how love remains unbroken,
How far soever be the land?
Has love no link, no lightest thread,
The mother to the child to bind?
Between the living and the dead,
Can hope no holy compact find?
No! every bond is not yet riven;
We are not yet divided wholly;
To us the eternal powers have given
A symbol language, sweet and holy.
When Spring's fair children pass away,
When, in the north wind's icy air,
The leaf and flower alike decay,
And leave the rivelled branches bare,
Then from Vertumnus' lavish horn
I take life's seeds to strew below
And bid the gold that germs the corn
An offering to the Styx to go!
Sad in the earth the seeds I lay
Laid at thy heart, my childto be
The mournful tokens which convey
My sorrow and my love to thee!
But, when the hours, in measured dance,
The happy smile of spring restore,
Rife in the sun-god's golden glance
The buried dead revive once more!
The germs that perished to thine eyes,
Within the cold breast of the earth,
Spring up to bloom in gentler skies,
The brighter for the second birth!
The stem its blossom rears above
Its roots in night's dark womb repose
The plant but by the equal love
Of light and darkness fosteredgrows!
If half with death the germs may sleep,
Yet half with life they share the beams;
My heralds from the dreary deep,
Soft voices from the solemn streams,
Like her, so them, awhile entombs,
Stern Orcus, in his dismal reign,
Yet spring sends forth their tender blooms
With such sweet messages again,
To tell,how far from light above,
Where only mournful shadows meet,
Memory is still alive to love,
And still the faithful heart can beat!
Joy to ye children of the field!
Whose life each coming year renews,
To your sweet cups the heaven shall yield
The purest of its nectar-dews!
Steeped in the light's resplendent streams,
The hues that streak the Iris-bow
Shall trim your blooms as with the beams
The looks of young Aurora know.
The budding life of happy spring,
The yellow autumn's faded leaf,
Alike to gentle hearts shall bring
The symbols of my joy and grief.
~ Friedrich Schiller, The Complaint Of Ceres
,#NFDB
898: THE TOMB
SONG
"There is the isle of tombs, the silent isle; there too
are the tombs of my youth. There I wish to carry an
evergreen wreath of life." Resolving this in my heart, I
crossed the sea.
0 you visions and apparitions of my youth! 0 all you
glances of love, you divine moments How quickly
you died. Today I recall you like dead friends. From
you, my dearest friends among the dead, a sweet scent
comes to me, loosening heart and tears. Verily, it perturbs and loosens the heart of the lonely seafarer. I am
still the richest and most enviable-I, the loneliest! For
once I possessed you, and you still possess me: say, to
whom fell, as to me, such rose apples from the bough?
I am still the heir of your love and its soil, flowering
in remembrance of you with motley wild virtues, 0
you most loved ones.
Alas, we were fashioned to remain close to each
other, you fair and strange wonders; and you came to
me and my craving, not like shy birds, but like trusting
ones to him who trusts. Indeed, fashioned for loyalty,
like myself, and for tender eternities-I must now call
you after your disloyalty, you divine glances and moments: I have not yet learned any other name. Verily,
you have died too soon for me, you fugitives. Yet you
did not flee from me, nor did I flee from you: we are
equally innocent in our disloyalty.
ill
To kill me, they strangled you, songbirds of my
hopes. Indeed, after you, my dearest friends, malice
has ever shot its arrows-to hit my heart. And it hitl
For you have always been closest to my heart, my possession and what possessed me: that is why you had
to die young and all-too-early. The arrow was shot at
my most vulnerable possession-at you, whose skin is
like down and even more like a smile that dies of a
glance.
But this word I want to speak to my enemies: What
is all murder of human beings compared to that which
you have done to me? What you have done to me is
more evil than any murder of human beings; you have
taken from me the irretrievable: thus I speak to you,
my enemies. For you murdered the visions and dearest
wonders of my youth. My playmates you took from me,
the blessed spirits. In their memory I lay down this
wreath and this curse. This curse against you, my enemiesl For you have cut short my eternal bliss, as a tone
that breaks off in a cold night. Scarcely as the gleam of
divine eyes it came to me-passing swiftly as a glance.
Thus spoke my purity once in a fair hour: "All beings
shall be divine to me." Then you assaulted me with
filthy ghosts; alas, where has this fair hour fled now?
"All days shall be holy to me"-thus said the wisdom
of my youth once; verily, it was the saying of a gay wisdom. But then you, my enemies, stole my nights from
me and sold them into sleepless agony; alas, where has
this gay wisdom fled now?
Once I craved happy omens from the birds; then you
led a monster of an owl across my way, a revolting one.
Alas, where did my tender desire flee then?
All nausea I once vowed to renounce: then you
changed those near and nearest me into putrid boils.
Alas, where did my noblest vow flee then?
I once walked as a blind man along blessed paths;
then you threw filth in the path of the blind man, and
now his old footpath nauseates him.
And when I did what was hardest for me and celebrated the triumph of my overcomings, then you made
those who loved me scream that I was hurting them
most.
Verily, this was always your practice: you galled my
best honey and the industry of my best bees. To my
charity you always dispatched the most impudent beggars; around my pity you always pushed the incurably
shameless. Thus you wounded my virtue in its faith.
And whenever I laid down for a sacrifice even what
was holiest to me, your "piety" immediately placed its
fatter gifts alongside, and in the fumes of your fat what
was holiest to me suffocated.
And once I wanted to dance as I had never danced
before: over all the heavens I wanted to dance. Then
you persuaded my dearest singer. And he struck up a
horrible dismal tune; alas, he tooted in my ears like a
gloomy horn. Murderous singer, tool of malice, most
innocent yourself! I stood ready for the best dance,
when you murdered my ecstasy with your sounds. Only
in the dance do I know how to tell the parable of the
highest things: and now my highest parable remained
unspoken in my limbs. My highest hope remained unspoken and unredeemed. And all the visions and consolations of my youth died How did I endure it? How
did I get over and overcome such wounds? How did
my soul rise again out of such tombs?
Indeed, in me there is something invulnerable and
unburiable, something that explodes rock: that is my
will. Silent and unchanged it strides through the years.
It would walk its way on my feet, my old will, and its
mind is hard of heart and invulnerable.
113
Invulnerable am I only in the heel. You are still alive
and your old self, most patient one. You have still
broken out of every tomb. What in my youth was unredeemed lives on in you; and as life and youth you
sit there, full of hope, on yellow ruins of tombs.
Indeed, for me, you are still the shatterer of all
tombs. Hail to thee, my will And only where there are
tombs are there resurrection.
Thus sang Zarathustra.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche, THE TOMB SONG
,#NFDB
899:Elegy: Walking the Line
Every month or so, Sundays, we walked the line,
The limit and the boundary. Past the sweet gum
Superb above the cabin, along the wall—
Stones gathered from the level field nearby
When first we cleared it. (Angry bumblebees
Stung the two mules. They kicked. Thirteen, I ran.)
And then the field: thread-leaf maple, deciduous
Magnolia, hybrid broom, and, further down,
In light shade, one Franklinia Alatamaha
In solstice bloom, all white, most graciously.
On the sunnier slope, the wild plums that my mother
Later would make preserves of, to give to friends
Or sell, in autumn, with the foxgrape, quince,
Elderberry, and muscadine. Around
The granite overhang, moist den of foxes;
Gradually up a long hill, high in pine,
Park-like, years of dry needles on the ground,
And dogwood, slopes the settlers terraced; pine
We cut at Christmas, berries, hollies, anise,
And cones for sale in Mister Haymore's yard
In town, below the Courthouse Square. James Haymore,
One of the two good teachers at Boys' High,
Ironic and demanding, chemistry;
Mary Lou Culver taught us English: essays,
Plot summaries, outlines, meters, kinds of clauses
(Noun, adjective, and adverb, five at a time),
Written each day and then revised, and she
Up half the night to read them once again
Through her pince-nez, under a single lamp.
Across the road, on a steeper hill, the settlers
Set a house, unpainted, the porch fallen in,
The road a red clay strip without a bridge,
A shallow stream that liked to overflow.
Oliver Brand's mules pulled our station wagon
Out of the gluey mire, earth's rust. Then, here
And there, back from the road, the specimen
Shrubs and small trees my father planted, some
Taller than we were, some in bloom, some berried,
And some we still brought water to. We always
14
Paused at the weed-filled hole beside the beech
That, one year, brought forth beech nuts by the thousands,
A hole still reminiscent of the man
Chewing tobacco in among his whiskers
My father happened on, who, discovered, told
Of dreaming he should dig there for the gold
And promised to give half of what he found.
During the wars with Germany and Japan,
Descendents of the settlers, of Oliver Brand
And of that man built Flying Fortresses
For Lockheed, in Atlanta; now they build
Brick mansions in the woods they left, with lawns
To paved and lighted streets, azaleas, camellias
Blooming among the pines and tulip trees—
Mercedes Benz and Cadillac Republicans.
There was another stream further along
Divided through a marsh, lined by the fence
We stretched to posts with Mister Garner's help
The time he needed cash for his son's bail
And offered all his place. A noble spring
Under the oak root cooled his milk and butter.
He called me "honey," working with us there
(My father bought three acres as a gift),
His wife pale, hair a country orange, voice
Uncanny, like a ghost's, through the open door
Behind her, chickens scratching on the floor.
Barred Rocks, our chickens; one, a rooster, splendid
Sliver and grey, red comb and long sharp spurs,
Once chased Aunt Jennie as far as the daphne bed
The two big king snakes were familiars of.
My father's dog would challenge him sometimes
To laughter and applause. Once, in Stone Mountain,
Travelers, stopped for gas, drove off with Smokey;
Angrily, grievingly, leaving his work, my father
Traced the car and found them way far south,
Had them arrested and, bringing Smokey home,
Was proud as Sherlock Holmes, and happier.
Above the spring, my sister's cats, black Amy,
Grey Junior, down to meet us. The rose trees,
Domestic, Asiatic, my father's favorites.
The bridge, marauding dragonflies, the bullfrog,
15
Camellias cracked and blackened by the freeze,
Bay tree, mimosa, mountain laurel, apple,
Monkey pine twenty feet high, banana shrub,
The owls' tall pine curved like a flattened S.
The pump house Mort and I built block by block,
Smooth concrete floor, roof pale aluminum
Half-covered by a clematis, the pump
Thirty feet down the mountain's granite foot.
Mort was the hired man sent to us by Fortune,
Childlike enough to lead us. He brought home,
Although he could not even drive a tractor,
Cheated, a worthless car, which we returned.
When, at the trial to garnishee his wages,
Frank Guess, the judge, Grandmother's longtime neighbor,
Whose children my mother taught in Cradle Roll,
Heard Mort's examination, he broke in
As if in disbelief on the bank's attorneys:
"Gentlemen, must we continue this charade?"
Finally, past the compost heap, the garden,
Tomatoes and sweet corn for succotash,
Okra for frying, Kentucky Wonders, limas,
Cucumbers, squashes, leeks heaped round with soil,
Lavender, dill, parsley, and rosemary,
Tithonia and zinnias between the rows;
The greenhouse by the rock wall, used for cuttings
In late spring, frames to grow them strong for planting
Through winter into summer. Early one morning
Mort called out, lying helpless by the bridge.
His ashes we let drift where the magnolia
We planted as a stem divides the path
The others lie, too young, at Silver Hill,
Except my mother. Ninety-five, she lives
Three thousand miles away, beside the bare
Pacific, in rooms that overlook the Mission,
The Riviera, and the silver range
La Cumbre east. Magnolia grandiflora
And one druidic live oak guard the view.
Proudly around the walls, she shows her paintings
Of twenty years ago: the great oak's arm
Extended, Zeuslike, straight and strong, wisteria
Tangled among the branches, amaryllis
16
Around the base; her cat, UC, at ease
In marigolds; the weeping cherry, pink
And white arms like a blessing to the blue
Bird feeder Mort made; cabin, scarlet sweet gum
Superb when tribes migrated north and south.
Alert, still quick of speech, a little blind,
Active, ready for laughter, open to fear,
Pity, and wonder that such things may be,
Some Sundays, I think, she must walk the line,
Aunt Jennie, too, if she were still alive,
And Eleanor, whose story is untold,
Their presences like muses, prompting me
In my small study, all listening to the sea,
All of one mind, the true posterity.
~ Edgar Bowers,#NFDB
900:To E. Fitzgerald: Tiresias
OLD FITZ, who from your suburb grange,
Where once I tarried for a while,
Glance at the wheeling orb of change,
And greet it with a kindly smile;
Whom yet I see as there you sit
Beneath your sheltering garden-tree,
And watch your doves about you flit,
And plant on shoulder, hand, and knee,
Or on your head their rosy feet,
As if they knew your diet spares
Whatever moved in that full sheet
Let down to Peter at his prayers;
Who live on milk and meal and grass;
And once for ten long weeks I tried
Your table of Pythagoras,
- And seem'd at first "a thing enskied,"
As Shakespeare has it, airy-light
To float above the ways of men,
Then fell from that half-spiritual height
Chill'd, till I tasted flesh again
One night when earth was winter-b]ack,
And all the heavens flash'd in frost;
And on me, half-asleep, came back
That wholesome heat the blood had lost,
And set me climbing icy capes
And glaciers, over which there roll'd
To meet me long-arm'd vines with grapes
Of Eshcol hugeness- for the cold
Without, and warmth within me, wrought
To mould the dream; but none can say
That Lenten fare makes Lenten thought
Who reads your golden Eastern lay,
Than which I know no version done
In English more divinely well;
A planet equal to the sun
Which cast it, that large infidel
Your Omar, and your Omar drew
Full-handed plaudits from our best
In modern letters, and from two,
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Old friends outvaluing all the rest,
Two voices heard on earth no more;
But we old friends are still alive,
And I am nearing seventy-four,
While you have touch'd at seventy-five,
And so I send a birthday line
Of greeting; and my son, who dipt
In some forgotten book of mine
With sallow scraps of manuscript,
And dating many a year ago,
Has hit on this, which you will take,
My Fitz, and welcome, as I know,
Less for its own than for the sake
Of one recalling gracious times,
When, in our younger London days,
You found some merit in my rhymes,
And I more pleasure in your praise.
TIRESIAS
I WISH I were as in the years of old
While yet the blessed daylight made itself
Ruddy thro' both the roofs of sight, and woke
These eyes, now dull, but then so keen to seek
The meanings ambush'd under all they saw,
The flight of birds, the flame of sacrifice,
What omens may foreshadow fate to man
And woman, and the secret of the Gods.
My son, the Gods, despite of human prayer,
Are slower to forgive than human kings.
The great God Ares burns in anger still
Against the guiltless heirs of him from Tyre
Our Cadmus, out of whom thou art, who found
Beside the springs of Dirce, smote, and still'd
Thro' all its folds the multitudinous beast
The dragon, which our trembling fathers call'd
The God's own son.
A tale, that told to me,
When but thine age, by age as winter-white
As mine is now, amazed, but made me yearn
For larger glimpses of that more than man
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Which rolls the heavens, and lifts and lays the deep,
Yet loves and hates with mortal hates and loves,
And moves unseen among the ways of men.
Then, in my wanderings all the lands that lie
Subjected to the Heliconian ridge
Have heard this footstep fall, altho' my wont
Was more to scale the highest of the heights
With some strange hope to see the nearer God.
One naked peak‹the sister of the Sun
Would climb from out the dark, and linger there
To silver all the valleys with her shafts‹
There once, but long ago, five-fold thy term
Of years, I lay; the winds were dead for heatThe noonday crag made the hand burn; and sick
For shadow‹not one bush was near‹I rose
Following a torrent till its myriad falls
Found silence in the hollows underneath.
There in a secret olive-glade I saw
Pallas Athene climbing from the bath
In anger; yet one glittering foot disturb'd
The lucid well; one snowy knee was prest
Against the margin flowers; a dreadful light
Came from her golden hair, her golden helm
And all her golden armor on the grass,
And from her virgin breast, and virgin eyes
Remaining fixt on mine, till mine grew dark
For ever, and I heard a voice that said
"Henceforth be blind, for thou hast seen too much,
And speak the truth that no man may believe."
Son, in the hidden world of sight that lives
Behind this darkness, I behold her still
Beyond all work of those who carve the stone
Beyond all dreams of Godlike womanhood,
Ineffable beauty, out of whom, at a glance
And as it were, perforce, upon me flash'd
The power of prophesying‹but to me
No power so chain'd and coupled with the curse
Of blindness and their unbelief who heard
And heard not, when I spake of famine, plague
Shrine-shattering earthquake, fire, flood, thunderbolt,
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And angers of the Gods for evil done
And expiation lack'd‹no power on Fate
Theirs, or mine own! for when the crowd would roar
For blood, for war, whose issue was their doom,
To cast wise words among the multitude
Was fiinging fruit to lions; nor, in hours
Of civil outbreak, when I knew the twain
Would each waste each, and bring on both the yoke
Of stronger states, was mine the voice to curb
The madness of our cities and their kings.
Who ever turn'd upon his heel to hear
My warning that the tyranny of one
Was prelude to the tyranny of all?
My counsel that the tyranny of all
Led backward to the tyranny of one?
This power hath work'd no good to aught that lives
And these blind hands were useless in their wars.
O. therefore, that the unfulfill'd desire,
The grief for ever born from griefs to be
The boundless yearning of the prophet's heart‹
Could that stand forth, and like a statue, rear'd
To some great citizen, wim all praise from all
Who past it, saying, "That was he!"
In vain!
Virtue must shape itself im deed, and those
Whom weakness or necessity have cramp'd
Withm themselves, immerging, each, his urn
In his own well, draws solace as he may.
Menceceus, thou hast eyes, and I can hear
Too plainly what full tides of onset sap
Our seven high gates, and what a weight of war
Rides on those ringing axlesl jingle of bits,
Shouts, arrows, tramp of the horn-footed horse
That grind the glebe to powder! Stony showers
Of that ear-stunning hail of Ares crash
Along the sounding walls. Above, below
Shock after shock, the song-built towers and gates
Reel, bruised and butted with the shuddering
War-thunder of iron rams; and from within
The city comes a murmur void of joy,
Lest she be taken captive‹maidens, wives,
And mothers with their babblers of the dawn,
860
And oldest age in shadow from the night,
Falling about their shrines before their Gods,
And wailing, "Save us."
And they wail to thee!
These eyeless eyes, that cannot see thine own,
See this, that only in thy virtue lies
The saving of our Thebes; for, yesternight,
To me, the great God Ares, whose one bliss
Is war and human sacrifice‹himself
Blood-red from battle, spear and helmet tipt
With stormy light as on a mast at sea,
Stood out before a darkness, crying, "Thebes,
Thy Thebes shall fall and perish, for I loathe
The seed of Cadmus‹yet if one of these
By his own hand‹if one of these‹"
My son, No sound is breathed so potent to coerce,
And to conciliate, as their names who dare
For that sweet mother land which gave them birth
Nobly to do, nobly to die. Their names,
Graven on memorial columns, are a song
Heard in the future; few, but more than wall
And rampart, their examples reach a hand
Far thro' all years, and everywhere they meet
And kindle generous purpose, and the strength
To mould it into action pure as theirs.
Fairer thy fate than mine, if life's best end
Be to end well! and thou refusing this,
Unvenerable will thy memory be
While men shall move the lips; but if thou dare‹
Thou, one of these, the race of Cadmus‹then
No stone is fitted in yon marble girth
Whose echo shall not tongue thy glorious doom,
Nor in this pavement but shall ring thy name
To every hoof that clangs it, and the springs
Of Dirce laving yonder battle-plain,
Heard from the roofs by night, will murmur thee
To thine own Thebes, while Thebes thro' thee shall stand
Firm-based with all her Gods.
The Dragon's cave
Half hid, they tell me, now in flowing vines‹
Where once he dwelt and whence he roll'd himself
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At dead of night‹thou knowest, and that smooth rock
Before it, altar-fashion'd, where of late
The woman-breasted Sphinx, with wings drawn back
Folded her lion paws, and look'd to Thebes.
There blanch the bones of whom she slew, and these
Mixt with her own, because the fierce beast found
A wiser than herself, and dash'd herself
Dead in her rage; but thou art wise enough
Tho' young, to love thy wiser, blunt the curse
Of Pallas, bear, and tho' I speak the truth
Believe I speak it, let thine own hand strike
Thy youthful pulses into rest and quench
The red God's anger, fearing not to plunge
Thy torch of life in darkness, rather thou
Rejoicing that the sun, the moon, the stars
Send no such light upon the ways of men
As one great deed.
Thither, my son, and there
Thou, that hast never known the embrace of love
Offer thy maiden life.
This useless hand!
I felt one warm tear fall upon it. Gone!
He will achieve his greatness.
But for me I would that I were gather'd to my rest,
And mingled with the famous kings of old
On whom about their ocean-islets flash
The faces of the Gods‹the wise man's word
Here trampled by the populace underfoot
There crown'd with worship and these eyes will find
The men I knew, and watch the chariot whirl
About the goal again, and hunters race
The shadowy lion, and the warrior-kings
In height and prowess more than human, strive
Again for glory, while the golden lyre
Is ever sounding in heroic ears
Heroic hymns, and every way the vales
Wind, clouded with the grateful incense-fume
Of those who mix all odor to the Gods
On one far height in one far-shining fire.
-------------------------
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"One height and one far-shining fire!"
And while I fancied that my friend
For this brief idyll would require
A less diffuse and opulent end,
And would defend his judgment well,
If I should deem it over nice‹
The tolling of his funeral bell
Broke on my Pagan Paradise,
And mixt the dream of classic times,
And all the phantoms of the dream,
With present grief, and made the rhymes,
That miss'd his living welcome, seem
Like would-be guests an hour too late,
Who down the highway moving on
With easy laughter find the gate
Is bolted, and the master gone.
Gone onto darkness, that full light
Of friendship! past, in sleep, away
By night, into the deeper night!
The deeper night? A clearer day
Than our poor twilight dawn on earth‹
If night, what barren toil to be!
What life, so maim'd by night, were worth
Our living out? Not mine to me
Remembering all the golden hours
Now silent, and so many dead,
And him the last; and laying flowers,
This wreath, above his honor'd head,
And praying that, when I from hence
Shall fade with him into the unknown,
My close of earth's experience
May prove as peaceful as his own.
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,#NFDB
901:Viva Perpetua
Now being on the eve of death, discharged
From every mortal hope and earthly care,
I questioned how my soul might best employ
This hand, and this still wakeful flame of mind,
In the brief hours yet left me for their use;
Wherefore have I bethought me of my friend,
Of you, Philarchus, and your company,
Yet wavering in the faith and unconfirmed;
Perchance that I may break into thine heart
Some sorrowful channel for the love divine,
I make this simple record of our proof
In diverse sufferings for the name of Christ,
Whereof the end already for the most
Is death this day with steadfast faith endured.
We were in prison many days, close-pent
In the black lower dungeon, housed with thieves
And murderers and divers evil men;
So foul a pressure, we had almost died,
Even there, in struggle for the breath of life
Amid the stench and unendurable heat;
Nor could we find each other save by voice
Or touch, to know that we were yet alive,
So terrible was the darkness. Yea, 'twas hard
To keep the sacred courage in our hearts,
When all was blind with that unchanging night,
And foul with death, and on our ears the taunts
And ribald curses of the soldiery
Fell mingled with the prisoners' cries, a load
Sharper to bear, more bitter than their blows.
At first, what with that dread of our abode,
Our sudden apprehension, and the threats
Ringing perpetually in our ears, we lost
The living fire of faith, and like poor hinds
Would have denied our Lord and fallen away.
Even Perpetua, whose joyous faith
Was in the later holier days to be
The stay and comfort of our weaker ones,
Was silent for long whiles. Perchance she shrank
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In the mere sickness of the flesh, confused
And shaken by our new and horrible plight-The tender flesh, untempered and untried,
Not quickened yet nor mastered by the soul;
For she was of a fair and delicate make,
Most gently nurtured, to whom stripes and threats
And our foul prison-house were things undreamed.
But little by little as our spirits grew
Inured to suffering, with clasped hands, and tongues
That cheered each other to incessant prayer,
We rose and faced our trouble: we recalled
Our Master's sacred agony and death,
Setting before our eyes the high reward
Of steadfast faith, the martyr's deathless crown.
So passed some days whose length and count we lost,
Our bitterest trial. Then a respite came.
One who had interest with the governor
Wrought our removal daily for some hours
Into an upper chamber, where we sat
And held each other's hands in childish joy,
Receiving the sweet gift of light and air
With wonder and exceeding thankfulness.
And then began that life of daily growth
In mutual exaltation and sweet help
That bore us as a gently widening stream
Unto the ocean of our martyrdom.
Uniting all our feebler souls in one-A mightier--we reached forth with this to God.
Perpetua had been troubled for her babe,
Robbed of the breast and now these many days
Wasting for want of food; but when that change
Whereof I spake, of light and liberty
Relieved the horror of our prison gloom,
They brought it to her, and she sat apart,
And nursed and tended it, and soon the child
Would not be parted from her arms, but throve
And fattened, and she kept it night and day.
And always at her side with sleepless care
Hovered the young Felicitas--a slight
And spiritual figure--every touch and tone
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Charged with premonitory tenderness,
Herself so near to her own motherhood.
Thus lightened and relieved, Perpetua
Recovered from her silent fit. Her eyes
Regained their former deep serenity,
Her tongue its gentle daring; for she knew
Her life should not be taken till her babe
Had strengthened and outgrown the need of her.
Daily we were amazed at her soft strength,
Her pliant and untroubled constancy,
Her smiling, soldierly contempt of death,
Her beauty and the sweetness of her voice.
Her father, when our first few bitterest days
Were over, like a gust of grief and rage,
Came to her in the prison with wild eyes,
And cried: 'How mean you, daughter, when you say
You are a Christian? How can any one
Of honoured blood, the child of such as me,
Be Christian? 'Tis an odious name, the badge
Only of outcasts and rebellious slaves!'
And she, grief-touched, but with unyielding gaze,
Showing the fulness of her slender height:
'This vessel, father, being what it is,
An earthen pitcher, would you call it thus?
Or would you name it by some other name?'
'Nay, surely,' said the old man, catching breath,
And pausing, and she answered: 'Nor can I
Call myself aught but what I surely am-A Christian!' and her father, flashing back
In silent anger, left her for that time.
A special favour to Perpetua
Seemed daily to be given, and her soul
Was made the frequent vessel of God's grace,
Wherefrom we all, less gifted, sore athirst,
Drank courage and fresh joy; for glowing dreams
Were sent her, full of forms august, and fraught
With signs and symbols of the glorious end
Whereto God's love hath aimed us for Christ's sake.
Once--at what hour I know not, for we lay
In that foul dungeon, where all hours were lost,
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And day and night were indistinguishable-We had been sitting a long silent while,
Some lightly sleeping, others bowed in prayer,
When on a sudden, like a voice from God,
Perpetua spake to us and all were roused.
Her voice was rapt and solemn: 'Friends,' she said,
'Some word hath come to me in a dream. I saw
A ladder leading to heaven, all of gold,
Hung up with lances, swords, and hooks. A land
Of darkness and exceeding peril lay
Around it, and a dragon fierce as hell
Guarded its foot. We doubted who should first
Essay it, but you, Saturus, at last-So God hath marked you for especial grace-Advancing and against the cruel beast
Aiming the potent weapon of Christ's name-Mounted, and took me by the hand, and I
The next one following, and so the rest
In order, and we entered with great joy
Into a spacious garden filled with light
And balmy presences of love and rest;
And there an old man sat, smooth-browed, white-haired,
Surrounded by unnumbered myriads
Of spiritual shapes and faces angel-eyed,
Milking his sheep; and lifting up his eyes
He welcomed us in strange and beautiful speech,
Unknown yet comprehended, for it flowed
Not through the ears, but forth-right to the soul,
God's language of pure love. Between the lips
Of each he placed a morsel of sweet curd;
And while the curd was yet within my mouth,
I woke, and still the taste of it remains,
Through all my body flowing like white flame,
Sweet as of some immaculate spiritual thing.'
And when Perpetua had spoken, all
Were silent in the darkness, pondering,
But Saturus spake gently for the rest:
'How perfect and acceptable must be
Your soul to God, Perpetua, that thus
He bends to you, and through you speaks his will.
We know now that our martyrdom is fixed,
Nor need we vex us further for this life.'
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While yet these thoughts were bright upon our souls,
There came the rumour that a day was set
To hear us. Many of our former friends,
Some with entreaties, some with taunts and threats,
Came to us to pervert us; with the rest
Again Perpetua's father, worn with care;
Nor could we choose but pity his distress,
So miserably, with abject cries and tears,
He fondled her and called her 'Domina,'
And bowed his aged body at her feet,
Beseeching her by all the names she loved
To think of him, his fostering care, his years,
And also of her babe, whose life, he said,
Would fail without her; but Perpetua,
Sustaining by a gift of strength divine
The fulness of her noble fortitude,
Answered him tenderly: 'Both you and I,
And all of us, my father, at this hour
Are equally in God's hands, and what he wills
Must be'; but when the poor old man was gone
She wept, and knelt for many hours in prayer,
Sore tried and troubled by her tender heart.
One day, while we were at our midday meal,
Our cell was entered by the soldiery,
And we were seized and borne away for trial.
A surging crowd had gathered, and we passed
From street to street, hemmed in by tossing heads
And faces cold or cruel; yet we caught
At moments from masked lips and furtive eyes
Of friends--some known to as and some unknown-Many veiled messages of love and praise.
The floorways of the long basilica
Fronted us with an angry multitude;
And scornful eyes and threatening foreheads frowned
In hundreds from the columned galleries.
We were placed all together at the bar,
And though at first unsteadied and confused
By the imperial presence of the law,
The pomp of judgment and the staring crowd,
None failed or faltered; with unshaken tongue
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Each met the stern Proconsul's brief demand
In clear profession. Rapt as in a dream,
Scarce conscious of my turn, nor how I spake,
I watched with wondering eyes the delicate face
And figure of Perpetua; for her
We that were youngest of our company
Loved with a sacred and absorbing love,
A passion that our martyr's brotherly vow
Had purified and made divine. She stood
In dreamy contemplation, slightly bowed,
A glowing stillness that was near a smile
Upon her soft closed lips. Her turn had come,
When, like a puppet struggling up the steps,
Her father from the pierced and swaying crowd
Appeared, unveiling in his aged arms
The smiling visage of her babe. He grasped
Her robe, and strove to draw her down. All eyes
Were bent upon her. With a softening glance,
And voice less cold and heavy with death's doom,
The old Proconsul turned to her and said:
'Lady, have pity on your father's age;
Be mindful of your tender babe; this grain
Of harmless incense offer for the peace
And welfare of the Emperor'; but she,
Lifting far forth her large and noteless eyes,
As one that saw a vision, only said:
'I cannot sacrifice'; and he, harsh tongued,
Bending a brow upon her rough as rock,
With eyes that struck like steel, seeking to break
Or snare her with a sudden stroke of fear:
'Art thou a Christian?' and she answered, 'Yea,
I am a Christian!' In brow-blackening wrath
He motioned a contemptuous hand and bade
The lictors scourge the old man down and forth
With rods, and as the cruel deed was done,
Perpetua stood white with quivering lips,
And her eyes filled with tears. While yet his cries
Were mingling with the curses of the crowd,
Hilarianus, calling name by name,
Gave sentence, and in cold and formal phrase
Condemned us to the beasts, and we returned
Rejoicing to our prison. Then we wished
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Our martyrdom could soon have followed, not
As doubting for our constancy, but some
Grew sick under the anxious long suspense.
Perpetua again was weighed upon
By grief and trouble for her babe, whom now
Her father, seeking to depress her will,
Withheld and would not send it; but at length
Word being brought her that the child indeed
No longer suffered, nor desired the breast,
Her peace returned, and, giving thanks to God,
All were united in new bonds of hope.
Now being fixed in certitude of death,
We stripped our souls of all their earthly gear,
The useless raiment of this world; and thus,
Striving together with a single will,
In daily increment of faith and power,
We were much comforted by heavenly dreams,
And waking visitations of God's grace.
Visions of light and glory infinite
Were frequent with us, and by night or day
Woke at the very name of Christ the Lord,
Taken at any moment on our lips;
So that we had no longer thought or care
Of life or of the living, but became
As spirits from this earth already freed,
Scarce conscious of the dwindling weight of flesh.
To Saturus appeared in dreams the space
And splendour of the heavenly house of God,
The glowing gardens of eternal joy,
The halls and chambers of the cherubim,
In wreaths of endless myriads involved
The blinding glory of the angel choir,
Rolling through deeps of wheeling cloud and light
The thunder of their vast antiphonies.
The visions of Perpetua not less
Possessed us with their homely tenderness-As one, wherein she saw a rock-set pool
And weeping o'er its rim a little child,
Her brother, long since dead, Dinocrates:
Though sore athirst, he could not reach the stream,
Being so small, and her heart grieved thereat.
She looked again, and lo! the pool had risen,
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And the child filled his goblet, and drank deep,
And prattling in a tender childish joy
Ran gaily off, as infants do, to play.
By this she knew his soul had found release
From torment, and had entered into bliss.
Quickly as by a merciful gift of God,
Our vigil passed unbroken. Yesternight
They moved us to the amphitheatre,
Our final lodging-place on earth, and there
We sat together at our agape
For the last time. In silence, rapt and pale,
We hearkened to the aged Saturus,
Whose speech, touched with a ghostly eloquence,
Canvassed the fraud and littleness of life,
God's goodness and the solemn joy of death.
Perpetua was silent, but her eyes
Fell gently upon each of us, suffused
With inward and eradiant light; a smile
Played often upon her lips.
While yet we sat,
A tribune with a band of soldiery
Entered our cell, and would have had us bound
In harsher durance, fearing our escape
By fraud or witchcraft; but Perpetua,
Facing him gently with a noble note
Of wonder in her voice, and on her lips
A lingering smile of mournful irony:
'Sir, are ye not unwise to harass us,
And rob us of our natural food and rest?
Should ye not rather tend us with soft care,
And so provide a comely spectacle?
We shall not honour Caesar's birthday well,
If we be waste and weak, a piteous crew,
Poor playthings for your proud and pampered beasts.'
The noisy tribune, whether touched indeed,
Or by her grave and tender grace abashed,
Muttered and stormed a while, and then withdrew.
The short night passed in wakeful prayer for some,
For others in brief sleep, broken by dreams
And spiritual visitations. Earliest dawn
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Found us arisen, and Perpetua,
Moving about with smiling lips, soft-tongued,
Besought us to take food; lest so, she said,
For all the strength and courage of our hearts,
Our bodies should fall faint. We heard without,
Already ere the morning light was full,
The din of preparation, and the hum
Of voices gathering in the upper tiers;
Yet had we seen so often in our thoughts
The picture of this strange and cruel death,
Its festal horror, and its bloody pomp,
The nearness scarcely moved us, and our hands
Met in a steadfast and unshaken clasp.
The day is over. Ah, my friend, how long
With its wild sounds and bloody sights it seemed!
Night comes, and I am still alive--even I,
The least and last--with other two, reserved
To grace to-morrow's second day. The rest
Have suffered and with holy rapture passed
Into their glory. Saturus and the men
Were given to bears and leopards, but the crowd
Feasted their eyes upon no cowering shape,
Nor hue of fear, nor painful cry. They died
Like armed men, face foremost to the beasts,
With prayers and sacred songs upon their lips.
Perpetua and the frail Felicitas
Were seized before our eyes and roughly stripped,
And shrinking and entreating, not for fear,
Nor hurt, but bitter shame, were borne away
Into the vast arena, and hung up
In nets, naked before the multitude,
For a fierce bull, maddened by goads, to toss.
Some sudden tumult of compassion seized
The crowd, and a great murmur like a wave
Rose at the sight, and grew, and thundered up
From tier to tier, deep and imperious:
So white, so innocent they were, so pure:
Their tender limbs so eloquent of shame;
And so our loved ones were brought back, all faint,
And covered with light raiment, and again
Led forth, and now with smiling lips they passed
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Pale, but unbowed, into the awful ring,
Holding each other proudly by the hand.
Perpetua first was tossed, and her robe rent,
But, conscious only of the glaring eyes,
She strove to hide herself as best she could
In the torn remnants of her flimsy robe,
And putting up her hands clasped back her hair,
So that she might not die as one in grief,
Unseemly and dishevelled. Then she turned,
And in her loving arms caressed and raised
The dying, bruised Felicitas. Once more
Gored by the cruel beast, they both were borne
Swooning and mortally stricken from the field.
Perpetua, pale and beautiful, her lips
Parted as in a lingering ecstasy,
Could not believe the end had come, but asked
When they were to be given to the beasts.
The keepers gathered round her--even they-In wondering pity--while with fearless hand,
Bidding us all be faithful and stand firm,
She bared her breast, and guided to its goal
The gladiator's sword that pierced her heart.
The night is passing. In a few short hours
I too shall suffer for the name of Christ.
A boundless exaltation lifts my soul!
I know that they who left us, Saturus,
Perpetua, and the other blessed ones,
Await me at the opening gates of heaven.
~ Archibald Lampman,#NFDB
902:A Veteran Cavalryman's Tale
LOW in the fertile vale by Tunstall’s Run
A rainy rifle skirmish closed the day.
Beyond the April-swollen, narrow stream,
Lee’s stubborn rearguard veteran raggedies
Lay prone amid last year’s tobacco stalks,
Shooting hot Enfields straight from red-mud pools,
While from their rear four angry howitzers,
High set on Armistead’s Plantation Hill,
Flamed shrieking shell o’erhead across the bridge
That Custer raged to seize before black night
Should close his daylong toil in mud and rain.
Thrice did we gallop vainly at the planks,
Then vainly strove on foot the pass to win,
Till through the drizzling dark but flashes showed
The points where sullen rifles opposite rang,
And back we straggled, stumbling up the slope
Where Union buglers shrilled the bivouac.
Ninety unanswering voices told our loss,
While silence ruled so deep we heard the rain’s
Small rataplan on ponchos and on hats,
Until the crackling rail-fence Company fires
Lighted the piney length of Custer’s Ridge.
That night John Woolston served as orderly,
The John who strokes to-day his white old beard
And sees himself, scarce downy of the lips,
Eyeing young long-haired Custer through the smoke
Across a flaming pyre, that steaming slaves
Of Tunstall fed afresh with Tunstall rails.
Down in the shrouded vale about the Run
Three score of boys John Woolston knew in life
Lay scattered round an old-hoed, red-mud field,
Peaceful with scores of veteran boys in gray,
Whose bodily particles were resurrect
As corn for bread, and leaf for smokers’ pipes,
Before the Americans of now were born
To share, through common-soldier sacrifice,
The comrade Union of the States to-day.
A rail-heap seated Custer with his aide,
Their drowsing bugler opposite leaned on John,
While overhead the swaying boughs of pine
Creaked in an upward-rushing draught of warmth,
And from our solitary surgeons’ tent
Came smothered ecstasies of mortal pain,
And in the outer darkness horses stamped
And bit and squealed and enviously eyed
The huddling regiments about the fires,
Pipes lit, hats slouched to fend the rain and glare.
As Woolston watched lean Custer’s martial face,
It seemed the hero heard not flame nor bough,
Nor marked the groans, nor knew at what he stared,
So deep intent his mind ranged o’er the Run
And up the opposite-sloping Arm’stead hill,
As questioning if the murderous howitzers
Would hold the bridge at dawn, or march by night,
And so, perchance, next eve, afar repeat
The dusky fight, and cost him ninety more
He would fain range about the field of fields
Where lion Lee, enringed, must stand at bay,
Choosing to greatly die, or greatlier yield.
At last he shook his aide. “Get up! Go bring
A prisoner here.” And when the head-hurt man
In butternut stood boldly to his eyes,
He asked one word alone: “Your general’s name?”
“My general’s name!” stared Butternut, then proud,
As ’t were a cubit added to his height,
He spoke,—“My general’s name is R. E. Lee!”
“I mean who fights Lee’s rearguard?” Custer said,
“Who held the bridge to-night? His name alone.”
And then the bitter man in butternut
Smiled ghastly grim, and smacked as tasting blood;
“It’s General Henry Tunstall, his own self,
And if you find our ‘Fighting Tunce’ alive
When daylight comes, there’ll be red hell to pay
For every plank that spans that trifling bridge.”
“Good man!” said Custer. “Spoke right soldierly!
Here—take this cloak—to save your wound from rain”:
And gave the brave the poncho that he wore.
Then up flamed Butternut: “Say, General,
You’re Yank, and yet, by God, you’re white clean through.
And so I kind of feel to tell you why
Them planks will cost you so almighty dear.
You’re camped to-night on ‘Fighting Tunce’s’ land;
Cross yonder, on the hill his guns defend,
Is where his lady lives, his promised wife,—
God bless her heart!—Miss Mary Armistead.
She’s there herself to-night—she’d never run.
Her widowed father fell at Fredericksburg,
Three brothers died in arms, one limps with Lee.
Herself has worked their darkies right along
Four years, to raise our army pork and pone,
And she herself not twenty-four to-day!
Will Tunstall fight for her? Say, General,
Your heart can guess what hell you’ll face at day.”
“You’re right, my man,” said Custer. “That will do.”
And off they marched the ponchoed prisoner.
“By heaven!” spoke Custer then, and faced his aide,
“I know why Tunstall’s gunners spared the bridge.
It’s ten to one he means to swarm across,
After his hungry Johnnies get some rest,
To strike us here and hard before the dawn.
His heart was forged in fire and enterprise!
His bully-boys will back his wildest dare!
Lieutenant—pick me out two first-rate men—
Morton for one, if ‘Praying Mort’ ’s alive—
Tell them I go myself to post vedettes.
Now—mind—I want a pair of wideawakes.—
You, Orderly, go saddle up my bay.”
“I want to go with Morton,” blurted John.
“You! Call yourself a wideawake, my lad?”
“Yes, sir,” said Woolston.—
“But you’re just a boy.”
“Well, General, Uncle Sam enlisted me
For man, all right.” Then Custer smiled, and mused.
“Farm boy?” he asked.—
“Exactly what I am.”
“All right,” he said. “If once I see he’s keen,
A likely farm boy’s just the man for me.
When back his aide returned the General spoke:
“It’s barely possible we march to-night.
You’ll see that every man about the fires
Splits torch stuff plenty from the pitchy rails.”
And with the words he reined toward Arm’stead’s Hill.
Down hill, beyond the flares, beyond the pines,
Beyond his foothill pickets, through the rain,
He led as if his eyes beheld the way;
Yet they, who followed close his bay’s fast walk
By sound alone, saw not their horses’ heads,
Saw not the hand held up to blotch the gloom.
No breath of wind. The ear heard only hoofs
Splashing and squattering in the puddle field,
Or heard the saddle-leathers scarcely creak,
Or little clanks of curbing bit and chain.
Scattered about whatever way they trod
Must be the clay that marched but yesterday,
And nervously John listened, lest some soul
Faint lingering in the dark immensity
Might call its longing not to die alone.
Sudden a crash, a plunge, a kicking horse,
Then “Praying Morton” whispering cautiously:
“A post-hole, General! My horse is done.
His off fore-leg is broke, as sure as faith!
Oh, what a dispensation of the Lord—”
“Hish-sh. Save the rest!” said Custer. “Broke is broke!
Get back to camp whatever way you can.”
“Me, General! What use to post the boy?
You, Woolston, you get back. I’ll take your horse.”
“Not much, you won’t,” said Woolston angrily.
And Custer chuckled crisply in the dark.
“Enough,” he ordered. “Morton, get you back!
Be cautious when you near my picket post,
Or else they’ll whang to hit your pious voice,
And I may lose a first-rate soldier man.”
Then Morton, prayerful, mild, and mollified:
“The merciful man would end a beast in pain—
One shot.”
“No, too much noise. You get right back!
Horses, like men, must bear the luck of war.”
III
Again the plashing hoofs through endless drip,
Until the solid footing of their beasts
Bespoke them trampling in a turnpike road,
And Custer reined with: “Hish-sh, my man—come here.
Now listen.” Then John’s ears became aware
Of small articulations in the dark,
Queer laughters, as of countless impish glee,
And one pervasive, low, incessant hum,
All strange till Custer spoke: “You hear the Run?
All right! Now, mind exactly what I say.
But no. First hold my horse. I’ll feel the bridge.
Maybe I’ll draw their fire; but stay right here.”
On foot he went, and came, so stealthily
John could not hear the steps ten feet away.
“All right!” He mounted. “Not one plank removed.”
Then, communing rather with himself than John:
“No picket there! It’s strange! But surely Tunce
Would smash the bridge unless he meant to cross
And rip right back at me in dark or dawn.
Now, private—mind exactly what I say;
You’ll listen here for trampers on the bridge,
And if you hear them reach the mud this side,
With others following on the planks behind,
You’ll get right back—stick to the turnpike, mind—
And tell my challenging road-guard picket post
They’re coming strong. That’s all you’ve got to do
Unless—” he paused—“unless some negro comes
Bringing the news they’re falling back on Lee;
Then—if he’s sure—you’ll fire four carbine shots
Right quick—and stay until you see me come.
You understand?”
“I do. I’m not to shoot
In case they’re coming on. But if they’re off,
I’ll fire four shots as fast as I can pull.”
“That’s right. Be sure you keep your wits awake.
Listen for prowlers—both your ears well skinned.”
John heard the spattering bay’s fast-walking hoofs
Fainter and fainter through the steady pour,
And then no sound, except the beating rain’s
Small pit-a-pat on poncho, and the Run
Drifting its babbling through the blinding mirk.
How long he sat, no guessing in the slow
Monotony of night, that never changed
Save when the burdened horse replaced his hoofs,
Or seemed to raise or droop his weary head,
Or when some shiver shook the weary boy,
Though sheltered dry from aching neck to spurs:
A shiver at the dream of dead men nigh,
Beaten with rain, and merging with the mud,
And staring up with open, sightless eyes
That served as little cups for tiny pools
That trickled in and out incessantly;
A shiver at the thought of home and bed,
And mother tucking in her boy at night,
And how she’d shiver could she see him there—
Longing more sore than John to wrap him warm;
A shiver from the tense expectancy
Of warning sounds, while yet no sound he heard
10
Save springtime water lapping on the pier,
Or tumbling often from the clayey banks
Lumps that splashed lifelike in the turbid flood.
His aching ears were strained for other sounds,
And still toward Arm’stead’s Hill they ached and strained,
While, in the evening fight of memory,
Again he saw the broad Plantation House
Whene’er a brassy howitzer spouted flame,
Suddenly lighting up its firing men,
Who vanished dim again in streaking rain;
And then, once more, the Enfields in the vale
Thrust cores of fire, until some lightning piece
Again lit all the Arm’stead buildings clear.
From visioning swift that wide Plantation House
John’s mind went peering through its fancied rooms.
And who were there? And did they sleep, or wake?
Until he found Miss Mary Armistead
And General Henry Tunstall in the dream.
It seemed those lovers could not, could not part,
But murmured low of parting in the dawn,
Since he must march and fight, and she must stay
To hold the home, whatever war might send—
And they might never, never meet again.
So good she looked, described by Butternut’s
“God bless her heart,” and he so soldier bold
In “fire and enterprise,” by Custer’s words,—
So true and sorrowful they talked in dream,
Of Love and Life that walk the ways of Death,—
The dreamer’s under lip went quivering.
Until the startled horse put up his head
And stood, John knew, stark stiff with listening
11
To that kalatta-klank beyond the Run,
As if some cowbell clattered far away
Once, twice, and thrice, to cease as suddenly.
Then John, once more keen Yankee soldier boy,
Gathered his rein, half threw his carbine breech,
Made sure again of cartridge ready there,
Felt for the flap of holster at his thigh,
Listened alert for that most dubious bell,—
Thinking of bushwhackers in campfire tales
Impressively related to recruits;
How, in deep night, some lone vedette might hear
An innocent-seeming klatta-klatta-klank,
And never dream but that some roaming cow
Ranged through the covering woodland nigh his post,—
Till—suddenly—a bullet laid him low!
Or, perhaps, guerillas crept before the bell,
Their footsteps deadened by its klatta-klank,
Till, rushing in, they clubbed the youngster down,
So “gobbling” him unheard, a prisoner,
Then, sneaking through the gap, on sleeping posts,
They killed, and killed, and killed—so horridly
That green recruities’ hairs would stand on end.
John, shrewdly discounting the veteran yarns,
Yet knew full well that klatta-klatta-klank,
Which came again, might mean the enemy
Intent on stratagem to search the dark,
Tempting some shot or challenge to reveal
If any Union picket held the bridge.
Or else the steady-coming, clanging knell
Might signify some party far advanced,
Creeping all noiselessly, and listening keen
For any sound of Custer, horse or man.
12
Even it might be that the ridgy road
Ten yards, or five, or three from where he sat,
Concealed some foeman hungry for a move
That might betray precisely where their rush
Should be, to seize his tightened bridle-rein,
Or grasp the poncho’s skirt to pull him down.
John half inclined to lift the neck-yoke off
And lay the armless cloak on saddle-bow,
Lest it encumber him in sudden fight,
Or give the foremost foe a strangling hold.
Yet sat he motionless, since such a sound
As slicking glaze might guide an enemy.
And still the klatta-klatta-klank came on.
It surely neared the bridge! Yet John sat still,
With Custer’s orders clearly in his brain,
Waiting to learn the meaning of the thing.
It trod the planks. It moved with solid hoofs,
Hoofs that declared to farm-bred Woolston’s ear
Most unmistakably an actual cow!
But then! Oh, mystery! For rolling wheels
Rumbled upon the planking of the Run!
As up went Woolston’s horse’s head asnort,
Upon the bridge the other beast stood still.
The clanking ceased. Again no mortal sound
Blent with the tittering tumult of the stream.
Until a clear young voice of lady tone
Inquired in startled accents,—“Who goes there?”
Yet John, in utter wonder, spoke no word.
“If there’s a Yankee cavalry picket there,”
The voice proclaimed, “I wish to pass the line.”
And still the Yankee knew not what to say,
Since Custer’s orders covered not the case,
13
And since, alas, the wondrous lady voice
Might possibly denote some stratagem.
And yet—suppose ’t was only just a girl!
John sickened with a sense of foolishness.
“Go on,” she cried, and seemed to slap her beast,
Which moved some doubtful steps, and stopped again.
Then calmly scornful came the lady tones:—
“Oh, Mister Yankee picket, have no fear
To speak right up. No dangerous man am I.
Only a woman. And she’s got no gun,
No pistol, bayonet, knife, or anything.
And all she asks is just to pass your line,
A prisoner if you like.” But there she broke,
Or choked, and wailed, “O God, it’s life or death!
Oh, soldier, soldier, let me pass the line.”
So John, half desperate, called, “Young lady, come.
I don’t care what the orders are. Come on.”
“Get up,” she slapped again. But then she called:—
“My cow won’t move! She sees you, I suppose,
All armed and threatening in the middle road.
Please go away. Or ride a bit aside;
Perhaps then she’ll come. Yes, now she moves along.
You’ll pass me through?—But are there surgeons there
Where, hours ago, I saw your campfires glow?
If not, I may as well turn back again.”
“No need,” said John. “We’ve got a surgeon there.
But what’s the trouble, Miss? Yourself been hurt?”
“The trouble is I’ve got a soldier here
With desperate wounds—if still alive he be.
Oh, help me save him.” And she broke again.
14
“Why, Miss,” said Woolston, melting at the heart,
“Was there no surgeon on the Arm’stead Hill
To help your wounded live?”
“No, none,” she said,
“No man remained. At eve the negroes fled,
Or followed close behind the wagon train
He urged, with every soldier, back toward Lee.
We two were left alone. I thought you’d come.
For hours and hours I waited, all in vain.
His life was flowing fast. One chance remained.
We women placed him in our best barouche,
The only vehicle our rearguard spared.
Alone I hitched this cow, the only beast
I kept from rations for our starving men.
I led her here. Oh, soldier, help me soon
To pass your lines, and reach a surgeon’s care.”
Then Custer’s orders flashed again to John;—
“Hold hard one moment, Miss, I’ve got to shoot.”
The carbine rang. “Thank God, that’s done,” said John.
“We’ll wait right here. A surgeon’s sure to come
With Custer’s march, for march I guess he will.
He’ll turn you round, I think, and see you home.
I s’pose your name’s Miss Mary Armistead?
I hope that’s not your General wounded there.”
She could but choke, or weep, and spoke no word.
It seemed long hours they waited silently,
Save once John heard the hidden carriage creak,
And guessed she rose beside the dying man
Beneath the drumlike pattering, sheltering hood.
At last, the bugles blared on Custer’s Ridge.
Then, far away, a lengthening stream of flare
Came round the distant, curtaining screen of pines,
And down the hill the torches, borne on high
15
By fifteen hundred horsemen, formed a slope
Of flame that moved behind the bugles’ call,
Till on the level road a fiery front
Tossing, yet solid-seeming, walked along.
And in the van rode Custer, beardless, tall,
His long hair dabbled in the streaming rain.
John rode to meet him. There he called the halt,
And came, with twenty torches, round the chaise.
Then first they saw Miss Mary Armistead,
Her honorable, fearless, lifted eyes
Gazing on Custer’s bare and bended head,
While General Henry Tunstall’s countenance,
Supported close within her sheltering arm,
Leaned unto hers in pallid soldier death.
“Madam,” said Custer, “would that I had known
The bravest of the brave lay needing aid.
Lady, the great heroic name he won
Held me from marching onward to your hill,
Held me expecting from him night attack,
Till now in vain we bring a surgeon’s help,—
And words are useless. Yet again I say—
Because a soldier’s heart compels the due—
He lived the bravest of the bravest brave
That ever faced the odds of mighty war.
May God sustain yourself for years and years
The living shrine of Tunstall’s memory.”
She bowed her noble head, but answered naught.
Then past the chariot streamed our wondering men
Behind tall Custer in the foremost front,
Trampling as thunder on the bridging planks,
Their torches gleaming on the swirling Run;
16
A tossing, swaying column o’er the flat,
A fiery slope of fours abreast the hill,
And on, unresting on, through night and rain,
Remorseless, urgent, yet most merciful,
Because the Nation’s life demanded war,
Relentless, hurrying swift to force an end,
And banish night, and bring a peaceful dawn.
But old John Woolston sees across the years,
Beneath the black, cavernous carriage hood,
Flaring in torchlight, Tunstall’s face of death
Beside a lovely, living, haloed face,
Heroic, calm, ineffably composed
With pride unconquerable in valiant deeds,
With trust in God our Lord unspeakable—
The sainted Woman of the Perished Cause,
The chastened soul of that Confederacy
Which marches on, no less than John Brown’s soul,
Inspiring, calling on the Nation’s heart,
Urging it dauntlessly to front stark death
For what ideals the Nation’s heart holds true.
Straight rain streaks downward through the torches’ flare,
And solemn through the ancient darkness sound
The small, bewildered, lingering, million tones
Of atoms streaming to the eternal sea.
~ Edward William Thomson,#NFDB
903:The Emigrants: Book Ii
Scene, on an Eminence on one of those Downs, which afford to the South a
view of the Sea; to the North of the Weald of Sussex. Time, an Afternoon in
April, 1793.
Long wintry months are past; the Moon that now
Lights her pale crescent even at noon, has made
Four times her revolution; since with step,
Mournful and slow, along the wave-worn cliff,
Pensive I took my solitary way,
Lost in despondence, while contemplating
Not my own wayward destiny alone,
(Hard as it is, and difficult to bear!)
But in beholding the unhappy lot
Of the lorn Exiles; who, amid the storms
Of wild disastrous Anarchy, are thrown,
Like shipwreck'd sufferers, on England's coast,
To see, perhaps, no more their native land,
Where Desolation riots: They, like me,
From fairer hopes and happier prospects driven,
Shrink from the future, and regret the past.
But on this Upland scene, while April comes,
With fragrant airs, to fan my throbbing breast,
Fain would I snatch an interval from Care,
That weighs my wearied spirit down to earth;
Courting, once more, the influence of Hope
(For "Hope" still waits upon the flowery prime)
As here I mark Spring's humid hand unfold
The early leaves that fear capricious winds,
While, even on shelter'd banks, the timid flowers
Give, half reluctantly, their warmer hues
To mingle with the primroses' pale stars.
No shade the leafless copses yet afford,
Nor hide the mossy labours of the Thrush,
That, startled, darts across the narrow path;
But quickly re-assur'd, resumes his talk,
Or adds his louder notes to those that rise
From yonder tufted brake; where the white buds
Of the first thorn are mingled with the leaves
164
Of that which blossoms on the brow of May.
Ah! 'twill not be:---- So many years have pass'd,
Since, on my native hills, I learn'd to gaze
On these delightful landscapes; and those years
Have taught me so much sorrow, that my soul
Feels not the joy reviving Nature brings;
But, in dark retrospect, dejected dwells
On human follies, and on human woes.---What is the promise of the infant year,
The lively verdure, or the bursting blooms,
To those, who shrink from horrors such as War
Spreads o'er the affrighted world? With swimming eye,
Back on the past they throw their mournful looks,
And see the Temple, which they fondly hop'd
Reason would raise to Liberty, destroy'd
By ruffian hands; while, on the ruin'd mass,
Flush'd with hot blood, the Fiend of Discord sits
In savage triumph; mocking every plea
Of policy and justice, as she shews
The headless corse of one, whose only crime
Was being born a Monarch--Mercy turns,
From spectacle so dire, her swol'n eyes;
And Liberty, with calm, unruffled brow
Magnanimous, as conscious of her strength
In Reason's panoply, scorns to distain
Her righteous cause with carnage, and resigns
To Fraud and Anarchy the infuriate crowd.---What is the promise of the infant year
To those, who (while the poor but peaceful hind
Pens, unmolested, the encreasing flock
Of his rich master in this sea-fenc'd isle)
Survey, in neighbouring countries, scenes that make
The sick heart shudder; and the Man, who thinks,
Blush for his species? There the trumpet's voice
Drowns the soft warbling of the woodland choir;
And violets, lurking in their turfy beds
Beneath the flow'ring thorn, are stain'd with blood.
There fall, at once, the spoiler and the spoil'd;
While War, wide-ravaging, annihilates
The hope of cultivation; gives to Fiends,
The meagre, ghastly Fiends of Want and Woe,
The blasted land--There, taunting in the van
165
Of vengeance-breathing armies, Insult stalks;
And, in the ranks, "1 Famine, and Sword, and Fire,
"Crouch for employment."--Lo! the suffering world,
Torn by the fearful conflict, shrinks, amaz'd,
From Freedom's name, usurp'd and misapplied,
And, cow'ring to the purple Tyrant's rod,
Deems that the lesser ill--Deluded Men!
Ere ye prophane her ever-glorious name,
Or catalogue the thousands that have bled
Resisting her; or those, who greatly died
Martyrs to Liberty --revert awhile
To the black scroll, that tells of regal crimes
Committed to destroy her; rather count
The hecatombs of victims, who have fallen
Beneath a single despot; or who gave
Their wasted lives for some disputed claim
Between anointed robbers: 2 Monsters both!
"3 Oh! Polish'd perturbation--golden care!"
So strangely coveted by feeble Man
To lift him o'er his fellows;--Toy, for which
Such showers of blood have drench'd th' affrighted earth-Unfortunate his lot, whose luckless head
Thy jewel'd circlet, lin'd with thorns, has bound;
And who, by custom's laws, obtains from thee
Hereditary right to rule, uncheck'd,
Submissive myriads: for untemper'd power,
Like steel ill form'd, injures the hand
It promis'd to protect--Unhappy France!
If e'er thy lilies, trampled now in dust,
And blood-bespotted, shall again revive
In silver splendour, may the wreath be wov'n
By voluntary hands; and Freemen, such
As England's self might boast, unite to place
The guarded diadem on his fair brow,
Where Loyalty may join with Liberty
To fix it firmly.--In the rugged school
Of stern Adversity so early train'd,
His future life, perchance, may emulate
That of the brave Bernois 4 , so justly call'd
The darling of his people; who rever'd
The Warrior less, than they ador'd the Man!
But ne'er may Party Rage, perverse and blind,
166
And base Venality, prevail to raise
To public trust, a wretch, whose private vice
Makes even the wildest profligate recoil;
And who, with hireling ruffians leagu'd, has burst
The laws of Nature and Humanity!
Wading, beneath the Patriot's specious mask,
And in Equality's illusive name,
To empire thro' a stream of kindred blood-Innocent prisoner!--most unhappy heir
Of fatal greatness, who art suffering now
For all the crimes and follies of thy race;
Better for thee, if o'er thy baby brow
The regal mischief never had been held:
Then, in an humble sphere, perhaps content,
Thou hadst been free and joyous on the heights
Of Pyrennean mountains, shagg'd with woods
Of chesnut, pine, and oak: as on these hills
Is yonder little thoughtless shepherd lad,
Who, on the slope abrupt of downy turf
Reclin'd in playful indolence, sends off
The chalky ball, quick bounding far below;
While, half forgetful of his simple task,
Hardly his length'ning shadow, or the bells'
Slow tinkling of his flock, that supping tend
To the brown fallows in the vale beneath,
Where nightly it is folded, from his sport
Recal the happy idler.--While I gaze
On his gay vacant countenance, my thoughts
Compare with his obscure, laborious lot,
Thine, most unfortunate, imperial Boy!
Who round thy sullen prison daily hear'st
The savage howl of Murder, as it seeks
Thy unoffending life: while sad within
Thy wretched Mother, petrified with grief,
Views thee with stony eyes, and cannot weep!-Ah! much I mourn thy sorrows, hapless Queen!
And deem thy expiation made to Heaven
For every fault, to which Prosperity
Betray'd thee, when it plac'd thee on a throne
Where boundless power was thine, and thou wert rais'd
High (as it seem'd) above the envious reach
Of destiny! Whate'er thy errors were,
167
Be they no more remember'd; tho' the rage
Of Party swell'd them to such crimes, as bade
Compassion stifle every sigh that rose
For thy disastrous lot--More than enough
Thou hast endur'd; and every English heart,
Ev'n those, that highest beat in Freedom's cause,
Disclaim as base, and of that cause unworthy,
The Vengeance, or the Fear, that makes thee still
A miserable prisoner!--Ah! who knows,
From sad experience, more than I, to feel
For thy desponding spirit, as it sinks
Beneath procrastinated fears for those
More dear to thee than life! But eminence
Of misery is thine, as once of joy;
And, as we view the strange vicissitude,
We ask anew, where happiness is found?-----Alas! in rural life, where youthful dreams
See the Arcadia that Romance describes,
Not even Content resides!--In yon low hut
Of clay and thatch, where rises the grey smoke
Of smold'ring turf, cut from the adjoining moor,
The labourer, its inhabitant, who toils
From the first dawn of twilight, till the Sun
Sinks in the rosy waters of the West,
Finds that with poverty it cannot dwell;
For bread, and scanty bread, is all he earns
For him and for his household--Should Disease,
Born of chill wintry rains, arrest his arm,
Then, thro' his patch'd and straw-stuff'd casement, peeps
The squalid figure of extremest Want;
And from the Parish the reluctant dole,
Dealt by th' unfeeling farmer, hardly saves
The ling'ring spark of life from cold extinction:
Then the bright Sun of Spring, that smiling bids
All other animals rejoice, beholds,
Crept from his pallet, the emaciate wretch
Attempt, with feeble effort, to resume
Some heavy task, above his wasted strength,
Turning his wistful looks (how much in vain!)
To the deserted mansion, where no more
The owner (gone to gayer scenes) resides,
Who made even luxury, Virtue; while he gave
168
The scatter'd crumbs to honest Poverty.-But, tho' the landscape be too oft deform'd
By figures such as these, yet Peace is here,
And o'er our vallies, cloath'd with springing corn,
No hostile hoof shall trample, nor fierce flames
Wither the wood's young verdure, ere it form
Gradual the laughing May's luxuriant shade;
For, by the rude sea guarded, we are safe,
And feel not evils such as with deep sighs
The Emigrants deplore, as, they recal
The Summer past, when Nature seem'd to lose
Her course in wild distemperature, and aid,
With seasons all revers'd, destructive War.
Shuddering, I view the pictures they have drawn
Of desolated countries, where the ground,
Stripp'd of its unripe produce, was thick strewn
With various Death--the war-horse falling there
By famine, and his rider by the sword.
The moping clouds sail'd heavy charg'd with rain,
And bursting o'er the mountains misty brow,
Deluged, as with an inland sea, the vales 5 ;
Where, thro' the sullen evening's lurid gloom,
Rising, like columns of volcanic fire,
The flames of burning villages illum'd
The waste of water; and the wind, that howl'd
Along its troubled surface, brought the groans
Of plunder'd peasants, and the frantic shrieks
Of mothers for their children; while the brave,
To pity still alive, listen'd aghast
To these dire echoes, hopeless to prevent
The evils they beheld, or check the rage,
Which ever, as the people of one land
Meet in contention, fires the human heart
With savage thirst of kindred blood, and makes
Man lose his nature; rendering him more fierce
Than the gaunt monsters of the howling waste.
Oft have I heard the melancholy tale,
Which, all their native gaiety forgot,
These Exiles tell--How Hope impell'd them on,
Reckless of tempest, hunger, or the sword,
Till order'd to retreat, they knew not why,
From all their flattering prospects, they became
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The prey of dark suspicion and regret 6 :
Then, in despondence, sunk the unnerv'd arm
Of gallant Loyalty--At every turn
Shame and disgrace appear'd, and seem'd to mock
Their scatter'd squadrons; which the warlike youth,
Unable to endure, often implor'd,
As the last act of friendship, from the hand
Of some brave comrade, to receive the blow
That freed the indignant spirit from its pain.
To a wild mountain, whose bare summit hides
Its broken eminence in clouds; whose steeps
Are dark with woods; where the receding rocks
Are worn by torrents of dissolving snow,
A wretched Woman, pale and breathless, flies!
And, gazing round her, listens to the sound
Of hostile footsteps---- No! it dies away:
Nor noise remains, but of the cataract,
Or surly breeze of night, that mutters low
Among the thickets, where she trembling seeks
A temporary shelter--clasping close
To her hard-heaving heart, her sleeping child,
All she could rescue of the innocent groupe
That yesterday surrounded her--Escap'd
Almost by miracle! Fear, frantic Fear,
Wing'd her weak feet: yet, half repentant now
Her headlong haste, she wishes she had staid
To die with those affrighted Fancy paints
The lawless soldier's victims--Hark! again
The driving tempest bears the cry of Death,
And, with deep sudden thunder, the dread sound
Of cannon vibrates on the tremulous earth;
While, bursting in the air, the murderous bomb
Glares o'er her mansion. Where the splinters fall,
Like scatter'd comets, its destructive path
Is mark'd by wreaths of flame!--Then, overwhelm'd
Beneath accumulated horror, sinks
The desolate mourner; yet, in Death itself,
True to maternal tenderness, she tries
To save the unconscious infant from the storm
In which she perishes; and to protect
This last dear object of her ruin'd hopes
From prowling monsters, that from other hills,
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More inaccessible, and wilder wastes,
Lur'd by the scent of slaughter, follow fierce
Contending hosts, and to polluted fields
Add dire increase of horrors--But alas!
The Mother and the Infant perish both!-The feudal Chief, whose Gothic battlements
Frown on the plain beneath, returning home
From distant lands, alone and in disguise,
Gains at the fall of night his Castle walls,
But, at the vacant gate, no Porter sits
To wait his Lord's admittance!--In the courts
All is drear silence!--Guessing but too well
The fatal truth, he shudders as he goes
Thro' the mute hall; where, by the blunted light
That the dim moon thro' painted casements lends,
He sees that devastation has been there:
Then, while each hideous image to his mind
Rises terrific, o'er a bleeding corse
Stumbling he falls; another interrupts
His staggering feet--all, all who us'd to rush
With joy to meet him--all his family
Lie murder'd in his way!--And the day dawns
On a wild raving Maniac, whom a fate
So sudden and calamitous has robb'd
Of reason; and who round his vacant walls
Screams unregarded, and reproaches Heaven!-Such are thy dreadful trophies, savage War!
And evils such as these, or yet more dire,
Which the pain'd mind recoils from, all are thine-The purple Pestilence, that to the grave
Sends whom the sword has spar'd, is thine; and thine
The Widow's anguish and the Orphan's tears!-Woes such as these does Man inflict on Man;
And by the closet murderers, whom we style
Wise Politicians; are the schemes prepar'd,
Which, to keep Europe's wavering balance even,
Depopulate her kingdoms, and consign
To tears and anguish half a bleeding world!-Oh! could the time return, when thoughts like these
Spoil'd not that gay delight, which vernal Suns,
Illuminating hills, and woods, and fields,
Gave to my infant spirits--Memory come!
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And from distracting cares, that now deprive
Such scenes of all their beauty, kindly bear
My fancy to those hours of simple joy,
When, on the banks of Arun, which I see
Make its irriguous course thro' yonder meads,
I play'd; unconscious then of future ill!
There (where, from hollows fring'd with yellow broom,
The birch with silver rind, and fairy leaf,
Aslant the low stream trembles) I have stood,
And meditated how to venture best
Into the shallow current, to procure
The willow herb of glowing purple spikes,
Or flags, whose sword-like leaves conceal'd the tide,
Startling the timid reed-bird from her nest,
As with aquatic flowers I wove the wreath,
Such as, collected by the shepherd girls,
Deck in the villages the turfy shrine,
And mark the arrival of propitious May.-How little dream'd I then the time would come,
When the bright Sun of that delicious month
Should, from disturb'd and artificial sleep,
Awaken me to never-ending toil,
To terror and to tears!--Attempting still,
With feeble hands and cold desponding heart,
To save my children from the o'erwhelming wrongs,
That have for ten long years been heap'd on me!-The fearful spectres of chicane and fraud
Have, Proteus like, still chang'd their hideous forms
(As the Law lent its plausible disguise),
Pursuing my faint steps; and I have seen
Friendship's sweet bonds (which were so early form'd,)
And once I fondly thought of amaranth
Inwove with silver seven times tried) give way,
And fail; as these green fan-like leaves of fern
Will wither at the touch of Autumn's frost.
Yet there are those , whose patient pity still
Hears my long murmurs; who, unwearied, try
With lenient hands to bind up every wound
My wearied spirit feels, and bid me go
"Right onward 7 "--a calm votary of the Nymph,
Who, from her adamantine rock, points out
To conscious rectitude the rugged path,
172
That leads at length to Peace!--Ah! yes, my friends
Peace will at last be mine; for in the Grave
Is Peace--and pass a few short years, perchance
A few short months, and all the various pain
I now endure shall be forgotten there,
And no memorial shall remain of me,
Save in your bosoms; while even your regret
Shall lose its poignancy, as ye reflect
What complicated woes that grave conceals!
But, if the little praise, that may await
The Mother's efforts, should provoke the spleen
Of Priest or Levite; and they then arraign
The dust that cannot hear them; be it yours
To vindicate my humble fame; to say,
That, not in selfish sufferings absorb'd,
"I gave to misery all I had, my tears 8 ."
And if, where regulated sanctity
Pours her long orisons to Heaven, my voice
Was seldom heard, that yet my prayer was made
To him who hears even silence; not in domes
Of human architecture, fill'd with crowds,
But on these hills, where boundless, yet distinct,
Even as a map, beneath are spread the fields
His bounty cloaths; divided here by woods,
And there by commons rude, or winding brooks,
While I might breathe the air perfum'd with flowers,
Or the fresh odours of the mountain turf;
And gaze on clouds above me, as they sail'd
Majestic: or remark the reddening north,
When bickering arrows of electric fire
Flash on the evening sky--I made my prayer
In unison with murmuring waves that now
Swell with dark tempests, now are mild and blue,
As the bright arch above; for all to me
Declare omniscient goodness; nor need I
Declamatory essays to incite
My wonder or my praise, when every leaf
That Spring unfolds, and every simple bud,
More forcibly impresses on my heart
His power and wisdom--Ah! while I adore
That goodness, which design'd to all that lives
Some taste of happiness, my soul is pain'd
173
By the variety of woes that Man
For Man creates--his blessings often turn'd
To plagues and curses: Saint-like Piety,
Misled by Superstition, has destroy'd
More than Ambition; and the sacred flame
Of Liberty becomes a raging fire,
When Licence and Confusion bid it blaze.
From thy high throne, above yon radiant stars,
O Power Omnipotent! with mercy view
This suffering globe, and cause thy creatures cease,
With savage fangs, to tear her bleeding breast:
Refrain that rage for power, that bids a Man,
Himself a worm, desire unbounded rule
O'er beings like himself: Teach the hard hearts
Of rulers, that the poorest hind, who dies
For their unrighteous quarrels, in thy sight
Is equal to the imperious Lord, that leads
His disciplin'd destroyers to the field.---May lovely Freedom, in her genuine charms,
Aided by stern but equal Justice, drive
From the ensanguin'd earth the hell-born fiends
Of Pride, Oppression, Avarice, and Revenge,
That ruin what thy mercy made so fair!
Then shall these ill-starr'd wanderers, whose sad fate
These desultory lines lament, regain
Their native country; private vengeance then
To public virtue yield; and the fierce feuds,
That long have torn their desolated land,
May (even as storms, that agitate the air,
Drive noxious vapours from the blighted earth)
Serve, all tremendous as they are, to fix
The reign of Reason, Liberty, and Peace!
~ Charlotte Smith,#NFDB
904:Resignation Pt 1
The days how few, how short the years
Of man's too rapid race!
Each leaving, as it swiftly flies,
A shorter in its place.
They who the longest lease enjoy,
Have told us with a sigh,
That to be born seems little more
Than to begin to die.
Numbers there are who feel this truth
With fears alarm'd; and yet,
In life's delusions lull'd asleep,
This weighty truth forget:
And am not I to these akin?
Age slumbers o'er the quill;
Its honour blots, whate'er it writes,
And am I writing still?
Conscious of nature in decline,
And languor in my thoughts;
To soften censure, and abate
Its rigour on my faults
Permit me, madam! ere to you
The promis'd verse I pay,
To touch on felt infirmity,
Sad sister of decay.
One world deceas'd, another born,
Like Noah they behold,
O'er whose white hairs, and furrow'd brows,
Too many suns have roll'd:
Happy the patriarch! he rejoic'd
His second world to see:
My second world, though gay the scene,
Can boast no charms for me.
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To me this brilliant age appears
With desolation spread;
Near all with whom I liv'd, and smil'd,
Whilst life was life, are dead;
And with them died my joys; the grave
Has broken nature's laws;
And clos'd, against this feeble frame,
Its partial cruel jaws;
Cruel to spare! condemn'd to life!
A cloud impairs my sight;
My weak hand disobeys my will,
And trembles as I write.
What shall I write? Thalia, tell;
Say, long abandon'd muse!
What field of fancy shall I range?
What subject shall I choose?
A choice of moment high inspire,
And rescue me from shame,
For doting on thy charms so late,
By grandeur in my theme.
Beyond
Which
Beyond
Bright
the themes, which most admire,
dazzle, or amaze,
renown'd exploits of war,
charms, or empire's blaze,
Are themes, which, in a world of woe
Can best appease our pain;
And, in an age of gaudy guilt,
Gay folly's flood restrain;
Amidst the storms of life support
A calm, unshaken mind;
And with unfading laurels crown
The brow of the resign'd.
O resignation! yet unsung,
49
Untouch'd by former strains;
Though claiming every muse's smile,
And every poet's pains,
Beneath life's evening, solemn shade,
I dedicate my page
To thee, thou safest guard of youth!
Thou sole support of age!
All other duties crescents are
Of virtue faintly bright,
The glorious consummation, thou!
Which fills her orb with light:
How rarely fill'd! the love divine
In evils to discern,
This the first lesson which we want,
The latest, which we learn;
A melancholy truth! for know,
Could our proud hearts resign,
The distance greatly would decrease
'Twixt human and divine.
But though full noble is my theme,
Full urgent is my call
To soften sorrow, and forbid
The bursting tear to fall:
The task I dread; dare I to leave
Of humble prose the shore,
And put to sea? a dangerous sea?
What throngs have sunk before!
How proud the poet's billow swells!
The God! the God! his boast:
A boast how vain! What wrecks abound!
Dead bards stench every coast.
What then am I? Shall I presume,
On such a moulten wing,
Above the general wreck to rise,
50
And in my winter, sing;
When nightingales, when sweetest bards
Confine their charming song
To summer's animating heats,
Content to warble young?
Yet write I must; a lady(49) sues;
How shameful her request!
My brain in labour for dull rhyme!
Hers teeming with the best!
But you a stranger will excuse,
Nor scorn his feeble strain;
To you a stranger, but, through fate,
No stranger to your pain.
The ghost of grief deceas'd ascends,
His old wound bleeds anew;
His sorrows are recall'd to life
By those he sees in you;
Too well he knows the twisting strings
Of ardent hearts combin'd
When rent asunder, how they bleed,
How hard to be resign'd:
Those tears you pour, his eyes have shed;
The pang you feel, he felt;
Thus nature, loud as virtue, bids
His heart at yours to melt.
But what can heart, or head, suggest?
What sad experience say?
Through truths austere, to peace we work
Our rugged, gloomy way:
What are we? whence? for what? and whither?
Who know not, needs must mourn;
But thought, bright daughter of the skies!
Can tears to triumph turn.
51
Thought is our armour, 'tis the mind's
Impenetrable shield,
When, sent by fate, we meet our foes,
In sore affliction's field;
It plucks the frightful mask from ills,
Forbids pale fear to hide,
Beneath that dark disguise, a friend,
Which turns affection's tide.
Affection frail! train'd up by sense,
From reason's channel strays:
And whilst it blindly points at peace,
Our peace to pain betrays.
Thought winds its fond, erroneous stream
From daily dying flowers,
To nourish rich immortal blooms,
In amaranthine bowers;
Whence throngs, in ecstasy, look down
On what once shock'd their sight;
And thank the terrors of the past
For ages of delight.
All withers here; who most possess
Are losers by their gain,
Stung by full proof, that, bad at best,
Life's idle all is vain:
Vain, in its course, life's murmuring stream;
Did not its course offend,
But murmur cease; life, then, would seem
Still vainer, from its end.
How wretched! who, through cruel fate,
Have nothing to lament!
With the poor alms this world affords
Deplorably content!
Had not the Greek his world mistook,
His wish had been most wise;
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To be content with but one world,
Like him, we should despise.
Of earth's revenue would you state
A full account and fair?
We hope; and hope; and hope; then cast
The total up--_Despair._
Since vain all here, all future, vast,
Embrace the lot assign'd;
Heaven wounds to heal; its frowns are friends;
Its stroke severe, most kind.
But in laps'd nature rooted deep,
Blind error domineers;
And on fools' errands, in the dark,
Sends out our hopes and fears;
Bids us for ever pains deplore,
Our pleasures overprize;
These oft persuade us to be weak;
Those urge us to be wise.
From virtue's rugged path to right
By pleasure are we brought,
To flowery fields of wrong, and there
Pain chides us for our fault:
Yet whilst it chides, it speaks of peace
If folly is withstood;
And says, time pays an easy price,
For our eternal good.
In earth's dark cot, and in an hour,
And in delusion great,
What an economist is man
To spend his whole estate,
And beggar an eternity!
For which as he was born,
More worlds than one against it weigh'd,
53
As feathers he should scorn.
Say not, your loss in triumph leads
Religion's feeble strife;
Joys future amply reimburse
Joys bankrupts of this life.
But not deferr'd your joy so long,
It bears an early date;
Affliction's ready pay in hand,
Befriends our present state;
What are the tears, which trickle down
Her melancholy face,
Like liquid pearl? Like pearls of price,
They purchase lasting peace.
Grief softens hearts, and curbs the will,
Impetuous passion tames,
And keeps insatiate, keen desire
From launching in extremes.
Through time's dark womb, our judgment right,
If our dim eye was thrown,
Clear should we see, the will divine
Has but forestall'd our own;
At variance with our future wish,
Self-sever'd we complain;
If so, the wounded, not the wound,
Must answer for the pain:
The day shall come, and swift of wing,
Though you may think it slow,
When, in the list of fortune's smiles,
You'll enter frowns of woe.
For mark the path of Providence;
This course it has pursued'Pain is the parent, woe the womb,
Of sound, important good:'
54
Our hearts are fasten'd to this world
By strong and endless ties:
And every sorrow cuts a string,
And urges us to rise:
'Twill sound severe-Yet rest assur'd
I'm studious of your peace;
Though I should dare to give you joyYes, joy of his decease:
An hour shall come, (you question this,)
An hour, when you shall bless,
Beyond the brightest beams of life,
Dark days of your distress.
Hear then without surprise a truth,
A daughter truth to this,
Swift turns of fortune often tie
A bleeding heart to bliss:
Esteem you this a paradox?
My sacred motto read;
A glorious truth! divinely sung
By one, whose heart had bled;
To resignation swift he flew,
In her a friend he found,
A friend, which bless'd him with a smile
When gasping with his wound.
On earth nought precious is obtain'd
But what is painful too;
By travel, and to travel born,
Our sabbaths are but few:
To real joy we work our way,
Encountering many a shock,
Ere found what truly charms; as found
A Venus in the block.
In some disaster, some severe
Appointment for our sins,
55
That mother blessing, (not so call'd,)
True happiness, begins.
No martyr e'er defied the flames,
By stings of life unvext;
First rose some quarrel with this world,
Then passion for the next.
You see, then, pangs are parent pangs,
The pangs of happy birth;
Pangs, by which only can be born
True happiness on earth.
The peopled earth look all around,
Or through time's records run!
And say, what is a man unstruck?
It is a man undone.
This moment, am I deeply stungMy bold pretence is tried;
When vain man boasts, heaven puts to proof
The vauntings of his pride;
Now need I, madam! your support.How exquisite the smart;
How critically tim'd the news(50)
Which strikes me to the heart!
The pangs of which I spoke, I feel:
If worth like thine is born,
O long-belov'd! I bless the blow,
And triumph, whilst I mourn.
Nor mourn I long; by grief subdued,
By reason's empire shown;
Deep anguish comes by heaven's decree,
Continues by our own;
And when continued past its point,
Indulg'd in length of time,
Grief is disgrac'd, and, what was fate,
Corrupts into a crime:
56
And shall I, criminally mean,
Myself and subject wrong?
No; my example shall support
The subject of my song.
Madam! I grant your loss is great;
Nor little is your gain?
Let that be weigh'd; when weigh'd aright,
It richly pays your pain:
When heaven would kindly set us free,
And earth's enchantment end;
It takes the most effectual means,
And robs us of a friend.
But such a friend! and sigh no more?
'Tis prudent; but severe:
Heaven aid my weakness, and I drop
All sorrow-with this tear.
Perhaps your settled grief to soothe,
I should not vainly strive,
But with soft balm your pain assuage,
Had he been still alive;
Whose frequent aid brought kind relief,
In my distress of thought,
Ting'd with his beams my cloudy page,
And beautified a fault:
To touch our passions' secret springs
Was his peculiar care;
And deep his happy genius div'd
In bosoms of the fair;
Nature, which favours to the few,
All art beyond, imparts,
To him presented, at his birth,
The key of human hearts.
But not to me by him bequeath'd
57
His gentle, smooth address;
His tender hand to touch the wound
In throbbing of distress;
Howe'er, proceed I must, unbless'd
With Esculapian art:
Know, love sometimes, mistaken love!
Plays disaffection's part:
Nor lands, nor seas, nor suns, nor stars,
Can soul from soul divide;
They correspond from distant worlds,
Though transports are denied:
Are you not, then, unkindly kind?
Is not your love severe?
O! stop that crystal source of woe;
Nor wound him with a tear.
As those above from human bliss
Receive increase of joy;
May not a stroke from human woe,
In part, their peace destroy?
He lives in those he left;-to what?
Your, now, paternal care,
Clear from its cloud your brighten'd eye,
It will discern him there;
In features, not of form alone,
But those, I trust, of mind;
Auspicious to the public weal,
And to their fate resign'd.
Think on the tempests he sustain'd;
Revolve his battles won;
And let those prophesy your joy
From such a father's son:
Is consolation what you seek?
Fan, then, his martial fire:
And animate to flame the sparks
58
Bequeath'd him by his sire:
As nothing great is born in haste,
Wise nature's time allow;
His father's laurels may descend,
And flourish on his brow.
Nor, madam! be surpris'd to hear
That laurels may be due
Not more to heroes of the field,
(Proud boasters!) than to you:
Tender as is the female frame,
Like that brave man you mourn,
You are a soldier, and to fight
Superior battles born;
Beneath a banner nobler far
Than ever was unfurl'd
In fields of blood; a banner bright!
High wav'd o'er all the world.
It, like a streaming meteor, casts
A universal light;
Sheds day, sheds more, eternal day
On nations whelm'd in night.
Beneath that banner, what exploit
Can mount our glory higher,
Than to sustain the dreadful blow,
When those we love expire?
Go forth a moral Amazon;
Arm'd with undaunted thought;
The battle won, though costing dear,
You'll think it cheaply bought:
The passive hero, who sits down
Unactive, and can smile
Beneath affliction's galling load,
Out-acts a Caesar's toil:
59
The billows stain'd by slaughter'd foes
Inferior praise afford;
Reason's a bloodless conqueror,
More glorious than the sword.
Nor can the thunders of huzzas,
From shouting nations, cause
Such sweet delight, as from your heart
Soft whispers of applause:
The dear deceas'd so fam'd in arms,
With what delight he'll view
His triumphs on the main outdone,
Thus conquer'd, twice, by you.
Share his delight; take heed to shun
Of bosoms most diseas'd
That odd distemper, an absurd
Reluctance to be pleas'd:
Some seem in love with sorrow's charms,
And that foul fiend embrace:
This temper let me justly brand,
And stamp it with disgrace:
Sorrow! of horrid parentage!
Thou second-born of hell!
Against heaven's endless mercies pour'd
How dar'st thou to rebel?
From black and noxious vapours bred,
And nurs'd by want of thought,
And to the door of phrensy's self
By perseverance brought,
Thy most inglorious, coward tears
From brutal eyes have ran:
Smiles, incommunicable smiles!
Are radiant marks of man;
They cast a sudden glory round
Th' illumin'd human face;
60
And light in sons of honest joy
Some beams of Moses' face:
Is resignation's lesson hard?
Examine, we shall find
That duty gives up little more
Than anguish of the mind;
Resign; and all the load of life
That moment you remove,
Its heavy tax, ten thousand cares
Devolve on one above;
Who bids us lay our burthen down
On his almighty hand,
Softens our duty to relief,
To blessing a command.
For joy what cause! how every sense
Is courted from above
The year around, with presents rich,
The growth of endless love!
But most o'erlook the blessings pour'd,
Forget the wonders done,
And terminate, wrapp'd up in sense,
Their prospect at the sun;
From that, their final point of view,
From that their radiant goal,
On travel infinite of thought,
Sets out the nobler soul,
Broke loose from time's tenacious ties,
And earth's involving gloom,
To range at last its vast domain,
And talk with worlds to come:
They let unmark'd, and unemploy'd,
Life's idle moments run;
And doing nothing for themselves,
Imagine nothing done;
61
Fatal mistake! their fate goes on,
Their dread account proceeds,
And their not doing is set down
Amongst their darkest deeds;
Though man sits still, and takes his ease;
God is at work on man;
No means, no moment unemployed,
To bless him, if he can.
But man consents not, boldly bent
To fashion his own fate;
Man, a mere bungler in the trade,
Repents his crime too late;
Hence loud laments: let me thy cause,
Indulgent father! plead;
Of all the wretches we deplore,
Not one by thee was made.
What is thy whole creation fair?
Of love divine the child;
Love brought it forth; and, from its birth,
Has o'er it fondly smil'd:
Now, and through periods distant far,
Long ere the world began,
Heaven is, and has in travail been,
Its birth the good of man;
Man holds in constant service bound
The blustering winds and seas;
Nor suns disdain to travel hard
Their master, man, to please:
To final good the worst events
Through secret channels run;
Finish for man their destin'd course,
As 'twas for man begun.
One point (observ'd, perhaps, by few)
62
Has often smote, and smites
My mind, as demonstration strong;
That heaven in man delights:
What's known to man of things unseen,
Of future worlds, or fates?
So much, nor more, than what to man's
Sublime affairs relates;
What's revelation then? a list,
An inventory just
Of that poor insect's goods, so late
Call'd out of night and dust.
What various motives to rejoice!
To render joy sincere,
Has this no weight? our joy is felt
Beyond this narrow sphere:
Would we in heaven new heaven create,
And double its delight?
A smiling world, when heaven looks down,
How pleasing in its sight!
Angels stoop forward from their thrones
To hear its joyful lays;
As incense sweet enjoy, and join,
Its aromatic praise:
Have we no cause to fear the stroke
Of heaven's avenging rod,
When we presume to counteract
A sympathetic God?
If we resign, our patience makes
His rod an armless wand;
If not, it darts a serpent's sting,
Like that in Moses' hand;
Like that, it swallows up whate'er
Earth's vain magicians bring,
Whose baffled arts would boast below
63
Of joys a rival spring.
Consummate love! the list how large
Of blessings from thy hand!
To banish sorrow, and be blest,
Is thy supreme command.
Are such commands but ill obey'd?
Of bliss, shall we complain?
The man, who dares to be a wretch,
Deserves still greater pain.
Joy is our duty, glory, health;
The sunshine of the soul;
Our best encomium on the power
Who sweetly plans the whole:
Joy is our Eden still possess'd:
Begone, ignoble grief!
'Tis joy makes gods, and men exalts,
Their nature, our relief;
Relief, for man to that must stoop,
And his due distance know;
Transport's the language of the sides,
Content the style below.
Content is joy, and joy in pain
Is joy and virtue too;
Thus, whilst good present we possess,
More precious we pursue:
Of joy the more we have in hand,
The more have we to come;
Joy, like our money, interest bears,
Which daily swells the sum.
'But how to smile; to stem the tide
Of nature in our veins;
Is it not hard to weep in joy?
What then to smile in pains?'
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Victorious joy! which breaks the clouds,
And struggles through a storm;
Proclaims the mind as great, as good
And bids it doubly charm:
If doubly charming in our sex,
A sex, by nature, bold;
What then in yours? 'tis diamond there
Triumphant o'er our gold.
And should not this complaint repress,
And check the rising sigh?
Yet farther opiate to your pain
I labour to supply.
Since spirits greatly damp'd distort
Ideas of delight,
Look through the medium of a friend,
To set your notions right:
As tears the sight, grief dims the soul;
Its object dark appears;
True friendship, like a rising sun,
The soul's horizon clears.
A friend's an optic to the mind
With sorrow clouded o'er;
And gives it strength of sight to see
Redress unseen before.
Reason is somewhat rough in man;
Extremely smooth and fair,
When she, to grace her manly strength,
Assumes a female air:
A friend(51) you have, and I the same,
Whose prudent, soft address
Will bring to life those healing thoughts
Which died in your distress;
That friend, the spirit of my theme
Extracting for your ease,
65
Will leave to me the dreg, in thoughts
Too common; such as these:
Let those lament to whom full bowls
Of sparkling joys are given;
That triple bane inebriates life,
Imbitters death, and hazards heaven:
Woe to the soul at perfect ease!
'Tis brewing perfect pains;
Lull'd reason sleeps, the pulse is king;
Despotic body reigns;
Have you(52) ne'er pitied joy's gay scenes,
And deem'd their glory dark?
Alas! poor envy! she's stone-blind,
And quite mistakes her mark:
Her mark lies hid in sorrow's shades,
But sorrow well subdu'd;
And in proud fortune's frown defied
By meek, unborrow'd good.
By resignation; all in that
A double friend may find,
A wing to heaven, and, while on earth,
The pillow of mankind:
On pillows void of down, for rest
Our restless hopes we place;
When hopes of heaven lie warm at heart,
Our hearts repose in peace:
The peace, which resignation yields,
Who feel alone can guess;
'Tis disbeliev'd by murmuring minds,
They must conclude it less:
The loss, or gain, of that alone
Have we to hope or fear;
That fate controls, and can invert
The seasons of the year:
66
O! the dark days, the year around,
Of an impatient mind!
Thro' clouds, and storms, a summer breaks,
To shine on the resign'd:
While man by that of every grace,
And virtue, is possess'd;
Foul vice her pandaemonium builds
In the rebellious breast;
By resignation we defeat
The worst that can annoy;
And suffer, with far more repose,
Than worldlings can enjoy.
From small experience this I speak;
O! grant to those I love
Experience fuller far, ye powers,
Who form our fates above!
My love were due, if not to those
Who, leaving grandeur, came
To shine on age in mean recess,
And light me to my theme!
A theme themselves! A theme, how rare!
The charms, which they display,
To triumph over captive heads,
Are set in bright array:
With his own arms proud man's o'ercome,
His boasted laurels die:
Learning and genius, wiser grown,
To female bosoms fly.
This revolution, fix'd by fate,
In fable was foretold;
The dark prediction puzzled wits,
Nor could the learn'd unfold:
But as those ladies'(53) works I read,
67
They darted such a ray,
The latent sense burst out at once,
And shone in open day:
So burst, full ripe, distended fruits,
When strongly strikes the sun;
And from the purple grape unpress'd
Spontaneous nectars run.
Pallas, ('tis said,) when Jove grew dull,
Forsook his drowsy brain;
And sprightly leap'd into the throne
Of wisdom's brighter reign;
Her helmet took; that is, shot rays
Of formidable wit;
And lance,-or, genius most acute,
Which lines immortal writ;
And gorgon shield,-or, power to fright
Man's folly, dreadful shone,
And many a blockhead (easy change!)
Turn'd, instantly, to stone.
Our authors male, as, then, did Jove,
Now scratch a damag'd head,
And call for what once quarter'd there,
But find the goddess fled.
The fruit of knowledge, golden fruit!
That once forbidden tree,
Hedg'd-in by surly man, is now
To Britain's daughters free:
In Eve (we know) of fruit so fair
The noble thirst began;
And they, like her, have caus'd a fall,
A fall of fame in man:
And since of genius in our sex,
O Addison! with thee
The sun is set; how I rejoice
68
This sister lamp to see!
It sheds, like Cynthia, silver beams
On man's nocturnal state;
His lessen'd light, and languid powers,
I show, whilst I relate.
~ Edward Young,#NFDB
905:Resignation Pt 2
But what in either sex, beyond
All parts, our glory crowns?
'In ruffling seasons to be calm,
And smile, when fortune frowns.'
Heaven's choice is safer than our own;
Of ages past inquire,
What the most formidable fate?
'To have our own desire.'
If, in your wrath, the worst of foes
You wish extremely ill;
Expose him to the thunder's stroke,
Or that of his own will.
What numbers, rushing down the steep
Of inclination strong,
Have perish'd in their ardent wish!
Wish ardent, ever wrong!
'Tis resignation's full reverse,
Most wrong, as it implies
Error most fatal in our choice,
Detachment from the skies.
By closing with the skies, we make
Omnipotence our own;
That done, how formidable ill's
Whole army is o'erthrown!
No longer impotent, and frail,
Ourselves above we rise:
We scarce believe ourselves below!
We trespass on the skies!
The Lord, the soul, and source of all,
Whilst man enjoys his ease,
Is executing human will,
In earth, and air, and seas;
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Beyond us, what can angels boast?
Archangels what require?
Whate'er below, above, is done,
Is done as-we desire.
What glory this for man so mean,
Whose life is but a span!
This is meridian majesty!
This, the sublime of man!
Beyond the boast of pagan song
My sacred subject shines!
And for a foil the lustre takes
Of Rome's exalted lines.
'All, that the sun surveys, subdued,
But Cato's mighty mind.'
How grand! most true; yet far beneath
The soul of the resign'd:
To more than kingdoms, more than worlds,
To passion that gives law;
Its matchless empire could have kept
Great Cato's pride in awe;
That fatal pride, whose cruel point
Transfix'd his noble breast;
Far nobler! if his fate sustain'd
And left to heaven the rest;
Then he the palm had borne away,
At distance Caesar thrown;
Put him off cheaply with the world,
And made the skies his own.
What cannot resignation do?
It wonders can perform;
That powerful charm, 'Thy will be done,'
Can lay the loudest storm.
Come, resignation! then, from fields,
71
Where, mounted on the wing,
A wing of flame, blest martyrs' souls
Ascended to their king.
Who is it calls thee? one whose need
Transcends the common size;
Who stands in front against a foe
To which no equal rise:
In front he stands, the brink he treads
Of an eternal state;
How dreadful his appointed post!
How strongly arm'd by fate:
His threatening foe! what shadows deep
O'erwhelm his gloomy brow!
His dart tremendous! -at fourscore
My sole asylum, thou!
Haste, then, O resignation! haste,
'Tis thine to reconcile
My foe, and me; at thy approach
My foe begins to smile:
O! for that summit of my wish,
Whilst here I draw my breath,
That promise of eternal life,
A glorious smile in death:
What sight, heaven's azure arch beneath,
Has most of heaven to boast?
The man resign'd; at once serene,
And giving up the ghost.
At death's arrival they shall smile,
Who, not in life o'er gay,
Serious and frequent thought send out
To meet him on his way:
My gay coevals! (such there are)
If happiness is dear;
Approaching death's alarming day
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Discreetly let us fear:
The fear of death is truly wise,
Till wisdom can rise higher;
And, arm'd with pious fortitude,
Death dreaded once, desire:
Grand climacteric vanities
The vainest will despise;
Shock'd, when beneath the snow of age
Man immaturely dies:
But am not I myself the man?
No need abroad to roam
In quest of faults to be chastis'd;
What cause to blush at home?
In life's decline, when men relapse
Into the sports of youth,
The second child out-fools the first,
And tempts the lash of truth;
Shall a mere truant from the grave
With rival boys engage?
His trembling voice attempt to sing,
And ape the poet's rage?
Here, madam! let me visit one,
My fault who, partly, shares,
And tell myself, by telling him,
What more becomes our years;
And if your breast with prudent zeal
For resignation glows,
You will not disapprove a just
Resentment at its foes.
In youth, Voltaire! our foibles plead
For some indulgence due;
When heads are white, their thoughts and aims
Should change their colour too:
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How are you cheated by your wit!
Old age is bound to pay,
By nature's law, a mind discreet,
For joys it takes away;
A mighty change is wrought by years,
Reversing human lot;
In age 'tis honour to lie hid,
'Tis praise to be forgot;
The wise, as flowers, which spread at noon,
And all their charms expose,
When evening damps and shades descend,
Their evolutions close.
What though your muse has nobly soar'd,
Is that our truth sublime?
Ours, hoary friend! is to prefer
Eternity to time:
Why close a life so justly fam'd
With such bold trash as this? (54)
This for renown? yes, such as makes
Obscurity a bliss:
Your trash, with mine, at open war,
Is obstinately bent,(55)
Like wits below, to sow your tares
Of gloom and discontent:
With so much sunshine at command,
Why light with darkness mix?
Why dash with pain our pleasure?
Your Helicon with Styx?
Your works in our divided minds
Repugnant passions raise,
Confound us with a double stroke,
We shudder whilst we praise;
A curious web, as finely wrought
As genius can inspire,
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From a black bag of poison spun,
With horror we admire.
Mean as it is, if this is read
With a disdainful air,
I can't forgive so great a foe
To my dear friend Voltaire:
Early I knew him, early prais'd,
And long to praise him late;
His genius greatly I admire,
Nor would deplore his fate;
A fate how much to be deplor'd!
At which our nature starts;
Forbear to fall on your own sword.
To perish by your parts:
'But great your name'-To feed on air,
Were then immortals born?
Nothing is great, of which more great,
More glorious is the scorn.
Can fame your carcass from the worm
Which gnaws us in the grave,
Or soul from that which never dies,
Applauding Europe save?
But fame you lose; good sense alone
Your idol, praise, can claim;
When wild wit murders happiness,
It puts to death our fame!
Nor boast your genius, talents bright;
E'en dunces will despise,
If in your western beams is miss'd
A genius for the skies;
Your taste too fails; what most excels
True taste must relish most!
And what, to rival palms above,
Can proudest laurels boast?
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Sound heads salvation's helmet seek,(56)
Resplendent are its rays,
Let that suffice; it needs no plume,
Of sublunary praise.
May this enable couch'd Voltaire
To see that-'All is right,'(57)
His eye, by flash of wit struck blind,
Restoring to its sight;
If so, all's well: who much have err'd,
That much have been forgiven;
I speak with joy, with joy he'll hear,
'Voltaires are, now, in heaven.'
Nay, such philanthropy divine,
So boundless in degree,
Its marvellous of love extends
(Stoops most profound!) to me:
Let others cruel stars arraign,
Or dwell on their distress;
But let my page, for mercies pour'd,
A grateful heart express:
Walking, the present God was seen,
Of old, in Eden fair;
The God as present, by plain steps
Of providential care,
I behold passing through my life;
His awful voice I hear;
And, conscious of my nakedness,
Would hide myself for fear:
But where the trees, or where the clouds,
Can cover from his sight?
Naked the centre to that eye,
To which the sun is night.
As yonder glittering lamps on high
76
Through night illumin'd roll;
My thoughts of him, by whom they shine,
Chase darkness from my soul;
My soul, which reads his hand as clear
In my minute affairs,
As in his ample manuscript
Of sun, and moon, and stars;
And knows him not more bent aright
To wield that vast machine,
Than to correct one erring thought
In my small world within;
A world, that shall survive the fall
Of all his wonders here;
Survive, when suns ten thousand drop,
And leave a darken'd sphere.
Yon matter gross, how bright it shines!
For time how great his care!
Sure spirit and eternity
Far richer glories share;
Let those our hearts impress, on those
Our contemplation dwell;
On those my thoughts how justly thrown,
By what I now shall tell:
When backward with attentive mind
Life's labyrinth I trace,
I find him far myself beyond
Propitious to my peace:
Through all the crooked paths I trod,
My folly he pursued;
My heart astray to quick return
Importunately woo'd;
Due resignation home to press
On my capricious will,
How many rescues did I meet,
77
Beneath the mask of ill!
How many foes in ambush laid
Beneath my soul's desire!
The deepest penitents are made
By what we most admire.
Have I not sometimes (real good
So little mortals know!)
Mounting the summit of my wish,
Profoundly plung'd in woe?
I rarely plann'd, but cause I found
My plan's defeat to bless:
Oft I lamented an event;
It turn'd to my success.
By sharpen'd appetite to give
To good intense delight,
Through dark and deep perplexities
He led me to the right.
And is not this the gloomy path,
Which you are treading now?
The path most gloomy leads to light,
When our proud passions bow:
When labouring under fancied ill,
My spirits to sustain,
He kindly cur'd with sovereign draughts
Of unimagin'd pain.
Pain'd sense from fancied tyranny
Alone can set us free;
A thousand miseries we feel,
Till sunk in misery.
Cloy'd with a glut of all we wish,
Our wish we relish less;
Success, a sort of suicide,
Is ruin'd by success:
78
Sometimes he led me near to death,
And, pointing to the grave,
Bid terror whisper kind advice;
And taught the tomb to save:
To raise my thoughts beyond where worlds
As spangles o'er us shine,
One day he gave, and bid the next
My soul's delight resign.
We to ourselves, but through the means
Of mirrors, are unknown;
In this my fate can you descry
No features of your own?
And if you can, let that excuse
These self-recording lines;
A record, modesty forbids,
Or to small bound confines:
In grief why deep ingulf'd? You see
You suffer nothing rare;
Uncommon grief for common fate!
That wisdom cannot bear.
When streams flow backward to their source,
And humbled flames descend,
And mountains wing'd shall fly aloft,
Then human sorrows end;
But human prudence too must cease,
When sorrows domineer,
When fortitude has lost its fire,
And freezes into fear:
The pang most poignant of my life
Now heightens my delight;
I see a fair creation rise
From chaos, and old night:
From what seem'd horror, and despair,
The richest harvest rose;
79
And gave me in the nod divine
An absolute repose.
Of all the plunders of mankind,
More gross, or frequent, none,
Than in their grief and joy misplac'd,
Eternally are shown.
But whither points all this parade?
It says, that near you lies
A book, perhaps yet unperus'd,
Which you should greatly prize:
Of self-perusal, science rare!
Few know the mighty gain;
Learn'd prelates, self-unread, may read
Their Bibles o'er in vain:
Self-knowledge, which from heaven itself
(So sages tell us) came,
What is it, but a daughter fair
Of my maternal theme?
Unletter'd and untravel'd men
An oracle might find,
Would they consult their own contents,
The Delphos of the mind.
Enter your bosom; there you'll meet
A revelation new,
A revelation personal;
Which none can read but you.
There will you clearly read reveal'd
In your enlighten'd thought,
By mercies manifold, through life,
To fresh remembrance brought,
A mighty Being! and in him
A complicated friend,
A father, brother, spouse; no dread
Of death, divorce, or end:
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Who such a matchless friend embrace,
And lodge him in their heart,
Full well, from agonies exempt,
With other friends may part:
As when o'erloaded branches bear
Large clusters big with wine,
We scarce regret one falling leaf
From the luxuriant vine.
My short advice to you may sound
Obscure or somewhat odd,
Though 'tis the best that man can give,'E'en be content with God.'
Through love he gave you the deceas'd,
Through greater took him hence;
This reason fully could evince,
Though murmur'd at by sense.
This friend, far past the kindest kind,
Is past the greatest great;
His greatness let me touch in points
Not foreign to your state;
His eye, this instant, reads your heart;
A truth less obvious hear;
This instant its most secret thoughts
Are sounding in his ear:
Dispute you this? O! stand in awe,
And cease your sorrow; know,
That tears now trickling down, he saw
Ten thousand years ago;
And twice ten thousand hence, if you
Your temper reconcile
To reason's bound, will he behold
Your prudence with a smile;
A smile, which through eternity
81
Diffuses so bright rays,
The dimmest deifies e'en guilt,
If guilt, at last, obeys:
Your guilt (for guilt it is to mourn
When such a sovereign reigns) ,
Your guilt diminish; peace pursue;
How glorious peace in pains!
Here, then, your sorrows cease; if not,
Think how unhappy they,
Who guilt increase by streaming tears,
Which guilt should wash away;
Of tears that gush profuse restrain;
Whence burst those dismal sighs?
They from the throbbing breast of one
(Strange truth!) most happy rise;
Not angels (hear it, and exult!)
Enjoy a larger share
Than is indulg'd to you, and yours,
Of God's impartial care;
Anxious for each, as if on each
His care for all was thrown;
For all his care as absolute,
As all had been but one.
And is he then so near! so kind! How little then, and great,
That riddle, man! O! let me gaze
At wonders in his fate;
His fate, who yesterday did crawl
A worm from darkness deep,
And shall, with brother worms, beneath
A turf, to-morrow sleep;
How mean! -And yet, if well obey'd
His mighty Master's call,
The whole creation for mean man
82
Is deem'd a boon too small:
Too small the whole creation deem'd
For emmets in the dust!
Account amazing! yet most true;
My song is bold, yet just:
Man born for infinite, in whom
Nor period can destroy
The power, in exquisite extremes,
To suffer, or enjoy;
Give him earth's empire (if no more)
He's beggar'd, and undone!
Imprison'd in unbounded space!
Benighted by the sun!
For what the sun's meridian blaze
To the most feeble ray
Which glimmers from the distant dawn
Of uncreated day?
'Tis not the poet's rapture feign'd
Swells here the vain to please;
The mind most sober kindles most
At truths sublime as these;
They warm e'en me.-I dare not say,
Divine ambition strove
Not to bless only, but confound,
Nay, fright us with its love;
And yet so frightful what, or kind,
As that the rending rock,
The darken'd sun, and rising dead,
So formidable spoke?
And are we darker than that sun?
Than rocks more hard, and blind?
We are; -if not to such a God
In agonies resigned.
83
Yes, e'en in agonies forbear
To doubt almighty love;
Whate'er endears eternity,
Is mercy from above;
What most imbitters time, that most
Eternity endears,
And thus, by plunging in distress,
Exalts us to the spheres;
Joy's fountain head! where bliss o'er bliss,
O'er wonders wonders rise,
And an Omnipotence prepares
Its banquet for the wise:
Ambrosial banquet! rich in wines
Nectareous to the soul!
What transports sparkle from the stream,
As angels fill the bowl!
Fountain profuse of every bliss!
Good-will immense prevails;
Man's line can't fathom its profound
An angel's plummet fails.
Thy love and might, by what they know,
Who judge, nor dream of more;
They ask a drop, how deep the sea!
One sand, how wide the shore!
Of thy exuberant good-will,
Offended Deity!
The thousandth part who comprehends,
A deity is he.
How yonder ample azure field
With radiant worlds is sown!
How tubes astonish us with those
More deep in ether thrown!
And those beyond of brighter worlds
Why not a million more? -
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In lieu of answer, let us all
Fall prostrate, and adore.
Since thou art infinite in power,
Nor thy indulgence less;
Since man, quite impotent and blind,
Oft drops into distress;
Say, what is resignation? 'T is
Man's weakness understood;
And wisdom grasping, with a hand
Far stronger, every good.
Let rash repiners stand appall'd,
In thee who dare not trust;
Whose abject souls, like demons dark,
Are murmuring in the dust;
For man to murmur, or repine
At what by thee is done,
No less absurd, than to complain
Of darkness in the sun.
Who would not, with a heart at ease,
Bright eye, unclouded brow,
Wisdom and goodness at the helm,
The roughest ocean plough?
What, though I'm swallow'd in the deep?
Though mountains o'er me roar?
Jehovah reigns! as Jonah safe,
I'm landed, and adore:
Thy will is welcome, let it wear
Its most tremendous form;
Roar, waves; rage, winds! I know that thou
Canst save me by a storm.
From the immortal spirits born,
To thee, their fountain, flow,
If wise; as curl'd around to theirs
Meandering streams below:
85
Not less compell'd by reason's call,
To thee our souls aspire,
Than to thy skies, by nature's law,
High mounts material fire;
To thee aspiring they exult,
I feel my spirits rise,
I feel myself thy son, and pant
For patrimonial skies;
Since ardent thirst of future good,
And generous sense of past,
To thee man's prudence strongly ties,
And binds affection fast;
Since great thy love, and great our want,
And men the wisest blind,
And bliss our aim; pronounce us all
Distracted, or resigned;
Resign'd through duty, interest, shame;
Deep shame! dare I complain,
When (wondrous truth!) in heaven itself
Joy ow'd its birth to pain?
And pain for me! for me was drain'd
Gall's overflowing bowl;
And shall one dropp to murmur bold
Provoke my guilty soul?
If pardon'd this, what cause, what crime
Can indignation raise?
The sun was lighted up to shine,
And man was born to praise;
And when to praise the man shall cease,
Or sun to strike the view;
A cloud dishonors both; but man's
The blacker of the two:
For oh! ingratitude how black!
86
With most profound amaze
At love, which man belov'd o'erlooks,
Astonish'd angels gaze.
Praise cheers, and warms, like generous wine;
Praise, more divine than prayer;
Prayer points our ready path to heaven;
Praise is already there.
Let plausive resignation rise,
And banish all complaint;
All virtues thronging into one,
It finishes the saint;
Makes the man bless'd, as man can be;
Life's labours renders light;
Darts beams through fate's incumbent gloom,
And lights our sun by night;
'T is nature's brightest ornament,
The richest gift of grace,
Rival of angels, and supreme
Proprietor of peace;
Nay, peace beyond, no small degree
Of rapture 't will impart;
Know, madam! when your heart's in heaven,
'All heaven is in your heart.'
But who to heaven their hearts can raise?
Denied divine support,
All virtue dies; support divine
The wise with ardour court:
When prayer partakes the seraph's fire,
'T is mounted on his wing,
Bursts thro' heaven's crystal gates, and
Sure audience of its king:
The labouring soul from sore distress
That bless'd expedient frees;
I see you far advanc'd in peace;
87
I see you on your knees:
How on that posture has the beam
Divine for ever shone!
An humble heart, God's other seat! (58)
The rival of his throne:
And stoops Omnipotence so low!
And condescends to dwell,
Eternity's inhabitant,
Well pleas'd, in such a cell?
Such honour how shall we repay?
How treat our guest divine?
The sacrifice supreme be slain!
Let self-will die: resign.
Thus far, at large, on our disease;
Now let the cause be shown,
Whence rises, and will ever rise,
The dismal human groan:
What our sole fountain of distress?
Strong passion for this scene;
That trifles make important, things
Of mighty moment mean:
When earth's dark maxims poison shed
On our polluted souls,
Our hearts and interests fly as far
Asunder, as the poles.
Like princes in a cottage nurs'd,
Unknown their royal race,
With abject aims, and sordid joys,
Our grandeur we disgrace;
O! for an Archimedes new,
Of moral powers possess'd,
The world to move, and quite expel
That traitor from the breast.
88
No small advantage may be reap'd
From thought whence we descend;
From weighing well, and prizing weigh'd
Our origin, and end:
From far above the glorious sun
To this dim scene we came:
And may, if wise, for ever bask
In great Jehovah's beam:
Let that bright beam on reason rous'd
In awful lustre rise,
Earth's giant ills are dwarf'd at once,
And all disquiet dies.
Earth's glories too their splendour lose,
Those phantoms charm no more;
Empire's a feather for a fool,
And Indian mines are poor:
Then levell'd quite, whilst yet alive,
The monarch and his slave;
Not wait enlighten'd minds to learn
That lesson from the grave:
A George the Third would then be low
As Lewis in renown,
Could he not boast of glory more
Than sparkles from a crown.
When human glory rises high
As human glory can;
When, though the king is truly great,
Still greater is the man;
The man is dead, where virtue fails;
And though the monarch proud
In grandeur shines, his gorgeous robe
Is but a gaudy shroud.
Wisdom! where art thou? None on earth,
Though grasping wealth, fame, power,
89
But what, O death! through thy approach,
Is wiser every hour;
Approach how swift, how unconfin'd!
Worms feast on viands rare,
Those little epicures have kings
To grace their bill of fare:
From kings what resignation due
To that almighty will,
Which thrones bestows, and, when they fail,
Can throne them higher still!
Who truly great? The good and brave,
The masters of a mind
The will divine to do resolv'd,
To suffer it resign'd.
Madam! if that may give it weight,
The trifle you receive
Is dated from a solemn scene,
The border of the grave;
Where strongly strikes the trembling soul
Eternity's dread power,
As bursting on it through the thin
Partition of an hour;
Hear this, Voltaire! but this, from me,
Runs hazard of your frown;
However, spare it; ere you die,
Such thoughts will be your own.
In mercy to yourself forbear
My notions to chastise,
Lest unawares the gay Voltaire
Should blame Voltaire the wise:
Fame's trumpet rattling in your ear,
Now, makes us disagree;
When a far louder trumpet sounds,
Voltaire will close with me:
90
How shocking is that modesty,
Which keeps some honest men
From urging what their hearts suggest,
When brav'd by folly's pen.
Assaulting truths, of which in all
Is sown the sacred seed!
Our constitution's orthodox,
And closes with our creed:
What then are they, whose proud conceits
Superior wisdom boast?
Wretches, who fight their own belief,
And labour to be lost!
Though vice by no superior joys
Her heroes keeps in pay;
Through pure disinterested love
Of ruin they obey!
Strict their devotion to the wrong,
Though tempted by no prize;
Hard their commandments, and their creed
A magazine of lies
From fancy's forge: gay fancy smiles
At reason plain, and cool;
Fancy, whose curious trade it is
To make the finest fool.
Voltaire! long life's the greatest curse
That mortals can receive,
When they imagine the chief end
Of living is to live;
Quite thoughtless of their day of death,
That birthday of their sorrow!
Knowing, it may be distant far,
Nor crush them till-to-morrow.
These are cold, northern thoughts, conceiv'd
91
Beneath an humble cot;
Not mine, your genius, or your state,
No castle is my lot:(59)
But soon, quite level shall we lie;
And, what pride most bemoans,
Our parts, in rank so distant now,
As level as our bones;
Hear you that sound? Alarming sound!
Prepare to meet your fate!
One, who writes finis to our works,
Is knocking at the gate;
Far other works will soon be weigh'd;
Far other judges sit;
Far other crowns be lost or won,
Than fire ambitious wit:
Their wit far brightest will be prov'd,
Who sunk it in good sense;
And veneration most profound
Of dread omnipotence.
'Tis that alone unlocks the gate
Of blest eternity;
O! mayst thou never, never lose
That more than golden key! (60)
Whate'er may seem too rough excuse,
Your good I have at heart:
Since from my soul I wish you well;
As yet we must not part:
Shall you, and I, in love with life,
Life's future schemes contrive,
The world in wonder not unjust,
That we are still alive?
What have we left? How mean in man
A shadow's shade to crave!
When life, so vain! is vainer still,
92
'Tis time to take your leave:
Happier, than happiest life, is death,
Who, falling in the field
Of conflict with his rebel will,
Writes vici, on his shield;
So falling man, immortal heir
Of an eternal prize;
Undaunted at the gloomy grave,
Descends into the skies.
O! how disorder'd our machine,
When contradictions mix!
When nature strikes no less than twelve,
And folly points at six!
To mend the moments of your heart,
How great is my delight
Gently to wind your morals up,
And set your hand aright!
That hand, which spread your wisdom wide
To poison distant lands:
Repent, recant; the tainted age
Your antidote demands;
To Satan dreadfully resign'd,
Whole herds rush down the steep
Of folly, by lewd wits possess'd,
And perish in the deep.
Men's praise your vanity pursues;
'Tis well, pursue it still;
But let it be of men deceas'd,
And you'll resign the will;
And how superior they to those
At whose applause you aim;
How very far superior they
In number, and in name!
93
~ Edward Young,#NFDB
17 Integral Yoga
11 Fiction
9 Christianity
6 Poetry
5 Philosophy
5 Occultism
3 Yoga
2 Psychology
1 Mysticism
1 Integral Theory
1 Buddhism
12 The Mother
12 Satprem
11 H P Lovecraft
6 Saint Augustine of Hippo
3 Sri Aurobindo
3 Friedrich Nietzsche
2 Sri Ramakrishna
2 Plato
2 Nolini Kanta Gupta
2 James George Frazer
2 Aleister Crowley
11 Lovecraft - Poems
6 City of God
3 Thus Spoke Zarathustra
3 Agenda Vol 03
2 The Secret Doctrine
2 The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna
2 The Golden Bough
2 The Divine Comedy
2 The Bible
2 Magick Without Tears
2 Collected Works of Nolini Kanta Gupta - Vol 07
2 Agenda Vol 12
2 Agenda Vol 10
2 Agenda Vol 01
0 1958-09-16 - OM NAMO BHAGAVATEH, #Agenda Vol 01, #unset, #Zen
The words came afterwards, as if they had been superimposed upon the states of consciousness, grafted onto them. Some of the associations seem unexpected, but they were the exact expression of the states of consciousness in their order of unfolding. They came one after another, as if the contact was trying to become more complete. And the last was like a triumph. As soon as I finished writing (in writing, all this becomes rather flat), the impetus within was Still Alive and it gave me the sense of an all-conquering Truth. And the last mantra sprang forth:
Seigneur, Dieu de la Vrit victorieuse!
0 1960-11-26, #Agenda Vol 01, #unset, #Zen
But immediately, the following dayDarshan dayas the thing developed (you see, something was working inside), I could again turn my attention to the people who were there. And oddly enough, just when you came, there was suddenly a kind of little shock, like an electric shock, and a spark leapt out. And at that moment the Power acted for perhaps a split second You see, there has been this bad karma, this old formation around you for a very long time, and it hadnt I recall telling you several years ago, I shall be able to cure such cases as yours only when the Supramental descends. And this feeling of incapacity, of something resisting, was still present, Still Aliveof not having the right power to dominate it. But just as you went by, for a second, there was this flash of like a spark when two electric wires touch. It was a golden spark, a resplendent lightzzzt! And it leapt out. Ah! I thought; its good.
That was it.
0 1962-01-15, #Agenda Vol 03, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
You spoke last time of putting a body on a vital being. Is that being Still Alive? Who was it?
I have spoken of this before.
0 1962-05-18, #Agenda Vol 03, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
So to be understood I said, I am no more in my body. But it isnt that. I hadnt been in my body, my consciousness had been outside my body, for quite a long time! But there was a kind of connection, you know, something that made me feel it as my body. (If I spoke carelessly, I could now say what used to be my body, although I know well enough its Still Alive!). Well, from April 3 on, when everyone claimed I was so sick and I was forbidden to get out of bed, I had the impression that what was called my body was now outside me.
There was a relation, I kept a link with it, but it took some days to get established (I dont know how many, because for a long time I couldnt keep track of anything). After some days (say ten days, twenty days, I dont know), the will began to function, the body was again under the control of the will. But that didnt happen right away for some days, the will that deals with the body was annulled (I was entirely conscious and alive, but not in my body). The body was merely something moved around by the people looking after me. Not that it was separate, but I couldnt even say, its a body it wasnt anything any more! Something. Having undergone so much preparation, the universalization of the body-consciousness and all that, the experience didnt even seem strange to me (in fact, it was certainly the result of all that preparation). The body was something like a mass of substance being driven by the will of the three people looking after it. Not that I was unaware of it but. I wasnt much concerned with it, to tell the truth; but as far as my attention was turned to it, it was a corporeal mass being moved around by a few wills. The supreme Will was in full agreement; the body had been entrusted, in a way (I dont know how to express this) yes, it was like something entrusted, and I was simply looking on I watched it all for I dont know how many days, with hardly any interest.
0 1962-07-21, #Agenda Vol 03, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
Ah, look at thisyesterday someone read me a letter Sri Aurobindo wrote to Barin in April 1920, a few days before I returned from Japan. It was written in Bengalitremendously interesting! He speaks of the state of the world, particularly India, and of how he envisaged a certain part of his action after completing his yoga. Its extremely interesting. And theres some very high praise for Europe. Sri Aurobindo says something like this: You all think Europe is over and done with, but thats not true, its not finished yet. In other words, its power is Still Alive.
This was in 1920.
0 1963-12-25, #Agenda Vol 04, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
Then He seemed to lead me to other places, where I saw a sort of scorpion with a very odd shape (it was also a sort of entity in that realm and it gave other illnesses) trying to climb up somewhere. There was also a truncated snake which had been cut through, and out of the cut something like its life was escaping, yet it was Still Alive. All kinds of horrors. But there wasnt the slightest feeling of disgust: it was more like a consciousness studying, observing, and the I that observed was the force exerted by the consciousness on the play of those things.
It isnt a pleasant realm. Its the realm thats just like this (Mother places one hand over the other), immediately beyond (how can I put it? Its neither higher nor deeper inside) beyond the subtle physical, and its the realm in which formations of illness MATERIALIZE. I spent more than three hours of the night in it.
0 1964-08-26, #Agenda Vol 05, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
But when you want to be absolutely sincere and not to kid yourself, in other words, not to be satisfied with explanations of appearances, you realize that you know nothing. All the experiences I have with people leaving their bodies, the more I have, the more puzzling it is. For instance, not very long ago, I had an experience with L. The night before she officially died, she came to me in an absolutely concrete manner: she had settled down and didnt want to leave mewherever I went she followed me. She seemed to be clinging to me, talking to me, asking me questionsofficially she was Still Alive. And there was a sort of tall being (those beings are connected to Death; I dont know their exact name, in the traditions they have been given all kinds of namesthose are things I dont know at all theoretically). This time, a being of that sort was there, and it was as if he had given her permission to be there for a certain time, as if he were in charge of her and of taking her away once the time was up (all this without words, but understood). Then she told me (after literally sticking to me: I couldnt do anything anymore, she was taking up all my time), she told me, I wanted to leave my body on (I dont remember exactly, it was a Darshan day, November 24 or August 15, but if it was August 15, then she came to see me on the 14th). So I answered her, Listen, today isnt the 15th yet; if you want to leave on the 15th, you should go back now. (That was to get rid of her! It was so concrete, you know, like when you have someone in your room and cant get rid of him.) Finally, I looked at that tall individual who was standing there perfectly peacefully and as if indifferent (he was there as an active permission), and I I didnt tell him, but communicated to him that perhaps it was time to take her away. And prrt! she left instantlyhe was awaiting my order. None of this corresponds to any active knowledge on my part: thats just how it happened. And when she came back into her body in the morning, she told those waiting around her, I spent the night with Mother, I was with her, I didnt leave her. She sent me back, but now I am going back to her. I was told this in the morning. A few hours later, she died. So the agreement is excellent, everything tallies. But her intention was not to leave me after her death (she came in the night with the idea that she was dead and that she was leaving me). Well, after she really died, I didnt get a SINGLE sign of her!
So I sat there wondering, Is there really a difference of consciousness between the time when there is life in the body and the time when one leaves? It was a problem for me for days.
0 1969-06-11, #Agenda Vol 10, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
Raymond is a great architect. When they came here1 and built Golconde, I asked Raymond to prepare the plan for the first Auroville I had conceived (that was when Sri Aurobindo was Still Alive), and it was magnificent! He didnt leave it here.
But it was an Auroville with, at the center, Sri Aurobindos house (gesture on a hilltop). Sri Aurobindo was alive, so we had put him at the center.
0 1969-10-11, #Agenda Vol 10, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
Ah, yes, its M. who met him. He asked M., How is it that Maharshi let himself die of cancer? Then M. told him that when he was Still Alive, someone asked him why he allowed the cancer, and he replied, Oh, the very body is a cancer. So it seems that A.R. was indignant.
With good reason!
--
When seals are born (a certain species of seals), theyre all white, and they remain so for a few weeks, then they lose their hair and turn graygray or yellowish, like their fathers and mothers. And as its the fashion to wear all-white fur coats, some people Its organized by some trader or other: seals gather at the time of giving birth, theres a place there, in the North, on an island, where they gather in their thousands, and each mother gives birth to a single child. So those people go there in boats, fully equipped, and when the seals are born, they kill themthousands of them at one go. It takes ten or fifteen skins to make a coat. And they slaughter them. But then, for the carnage to be cheap (you understand, it shouldnt cost too much), they club the animals on their heads, then with big butchers knives they skin them on the spotskin them while theyre Still Alive.
That is to say it seems they shriek, you know, they arent dumb. It seems its
0 1971-10-02, #Agenda Vol 12, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
(Last year, after the death of General de Gaulle, Satprems friend Y.L. had met Andr Malraux at Verrires; he immediately asked her, Is the Mother Still Alive? As Y.L. was a little taken aback, he added, I went there before you, 33 years ago. So I assume you know what they have been looking for in India. Again a few days ago, Y.L. met Andr Malraux after his cry Volunteer for Bengal; he said to her, What is essential in the fight Im going to wage for Bengal is to know the attitude and action of Pondicherry. Y.L. therefore came to put the question directly to Mother. Mother asked, When is Andr Malraux meeting Indira Gandhi? In November, in Paris. Mother again asked, When is Andr Malraux thinking of coming to India? I dont know. Then Mother remained absorbed a long time and said, He will only get THE answer when he arrives in India, because the answer is in him. After meeting Indira Gandhi in Paris, Andr Malraux will renounce his plan of action. Let us note that when Y.L. met him, he leafed through the Auroville pressbook and said, All this is familiar Im part of it I know this. And closing the book, Its as if the sun had risen. And it goes down. And we begin again. Y.L. simply replied: And what if the sun has risen for good?)
[These notes are taken from Y.L.s travel diary.]
0 1971-10-16, #Agenda Vol 12, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
So he asked about you, if you were Still Alive, and also he has written a book on the cosmic tradition. He wanted to send you a copy of the book as an expression of his respectful admiration. And finally he sent the book by air. Here it is: its called In the Shadow of the Cosmic Tradition.
(Mother laughs) Have you looked at it?
1.01 - Tara the Divine, #Tara - The Feminine Divine, #unset, #Zen
sister were Still Alive and lived in a certain place.
- 31 -
1.02 - MAPS OF MEANING - THREE LEVELS OF ANALYSIS, #Maps of Meaning, #Jordan Peterson, #Psychology
he were Still Alive! How sorry I am that I ordered him to be killed.
He is Still Alive, said the huntsman. I could not find it in my heart to carry out your commands.
And he told the King what had taken place.
1.02 - The Ultimate Path is Without Difficulty, #The Blue Cliff Records, #Yuanwu Keqin, #Zen
3. What's in front of your eyes? The Third Patriarch is Still Alive.
4. Two heads, three faces. A little boasting. When a fish swims
1.056 - Lack of Knowledge is the Cause of Suffering, #The Study and Practice of Yoga, #Swami Krishnananda, #Yoga
So, this caution given to us here is that, in our practices, we should not ignore the presence of the cause and get engaged too much merely in the effect, since whatever be the intensity of the practice in respect of the control of the effect, it will not be finally successful because the major-general is alive, and he will not keep quiet like that. We are attacking the poor soldiers while the commander is Still Alive, and he has other resources to attack us even if a regiment is destroyed by the effort of our practice. The cause has to be tackled; unless that is overcome there is no use merely confronting the effects. This is the advice given here.
1.06 - THE MASTER WITH THE BRAHMO DEVOTEES, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
Rama, I am able to witness all this lila of Yours because I am Still Alive. I want to live longer so that I may see the many more things You will do on this earth.' (All laugh.) (To Shivanath) "I like to see you. How can I live unless I see pure-souled devotees? I feel as if they had been my friends in a former incarnation."
Reincarnation of soul & Inscrutability of God's ways A BRAHMO DEVOTEE: "Sir, do you believe in the reincarnation of the soul?"
1.06 - Wealth and Government, #Words Of The Mother III, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
What I see is the world of tomorrow, but the world of yesterday is Still Alive and will still live for some time. Let the old arrangements go on so long as they are alive.
Upon earth, the changes are slow to come.
1.07 - The Psychic Center, #Sri Aurobindo or the Adventure of Consciousness, #Satprem, #Integral Yoga
moments of pure transparency or of a sudden blossoming, and twenty or forty years later that picture is Still Alive, along with the exact hue of the sky, the stone along the path, or the insignificant gesture enacted on that day, as if all that had now become eternal. It is not even "as if"; it is eternal. These are the only moments we have lived,
the only moments when a real "I" has broken through to the surface in thousands of hours of nonexistence. In tragic circumstances, also, the psychic can emerge, when the whole being is gathered up in such a poignant intensity that something in us is suddenly rent asunder; then we sense something like a presence behind, which makes us do things we would normally be incapable of doing. For this is the other face of the psychic: not only is it joy and sweetness, but also quiet strength, as if it were forever above every possible tragedy an invulnerable master. In this case, too, the details of a scene can be indelibly engraved. But what passes on to the next life is not so much the details as the essence of the scene: we will be struck by certain repetitive patterns of events or deadlocked situations that have an air of dj vu and seem surrounded by an aura of fatality for what has not been overcome in the past returns again and again, each time with a slightly different appearance, but basically always identical, until we confront the old knot and untie it. Such is the law of inner progress.
1.10 - Farinata and Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti. Discourse on the Knowledge of the Damned., #The Divine Comedy, #Dante Alighieri, #Christianity
Saidst thou,he had? Is he not Still Alive?
Does not the sweet light strike upon his eyes?"
1.17 - Geryon. The Violent against Art. Usurers. Descent into the Abyss of Malebolge., #The Divine Comedy, #Dante Alighieri, #Christianity
Now get thee gone; and since thou'rt Still Alive,
Know that a neighbour of mine, Vitaliano,
1.25 - ADVICE TO PUNDIT SHASHADHAR, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
Others say that he is Still Alive and that they saw him off on a railway train.
Master and Keshab
1.32 - Expounds these words of the Paternoster Fiat voluntas tua sicut in coelo et in terra. Describes how much is accomplished by those who repeat these words with full resolution and how well, #The Way of Perfection, #Saint Teresa of Avila, #Christianity
since He gives you His Kingdom while you are Still Alive. Would you like to see how He treats
those who make this prayer from their hearts? Ask His glorious Son, Who made it thus in the
1.45 - The Corn-Mother and the Corn-Maiden in Northern Europe, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism
many persons Still Alive. Great was the excitement among the reapers
when the last patch of standing corn was reached. All in turn threw
1.47 - Reincarnation, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Philosophy
One who is vowed to the AA's Mission for Mankind, who takes it dead seriously, and who will be neither frightened nor bored from Its majestic purpose, may at any time bind himself by an Oath to reject the rewards of Devachan, and reincarnate immediately again and again. By "immediately" is meant about 6 months before the birth of the new Adept, about 3 months after his last death. It depends to some extent, no doubt, on whether he can find a suitable vehicle. Presumably he will make some sort of o preparation while Still Alive. It seems that I personally must have taken this Oath quite a long while ago; for the Incarnations which I actually remember leave very few gaps to be filled in the last dozen centuries or so.
Now, dear sister, I don't like this letter at all, and I am sorry that I had to write it. For most of these statements are insusceptible of proof.
1.66 - The External Soul in Folk-Tales, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism
only to learn from the princess that the warlock was Still Alive.
Then she fell to wheedling and coaxing Koshchei once more, and this
1.66 - Vampires, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Philosophy
How? The traditional method is to get possession of some object or substance intimately connected with the victim. On this you work magically so as to absorb its virtue. It is best if it was as recently as possible part of his living tissue; for instance, a nail-paring, a hair plucked from his head. Something Still Alive or nearly so, and still part of the complex of energies that he included in his conception of his body.
Best of all are fluids and secretions, notably blood and one other of supreme importance to the continuity of life. When you can get these Still Alive to their function, it is best of all. That is why it is not so highly recommended to tear out and devour the heart and liver of your next-door neighbour; you have gone far to destroy just that which is of most importance to you to keep alive.
Doubtless you will reply with some apparent justice, indeed most plausible is such ratiocination, that by taking into your own body, and so preserving the life of, his heart and liver, the whole of his "vital energies" will desert the sinking ship of the physical tissue, and rush to the lifeboat provided by the vampire. Never forget that you confer an inestimable benefit upon the victim by absorbing his lower point of Energy into your higher. Read your Magick, Chapter XII![129]
1954-03-03 - Occultism - A French scientists experiment, #Questions And Answers 1954, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
Sweet Mother, I did not understand the ending, the last paragraph: There is yet another way to conquer the fear of death, but it is within the reach of so few that it is mentioned here only as a matter of information. It is to enter into the domain of death deliberately and consciously while one is Still Alive, and then to return from this region and re-enter the physical body, resuming the course of material existence with full knowledge. But for that one must be an initiate.
What do you want to say? You have not understood what I meant? I am not surprised! Has anyone understood?
1f.lovecraft - Herbert West-Reanimator, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
that at least one of our reanimated specimens was Still Alivea
frightful carnivorous thing in a padded cell at Sefton. Then there was
--
it was Still Alive and vigorous. A struggle, a needle, and a powerful
alkaloid had transformed it to a very fresh corpse, and the experiment
1f.lovecraft - Nyarlathotep, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
exactly the same, and Still Alive; and when the electric lights began
to fade we cursed the company over and over again, and laughed at the
1f.lovecraft - The Colour out of Space, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
and it was Still Alive after a fashion. Whether it had crawled or
whether it had been dragged by any external force, Ammi could not say;
1f.lovecraft - The Curse of Yig, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
Still Alive, known now as Grandma Compton; and her son Clyde, then an
infant in arms, has become one of the leading men of the state. Sally
1f.lovecraft - The Last Test, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
he was Still Alive, she gave vent to an involuntary sigh, profound,
long-drawn, and tremulous, and lapsed at last into kindly oblivion.
1f.lovecraft - The Lurking Fear, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
fireplace from which my eyes had never strayed. That I am Still Alive
and sane, is a marvel I cannot fathom. I cannot fathom it, for the
1f.lovecraft - The Man of Stone, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
March 11It is very queer. She is Still Alive and moving. Tuesday
night I heard her piggling with a window, so went up and gave her a
1f.lovecraft - The Mound, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
Eaglewho, through some miracle, was Still Alive; though he must have
been close to a hundred and fifty years old. He was a strange,
1f.lovecraft - The Trap, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
Grandison was Still Alive.
That I should be receptive of such a notion will not seem strange to
1f.lovecraft - Through the Gates of the Silver Key, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
the ground that he was Still Alive in another time-dimension and might
well return some day. Against him was arrayed the legal talent of one
1f.lovecraft - Winged Death, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
and then takes hold of his soul and personality if it is Still Alive
itselfflying around with all his likes, dislikes, and consciousness. A
1.fs - The Complaint Of Ceres, #Schiller - Poems, #Friedrich Schiller, #Poetry
Memory is Still Alive to love,
And still the faithful heart can beat!
1.lla - I, Lalla, willingly entered through the garden-gate, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
English version by B. N. Paramoo Original Language Kashmiri I, Lalla, willingly entered through the garden-gate, There, O Joy! I found Siva united with Sakti; There and then I got absorbed drinking at the Lake of Nectar. Immune to harm am I, dead as I am to the world, though Still Alive. [bk1sm.gif] -- from The Ascent of Self: A Reinterpretation of the Mystical Poetry of Lalla-Ded, by B. N. Paramoo <
1.rt - Shyama, #Tagore - Poems, #Rabindranath Tagore, #Poetry
Her image is Still Alive in my mind.
The southern gate of the room was open
1.tm - In Silence, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
Original Language English Be still. Listen to the stones of the wall. Be silent, they try to speak your name. Listen to the living walls. Who are you? Who are you? Whose silence are you? Who (be quiet) are you (as these stones are quiet). Do not think of what you are still less of what you may one day be. Rather be what you are (but who?) be the unthinkable one you do not know. O be still, while you are Still Alive, and all things live around you speaking (I do not hear) to your own being, speaking by the unknown that is in you and in themselves. I will try, like them to be my own silence: and this is difficult. The whole world is secretly on fire. The stones burn, even the stones they burn me. How can a man be still or listen to all things burning? How can he dare to sit with them when all their silence is on fire? [bk1sm.gif] -- from The Strange Islands: Poems by Thomas Merton, by Thomas Merton <
2.10 - THE DANCING SONG, #Thus Spoke Zarathustra, #Friedrich Nietzsche, #Philosophy
What? Are you Still Alive, Zarathustra?
110
2.11 - THE TOMB SONG, #Thus Spoke Zarathustra, #Friedrich Nietzsche, #Philosophy
Invulnerable am I only in the heel. You are Still Alive
and your old self, most patient one. You have still
2.18 - January 1939, #Evening Talks With Sri Aurobindo, #unset, #Zen
Sri Aurobindo: Bhulabhai is Still Alive?
Disciple: Yes. He is nearly eighty-five.
3.02 - THE DEPLOYMENT OF THE NOOSPHERE, #The Phenomenon of Man, #Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, #Christianity
fallen ; leaves Still Alive but beginning to turn yellow ; leaves
not yet opened but full of vigour ; the complete section, almost
3.05 - SAL, #Mysterium Coniunctionis, #Carl Jung, #Psychology
[342] The psychological equivalent of the chaotic water of the beginning684 is the unconscious, which the old writers could grasp only in projected form, just as today most people cannot see the beam in their own eye but are all too well aware of the mote in their brothers. Political propaganda exploits this primitivity and conquers the naive with their own defect. The only defence against this overwhelming danger is recognition of the shadow. The sight of its darkness is itself an illumination, a widening of consciousness through integration of the hitherto unconscious components of the personality. Freuds efforts to bring the shadow to consciousness are the logical and salutary answer to the almost universal unconsciousness and projection-proneness of the general public. It is as though Freud, with sure instinct, had sought to avert the danger of nation-wide psychic epidemics that threatened Europe. What he did not see was that the confrontation with the shadow is not just a harmless affair that can be settled by reason. The shadow is the primitive who is Still Alive and active in civilized man, and our civilized reason means nothing to him. He needs to be ruled by a higher authority, such as is found in the great religions. Even when Reason triumphed at the beginning of the French Revolution it was quickly turned into a goddess and enthroned in Notre-Dame.
[343] The shadow exerts a dangerous fascination which can be countered only by another fascinosum. It cannot be got at by reason, even in the most rational person, but only by illumination, of a degree and kind that are equal to the darkness but are the exact opposite of enlightenment. For what we call rational is everything that seems fitting to the man in the street, and the question then arises whether this fitness may not in the end prove to be irrational in the bad sense of the word. Sometimes, even with the best intentions this dilemma cannot be solved. This is the moment when the primitive trusts himself to a higher authority and to a decision beyond his comprehension. The civilized man in his closed-in environment functions in a fitting and appropriate manner, that is, rationally. But if, because of some apparently insoluble dilemma, he gets outside the confines of civilization, he becomes a primitive again; then he has irrational ideas and acts on hunches; then he no longer thinks but it thinks in him; then he needs magical practices in order to gain a feeling of security; then the latent autonomy of the unconscious becomes active and begins to manifest itself as it has always done in the past.
3.11 - Spells, #Advanced Dungeons and Dragons 2E, #unset, #Zen
Consider the following example. A party is battling a spellcasting red dragon. In the first round, the dragon breathes fire, roasting the party's wizard. The rest of the group attacks and injures the dragon. On the second round, the dragon bites and kills the group's thief. More damage is caused to the beast, but it is Still Alive in the third round, when it uses magic missile to kill the ranger. At this point, the priest casts reverse time on the beast. Fortunately, it fails its saving throw and is forced to reverse the last four rounds.
While everyone else freezes, the dragon goes into reverse. The magic missiles zoom back to the dragon (and it regains the ability to cast that spell), it "unbites" the thief (removing that damage from the character), and then inhales its fiery breath (leaving the roasted wizard alive and uncooked). The dragon is then reversed through one more round--the round before it encounterd the party. The spell then ends and actions resume.
3.2.01 - The Newness of the Integral Yoga, #Letters On Yoga II, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
Plenty of people, I suppose, would go on with the old lines1for it is not likely that all would be able to take this line. As for the Darshanas most of them have fallen into disuse already except as a battlefield for Pandits. It is only the Vedanta and Patanjali and the later Bhakti Yoga that are Still Alive, not so much as darshanas but as traditional systems of Yoga.
The correspondent asked, "Is it not likely that the Darshanas and Upanishads will be forgotten in the next hundred years as the New Yoga establishes itself in the world? If it is possible to get the necessary things from your writings and the Mother's, who would care to read the enigmatic sutras and concealed formulas of the Darshanas, Upanishads and Vedas?"Ed.
33.02 - Subhash, Oaten: atlas, Russell, #Collected Works of Nolini Kanta Gupta - Vol 07, #Nolini Kanta Gupta, #Integral Yoga
I have heard that Ullas is Still Alive, though almost halfdead, they say. Ten or twelve years of jail in the Andamans deranged him in body and mind. But this after all was part of the ritual of sacrifice. As Barin used to say, "Such indeed was the vow in this kind of marriage."
For, the enthusiasm of that day, that reawakening to new life, took no account whatever of the gains and the losses. It forged ahead by itself, it drew its secret support from its own momentum. That was why people gazed wide-eyed in wonder, that was why they all joined in a mighty chorus:
33.03 - Muraripukur - I, #Collected Works of Nolini Kanta Gupta - Vol 07, #Nolini Kanta Gupta, #Integral Yoga
I had already taken a vow about a year ago, in front of a picture of Kali at a secret ceremony at dead of night, a vow written out in blood drawn from the chest, that I should dedicate my life to the whole-hearted service of the Motherland. With me there was a companion, and also a local leader who had read out the oath. This leader became a Sannyasin later on and rose to be the head of a Math; he has since given up his body, so I have heard. My companion of that day is Still Alive. He did not give up the world and in fact became a very successful man; at present he is enjoying his rest in retirement.
I lived in a students' Mess, one that had acquired quite a name. Among the inmates were Atul Gupta, Charu Bhattacharya (late of the Visvabharati), and a little before my time there was Naresh Chandra Sengupta. In my first year of College, Atul Gupta was in his fourth year, Charu Bhattacharya in his fifth and Naresh Sengupta had just passed out. I happened once to set foot in the room he used to occupy and there I found scattered about the floor a few pages torn out of a note-book which read very much like love letters. This seemed to me a little strange, but later I realised these were some pages from the manuscript of one of his novels.
Aeneid, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
are Still Alive or if they have undergone
the final change and can no longer hear
--
Ascanius are Still Alive? The Argive
lines ring them all about; and if my care
BOOK II. -- PART II. THE ARCHAIC SYMBOLISM OF THE WORLD-RELIGIONS, #The Secret Doctrine, #H P Blavatsky, #Theosophy
is only "four-armed," as the fifth race is Still Alive. He is the "God of Time," Saturn-Kronos, as his
damaru (drum), in the shape of an hour-glass, shows; and if he is accused of having cut off Brahma's
BOOK I. -- PART III. SCIENCE AND THE SECRET DOCTRINE CONTRASTED, #The Secret Doctrine, #H P Blavatsky, #Theosophy
the undulatory theory is Still Alive." ("Isis Unveiled.")
To this remark of Sir W. Brewster -- "forced to reason as if light was material" -- there is a good deal
Book of Genesis, #The Bible, #Anonymous, #Various
27 This is the account of Terahs family line. Terah became the father of Abram, Nahor and Haran. And Haran became the father of Lot. 28 While his father Terah was Still Alive, Haran died in Ur of the Chaldeans, in the land of his birth. 29 Abram and Nahor both married. The name of Abrams wife was Sarai, and the name of Nahors wife was Milkah; she was the daughter of Haran, the father of both Milkah and Iskah. 30 Now Sarai was childless because she was not able to conceive. 31 Terah took his son Abram, his grandson Lot son of Haran, and his daughter-in-law Sarai, the wife of his son Abram, and together they set out from Ur of the Chaldeans to go to Canaan. But when they came to Harran, they settled there. 32 Terah lived 205 years, and he died in Harran.
GENESIS 12-50: THE PATRIARCHAL HISTORY OF ISRAEL
Book of Imaginary Beings (text), #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
[If the man who saw you is Still Alive, your whole story is
a lie, since if he has not died he cannot have seen you, and
BOOK XIII. - That death is penal, and had its origin in Adam's sin, #City of God, #Saint Augustine of Hippo, #Christianity
The point of time in which the souls of the good and evil are separated from the body, are we to say it is after death, or in death rather? If it is after death, then it is not death which is good or evil, since death is done with and past, but[Pg 529] it is the life which the soul has now entered on. Death was an evil when it was present, that is to say, when it was being suffered by the dying; for to them it brought with it a severe and grievous experience, which the good make a good use of. But when death is past, how can that which no longer is be either good or evil? Still further, if we examine the matter more closely, we shall see that even that sore and grievous pain which the dying experience is not death itself. For so long as they have any sensation, they are certainly Still Alive; and, if Still Alive, must rather be said to be in a state previous to death than in death. For when death actually comes, it robs us of all bodily sensation, which, while death is only approaching, is painful. And thus it is difficult to explain how we speak of those who are not yet dead, but are agonized in their last and mortal extremity, as being in the article of death. Yet what else can we call them than dying persons? for when death which was imminent shall have actually come, we can no longer call them dying but dead. No one, therefore, is dying unless living; since even he who is in the last extremity of life, and, as we say, giving up the ghost, yet lives. The same person is therefore at once dying and living, but drawing near to death, departing from life; yet in life, because his spirit yet abides in the body; not yet in death, because not yet has his spirit forsaken the body. But if, when it has forsaken it, the man is not even then in death, but after death, who shall say when he is in death? On the one hand, no one can be called dying, if a man cannot be dying and living at the same time; and as long as the soul is in the body, we cannot deny that he is living. On the other hand, if the man who is approaching death be rather called dying, I know not who is living.
10. Of the life of mortals, which is rather to be called death than life.
BOOK XVIII. - A parallel history of the earthly and heavenly cities from the time of Abraham to the end of the world, #City of God, #Saint Augustine of Hippo, #Christianity
In his times also, by the promise of God, Isaac, the son of Abraham, was born to his father when he was a hundred years old, of Sarah his wife, who, being barren and old, had already lost hope of issue. Aralius was then the fifth king of the Assyrians. To Isaac himself, in his sixtieth year, were born twin-sons, Esau and Jacob, whom Rebecca his wife bore to him, their grandfa ther Abraham, who died on completing a hundred and seventy years, being Still Alive, and reckoning his hundred and sixtieth year.[498] At that time there reigned as the seventh kings,among the Assyrians, that more ancient Xerxes, who was also called Balus; and among the Sicyons,[Pg 221] Thuriachus, or, as some write his name, Thurimachus. The kingdom of Argos, in which Inachus reigned first, arose in the time of Abraham's grandchildren. And I must not omit what Varro relates, that the Sicyons were also wont to sacrifice at the tomb of their seventh king Thuriachus. In the reign of Armamitres in Assyria and Leucippus in Sicyon as the eighth kings, and of Inachus as the first in Argos, God spoke to Isaac, and promised the same two things to him as to his father,namely, the land of Canaan to his seed, and the blessing of all nations in his seed. These same things were promised to his son, Abraham's grandson, who was at first called Jacob, afterwards Israel, when Belocus was the ninth king of Assyria, and Phoroneus, the son of Inachus, reigned as the second king of Argos, Leucippus still continuing king of Sicyon. In those times, under the Argive king Phoroneus, Greece was made more famous by the institution of certain laws and judges. On the death of Phoroneus, his younger brother Phegous built a temple at his tomb, in which he was worshipped as God, and oxen were sacrificed to him. I believe they thought him worthy of so great honour, because in his part of the kingdom (for their father had divided his territories between them, in which they reigned during his life) he had founded chapels for the worship of the gods, and had taught them to measure time by months and years, and to that extent to keep count and reckoning of events. Men still uncultivated, admiring him for these novelties, either fancied he was, or resolved that he should be made, a god after his death. Io also is said to have been the daughter of Inachus, who was afterwards called Isis, when she was worshipped in Egypt as a great goddess; although others write that she came as a queen out of Ethiopia, and because she ruled extensively and justly, and instituted for her subjects letters and many useful things, such divine honour was given her there after she died, that if any one said she had been human, he was charged with a capital crime.
4. Of the times of Jacob and his son Joseph.
In the reign of Balus, the ninth king of Assyria, and Mesappus, the eighth of Sicyon, who is said by some to have[Pg 222] been also called Cephisos (if indeed the same man had both names, and those who put the other name in their writings have not rather confounded him with another man), while Apis was third king of Argos, Isaac died, a hundred and eighty years old, and left his twin-sons a hundred and twenty years old. Jacob, the younger of these, belonged to the city of God about which we write (the elder being wholly rejected), and had twelve sons, one of whom, called Joseph, was sold by his brothers to merchants going down to Egypt, while his grandfa ther Isaac was Still Alive. But when he was thirty years of age, Joseph stood before Pharaoh, being exalted out of the humiliation he endured, because, in divinely interpreting the king's dreams, he foretold that there would be seven years of plenty, the very rich abundance of which would be consumed by seven other years of famine that should follow. On this account the king made him ruler over Egypt, liberating him from prison, into which he had been thrown for keeping his chastity intact; for he bravely preserved it from his mistress, who wickedly loved him, and told lies to his weakly credulous master, and did not consent to commit adultery with her, but fled from her, leaving his garment in her hands when she laid hold of him. In the second of the seven years of famine Jacob came down into Egypt to his son with all he had, being a hundred and thirty years old, as he himself said in answer to the king's question. Joseph was then thirty-nine, if we add seven years of plenty and two of famine to the thirty he reckoned when honoured by the king.
5. Of Apis king of Argos, whom the Egyptians called Serapis, and worshipped with divine honours.
BOOK XVII. - The history of the city of God from the times of the prophets to Christ, #City of God, #Saint Augustine of Hippo, #Christianity
David therefore reigned in the earthly Jerusalem, a son of the heavenly Jerusalem, much praised by the divine testimony; for even his faults are overcome by great piety, through the most salutary humility of his repentance, that he is altogether one of those of whom he himself says, "Blessed are they whose iniquities are forgiven, and whose sins are covered."[475] After him Solomon his son reigned over the same whole people, who, as was said before, began to reign while his father was Still Alive. This man, after good beginnings, made a bad end. For indeed "prosperity, which wears out the minds of the wise,"[476] hurt him more than that wisdom profited him, which even yet is and shall hereafter be renowned, and was then praised far and wide. He also is found to have prophesied in his books, of which three are received as of canonical authority, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and the Song of Songs. But it has been customary to ascribe to Solomon other two, of which one is called Wisdom, the other Ecclesiasticus, on account of some resemblance of style,but the more learned have no doubt that they are not his; yet of old the Church, especially the Western, received them into authority,in the one of which, called the Wisdom of Solomon, the passion of Christ is most openly prophesied. For indeed His impious murderers are quoted as saying, "Let us lie in wait for the righteous, for he is unpleasant to us, and contrary to our works; and he upbraideth us with our transgressions of the law, and objecteth to our disgrace the transgressions of our education. He professeth to have the knowledge of God, and he calleth himself the Son of God. He was made to reprove our thoughts. He is grievous for us even to behold; for his[Pg 210] life is unlike other men's, and his ways are different. We are esteemed of him as counterfeits; and he abstaineth from our ways as from filthiness. He extols the latter end of the righteous; and glorieth that he hath God for his Father. Let us see, therefore, if his words be true; and let us try what shall happen to him, and we shall know what shall be the end of him. For if the righteous be the Son of God, He will undertake for him, and deliver him out of the hand of those that are against him. Let us put him to the question with contumely and torture, that we may know his reverence, and prove his patience. Let us condemn him to the most shameful death; for by His own sayings He shall be respected. These things did they imagine, and were mistaken; for their own malice hath quite blinded them."[477] But in Ecclesiasticus the future faith of the nations is predicted in this manner: "Have mercy upon us, O God, Ruler of all, and send Thy fear upon all the nations: lift up Thine hand over the strange nations, and let them see Thy power. As Thou wast sanctified in us before them, so be Thou sanctified in them before us, and let them acknowledge Thee, according as we also have acknowledged Thee; for there is not a God beside Thee, O Lord."[478] We see this prophecy in the form of a wish and prayer fulfilled through Jesus Christ. But the things which are not written in the canon of the Jews cannot be quoted against their contradictions with so great validity.
But as regards those three books which it is evident are Solomon's, and held canonical by the Jews, to show what of this kind may be found in them pertaining to Christ and the Church demands a laborious discussion, which, if now entered on, would leng then this work unduly. Yet what we read in the Proverbs of impious men saying, "Let us unrighteously hide in the earth the righteous man; yea, let us swallow him up alive as hell, and let us take away his memory from the earth: let us seize his precious possession,"[479] is not so obscure that it may not be understood, without laborious exposition, of Christ and His possession the Church. Indeed, the gospel parable about the wicked husbandmen shows that our Lord Jesus Himself said something like it: "This is the heir; come,[Pg 211] let us kill him, and the inheritance shall be ours."[480] In like manner also that passage in this same book, on which we have already touched[481] when we were speaking of the barren woman who hath born seven, must soon after it was uttered have come to be understood of only Christ and the Church by those who knew that Christ was the Wisdom of God. "Wisdom hath builded her an house, and hath set up seven pillars; she hath sacrificed her victims, she hath mingled her wine in the bowl; she hath also furnished her table. She hath sent her servants summoning to the bowl with excellent proclamation, saying, Who is simple, let him turn aside to me. And to the void of sense she hath said, Come, eat of my bread, and drink of the wine which I have mingled for you."[482] Here certainly we perceive that the Wisdom of God, that is, the Word co-eternal with the Father, hath builded Him an house, even a human body in the virgin womb, and hath subjoined the Church to it as members to a head, hath slain the martyrs as victims, hath furnished a table with wine and bread, where appears also the priesthood after the order of Melchizedek, and hath called the simple and the void of sense, because, as saith the apostle, "He hath chosen the weak things of this world that He might confound the things which are mighty."[483] Yet to these weak ones she saith what follows, "Forsake simplicity, that ye may live; and seek prudence, that ye may have life."[484] But to be made partakers of this table is itself to begin to have life. For when he says in another book, which is called Ecclesiastes, "There is no good for a man, except that he should eat and drink,"[485] what can he be more credibly understood to say, than what belongs to the participation of this table which the Mediator of the New Testament Himself, the Priest after the order of Melchizedek, furnishes with His own body and blood? For that sacrifice has succeeded all the sacrifices of the Old Testament, which were slain as a shadow of that which was to come; wherefore also we recognise the voice in the 40th Psalm as that of the same Mediator speaking through prophesy, "Sacrifice and offering[Pg 212] Thou didst not desire; but a body hast Thou perfected for me."[486] Because, instead of all these sacrifices and oblations, His body is offered, and is served up to the partakers of it. For that this Ecclesiastes, in this sentence about eating and drinking, which he often repeats, and very much commends, does not savour the dainties of carnal pleasures, is made plain enough when he says, "It is better to go into the house of mourning than to go into the house of feasting."[487] And a little after He says, "The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, and the heart of the simple in the house of feasting."[488] But I think that more worthy of quotation from this book which relates to both cities, the one of the devil, the other of Christ, and to their kings, the devil and Christ: "Woe to thee, O land," he says, "when thy king is a youth, and thy princes eat in the morning! Blessed art thou, O land, when thy king is the son of nobles, and thy princes eat in season, in fortitude, and not in confusion!"[489] He has called the devil a youth, because of the folly and pride, and rashness and unruliness, and other vices which are wont to abound at that age; but Christ is the Son of nobles, that is, of the holy patriarchs, of those belonging to the free city, of whom He was begotten in the flesh. The princes of that and other cities are eaters in the morning, that is, before the suitable hour, because they do not expect the seasonable felicity, which is the true, in the world to come, desiring to be speedily made happy with the renown of this world, but the princes of the city of Christ patiently wait for the time of a blessedness that is not fallacious. This is expressed by the words, "in fortitude, and not in confusion," because hope does not deceive them, of which the apostle says, "But hope maketh not ashamed."[490] A psalm also saith, "For they that hope in Thee shall not be put to shame."[491] But now the Song of Songs is a certain spiritual pleasure of holy minds, in the marriage of that King and Queen-city, that is, Christ and the Church. But this pleasure is wrapped up in allegorical veils, that the Bridegroom may be more ardently desired, and more joyfully unveiled, and may appear; to whom it is said in this same song, "Equity hath delighted Thee;"[Pg 213][492] and the bride who those hears, "Charity is in thy delights."[493] We pass over many things in silence, in our desire to finish this work.
BOOK XVI. - The history of the city of God from Noah to the time of the kings of Israel, #City of God, #Saint Augustine of Hippo, #Christianity
Wherefore, as the fact of all using one language did not secure the absence of sin-infected men from the race,for even before the deluge there was one language, and yet all but the single family of just Noah were found worthy of destruction by the flood,so when the nations, by a prouder godlessness, earned the punishment of the dispersion and the confusion of tongues, and the city of the godless was called Confusion or Babylon, there was still the house of Heber in which the primitive language of the race survived. And therefore, as I have already mentioned, when an enumeration is made of the[Pg 122] sons of Shem, who each founded a nation, Heber is first mentioned, although he was of the fifth generation from Shem. And because, when the other races were divided by their own peculiar languages, his family preserved that language which is not unreasonably believed to have been the common language of the race, it was on this account thenceforth named Hebrew. For it then became necessary to distinguish this language from the rest by a proper name; though, while there was only one, it had no other name than the language of man, or human speech, it alone being spoken by the whole human race. Some one will say: If the earth was divided by languages in the days of Peleg, Heber's son, that language, which was formerly common to all, should rather have been called after Peleg. But we are to understand that Heber himself gave to his son this name Peleg, which means Division; because he was born when the earth was divided, that is, at the very time of the division, and that this is the meaning of the words, "In his days the earth was divided."[250] For unless Heber had been Still Alive when the languages were multiplied, the language which was preserved in his house would not have been called after him. We are induced to believe that this was the primitive and common language, because the multiplication and change of languages was introduced as a punishment, and it is fit to ascribe to the people of God an immunity from this punishment. Nor is it without significance that this is the language which Abraham retained, and that he could not transmit it to all his descendants, but only to those of Jacob's line, who distinctively and eminently constituted God's people, and received His covenants, and were Christ's progenitors according to the flesh. In the same way, Heber himself did not transmit that language to all his posterity, but only to the line from which Abraham sprang. And thus, although it is not expressly stated, that when the wicked were building Babylon there was a godly seed remaining, this indistinctness is intended to stimulate research rather than to elude it. For when we see that originally there was one common language, and that Heber is mentioned before all Shem's sons, though he belonged to the fifth generation from[Pg 123] him, and that the language which the patriarchs and prophets used, not only in their conversation, but in the authoritative language of Scripture, is called Hebrew, when we are asked where that primitive and common language was preserved after the confusion of tongues, certainly, as there can be no doubt that those among whom it was preserved were exempt from the punishment it embodied, what other suggestion can we make, than that it survived in the family of him whose name it took, and that this is no small proof of the righteousness of this family, that the punishment with which the other families were visited did not fall upon it?
But yet another question is mooted: How did Heber and his son Peleg each found a nation, if they had but one language? For no doubt the Hebrew nation propagated from Heber through Abraham, and becoming through him a great people, is one nation. How, then, are all the sons of the three branches of Noah's family enumerated as founding a nation each, if Heber and Peleg did not so? It is very probable that the giant Nimrod founded also his nation, and that Scripture has named him separately on account of the extraordinary dimensions of his empire and of his body, so that the number of seventy-two nations remains. But Peleg was mentioned, not because he founded a nation (for his race and language are Hebrew), but on account of the critical time at which he was born, all the earth being then divided. Nor ought we to be surprised that the giant Nimrod lived to the time in which Babylon was founded and the confusion of tongues occurred, and the consequent division of the earth. For though Heber was in the sixth generation from Noah, and Nimrod in the fourth, it does not follow that they could not be alive at the same time. For when the generations are few, they live longer and are born later; but when they are many, they live a shorter time, and come into the world earlier. We are to understand that, when the earth was divided, the descendants of Noah who are registered as founders of nations were not only already born, but were of an age to have immense families, worthy to be called tribes or nations. And therefore we must by no means suppose that they were born in the order in which they were set down; otherwise, how could the twelve sons of Joktan,[Pg 124] another son of Heber's, and brother of Peleg, have already founded nations, if Joktan was born, as he is registered, after his brother Peleg, since the earth was divided at Peleg's birth? We are therefore to understand that, though Peleg is named first, he was born long after Joktan, whose twelve sons had already families so large as to admit of their being divided by different languages. There is nothing extraordinary in the last born being first named: of the sons of Noah, the descendants of Japheth are first named; then the sons of Ham, who was the second son; and last the sons of Shem, who was the first and oldest. Of these nations the names have partly survived, so that at this day we can see from whom they have sprung, as the Assyrians from Assur, the Hebrews from Heber, but partly have been altered in the lapse of time, so that the most learned men, by profound research in ancient records, have scarcely been able to discover the origin, I do not say of all, but of some of these nations. There is, for example, nothing in the name Egyptians to show that they are descended from Misraim, Ham's son, nor in the name Ethiopians to show a connection with Cush, though such is said to be the origin of these nations. And if we take a general survey of the names, we shall find that more have been changed than have remained the same.
BOOK XXII. - Of the eternal happiness of the saints, the resurrection of the body, and the miracles of the early Church, #City of God, #Saint Augustine of Hippo, #Christianity
But who but a very small number are aware of the cure which was wrought upon Innocentius, ex-advocate of the deputy prefecture, a cure wrought at Carthage, in my presence, and under my own eyes? For when I and my brother Alypius,[974] who were not yet clergymen,[975] though already servants of God, came[Pg 486] from abroad, this man received us, and made us live with him, for he and all his household were devotedly pious. He was being treated by medical men for fistul, of which he had a large number intricately seated in the rectum. He had already undergone an operation, and the surgeons were using every means at their comm and for his relief. In that operation he had suffered long-continued and acute pain; yet, among the many folds of the gut, one had escaped the operators so entirely, that, though they ought to have laid it open with the knife, they never touched it. And thus, though all those that had been opened were cured, this one remained as it was, and frustrated all their labour. The patient, having his suspicions awakened by the delay thus occasioned, and fearing greatly a second operation, which another medical manone of his own domesticshad told him he must undergo, though this man had not even been allowed to witness the first operation, and had been banished from the house, and with difficulty allowed to come back to his enraged master's presence,the patient, I say, broke out to the surgeons, saying, "Are you going to cut me again? Are you, after all, to fulfil the prediction of that man whom you would not allow even to be present?" The surgeons laughed at the unskilful doctor, and soothed their patient's fears with fair words and promises. So several days passed, and yet nothing they tried did him good. Still they persisted in promising that they would cure that fistula by drugs, without the knife. They called in also another old practitioner of great repute in that department, Ammonius (for he was Still Alive at that time); and he, after examining the part, promised the same result as themselves from their care and skill. On this great authority, the patient became confident, and, as if already well, vented his good spirits in facetious remarks at the expense of his domestic physician, who had predicted a second operation. To make a long story short, after a number of days had thus uselessly elapsed, the surgeons, wearied and confused, had at last to confess that he could only be cured by the knife. Agitated with excessive fear, he was terrified, and grew pale with dread; and when he collected himself and was able to speak, he ordered them to go away and never to return. Worn out with weeping, and driven by[Pg 487] necessity, it occurred to him to call in an Alexandrian, who was at that time esteemed a wonderfully skilful operator, that he might perform the operation his rage would not suffer them to do. But when he had come, and examined with a professional eye the traces of their careful work, he acted the part of a good man, and persuaded his patient to allow those same hands the satisfaction of finishing his cure which had begun it with a skill that excited his admiration, adding that there was no doubt his only hope of a cure was by an operation, but that it was thoroughly inconsistent with his nature to win the credit of the cure by doing the little that remained to be done, and rob of their reward men whose consummate skill, care, and diligence he could not but admire when he saw the traces of their work. They were therefore again received to favour; and it was agreed that, in the presence of the Alexandrian, they should operate on the fistula, which, by the consent of all, could now only be cured by the knife. The operation was deferred till the following day. But when they had left, there arose in the house such a wailing, in sympathy with the excessive despondency of the master, that it seemed to us like the mourning at a funeral, and we could scarcely repress it. Holy men were in the habit of visiting him daily; Saturninus of blessed memory, at that time bishop of Uzali, and the presbyter Gelosus, and the deacons of the church of Carthage; and among these was the bishop Aurelius, who alone of them all survives,a man to be named by us with due reverence, and with him I have often spoken of this affair, as we conversed together about the wonderful works of God, and I have found that he distinctly remembers what I am now relating. When these persons visited him that evening according to their custom, he besought them, with pitiable tears, that they would do him the honour of being present next day at what he judged his funeral rather than his suffering. For such was the terror his former pains had produced, that he made no doubt he would die in the hands of the surgeons. They comforted him, and exhorted him to put his trust in God, and nerve his will like a man. Then we went to prayer; but while we, in the usual way, were kneeling and bending to the ground, he cast himself down, as if some one were[Pg 488] hurling him violently to the earth, and began to pray; but in what a manner, with what earnestness and emotion, with what a flood of tears, with what groans and sobs, that shook his whole body, and almost prevented him speaking, who can describe! Whether the others prayed, and had not their attention wholly diverted by this conduct, I do not know. For myself, I could not pray at all. This only I briefly said in my heart: "O Lord, what prayers of Thy people dost Thou hear if Thou hearest not these?" For it seemed to me that nothing could be added to this prayer, unless he expired in praying. We rose from our knees, and, receiving the blessing of the bishop, departed, the patient beseeching his visitors to be present next morning, they exhorting him to keep up his heart. The dreaded day dawned. The servants of God were present, as they had promised to be; the surgeons arrived; all that the circumstances required was ready; the frightful instruments are produced; all look on in wonder and suspense. While those who have most influence with the patient are cheering his fainting spirit, his limbs are arranged on the couch so as to suit the hand of the operator; the knots of the bandages are untied; the part is bared; the surgeon examines it, and, with knife in hand, eagerly looks for the sinus that is to be cut. He searches for it with his eyes; he feels for it with his finger; he applies every kind of scrutiny: he finds a perfectly firm cicatrix! No words of mine can describe the joy, and praise, and thanksgiving to the merciful and almighty God which was poured from the lips of all, with tears of gladness. Let the scene be imagined rather than described!
In the same city of Carthage lived Innocentia, a very devout woman of the highest rank in the state. She had cancer in one of her breasts, a disease which, as physicians say, is incurable. Ordinarily, therefore, they either amputate, and so separate from the body the member on which the disease has seized, or, that the patient's life may be prolonged a little, though death is inevitable even if somewhat delayed, they abandon all remedies, following, as they say, the advice of Hippocrates. This the lady we speak of had been advised to by a skilful physician, who was intimate with her family; and she betook herself to God alone by prayer. On the approach[Pg 489] of Easter, she was instructed in a dream to wait for the first woman that came out from the baptistery[976] after being baptized, and to ask her to make the sign of Christ upon her sore. She did so, and was immediately cured. The physician who had advised her to apply no remedy if she wished to live a little longer, when he had examined her after this, and found that she who, on his former examination, was afflicted with that disease was now perfectly cured, eagerly asked her what remedy she had used, anxious, as we may well believe, to discover the drug which should defeat the decision of Hippocrates. But when she told him what had happened, he is said to have replied, with religious politeness, though with a contemptuous tone, and an expression which made her fear he would utter some blasphemy against Christ, "I thought you would make some great discovery to me." She, shuddering at his indifference, quickly replied, "What great thing was it for Christ to heal a cancer, who raised one who had been four days dead?" When, therefore, I had heard this, I was extremely indignant that so great a miracle, wrought in that well-known city, and on a person who was certainly not obscure, should not be divulged, and I considered that she should be spoken to, if not reprimanded on this score. And when she replied to me that she had not kept silence on the subject, I asked the women with whom she was best acquainted whether they had ever heard of this before. They told me they knew nothing of it. "See," I said, "what your not keeping silence amounts to, since not even those who are so familiar with you know of it." And as I had only briefly heard the story, I made her tell how the whole thing happened, from beginning to end, while the other women listened in great astonishment, and glorified God.
BOOK XX. - Of the last judgment, and the declarations regarding it in the Old and New Testaments, #City of God, #Saint Augustine of Hippo, #Christianity
But who are the dead which were in the sea, and which the sea presented? For we cannot suppose that those who die in the sea are not in hell, nor that their bodies are preserved in the sea; nor yet, which is still more absurd, that the sea retained the good, while hell received the bad. Who could believe this? But some very sensibly suppose that in this place the sea is put for this world. When John then wished to signify that those whom Christ should find Still Alive in the body were to be judged along with those who should rise again, he called them dead, both the good to whom it is said, "For ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God,"[743] and the wicked of whom it is said, "Let the dead bury their dead."[744] They may also be called dead, because they wear mortal bodies, as the apostle says, "The body indeed is dead because of sin; but the spirit is life because of righteousness;"[745] proving that in a living man in the body there is both a body which is dead, and a spirit which is life. Yet he did not say that the body was mortal, but dead, although immediately after he speaks in the more usual way of mortal bodies. These, then, are the dead which were in the sea, and which the sea presented, to wit, the men who were in this world, because they had not yet died, and whom the world presented for judgment. "And death and hell," he says, "gave up the dead which were in them." The sea presented them because they had merely to be found in the place where they were; but death and hell gave them up or restored them, because they[Pg 376] called them back to life, which they had already quitted. And perhaps it was not without reason that neither death nor hell were judged sufficient alone, and both were mentioned,death to indicate the good, who have suffered only death and not hell; hell to indicate the wicked, who suffer also the punishment of hell. For if it does not seem absurd to believe that the ancient saints who believed in Christ and His then future coming, were kept in places far removed indeed from the torments of the wicked, but yet in hell,[746] until Christ's blood and His descent into these places delivered them, certainly good Christians, redeemed by that precious price already paid, are quite unacquainted with hell while they wait for their restoration to the body, and the reception of their reward. After saying, "They were judged every man according to their works," he briefly added what the judgment was: "Death and hell were cast into the lake of fire;" by these names designating the devil and the whole company of his angels, for he is the author of death and the pains of hell. For this is what he had already, by anticipation, said in clearer language: "The devil who seduced them was cast into a lake of fire and brimstone." The obscure addition he had made in the words, "in which were also the beast and the false prophet," he here explains, "They who were not found written in the book of life were cast into the lake of fire." This book is not for reminding God, as if things might escape Him by forgetfulness, but it symbolizes His predestination of those to whom eternal life shall be given. For it is not that God is ignorant, and reads in the book to inform Himself, but rather His infallible prescience is the book of life in which they are written, that is to say, known beforehand.
16. Of the new heaven and the new earth.
Gorgias, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
Callicles replies, that this is only true of some of them; others have a real regard for their fellow-citizens. Granted; then there are two species of oratory; the one a flattery, another which has a real regard for the citizens. But where are the orators among whom you find the latter? Callicles admits that there are none remaining, but there were such in the days when Themistocles, Cimon, Miltiades, and the great Pericles were Still Alive. Socrates replies that none of these were true artists, setting before themselves the duty of bringing order out of disorder. The good man and true orator has a settled design, running through his life, to which he conforms all his words and actions; he desires to implant justice and eradicate injustice, to implant all virtue and eradicate all vice in the minds of his citizens. He is the physician who will not allow the sick man to indulge his appetites with a variety of meats and drinks, but insists on his exercising self-restraint. And this is good for the soul, and better than the unrestrained indulgence which Callicles was recently approving.
Here Callicles, who had been with difficulty brought to this point, turns restive, and suggests that Socrates shall answer his own questions. 'Then,' says Socrates, 'one man must do for two;' and though he had hoped to have given Callicles an 'Amphion' in return for his 'Zethus,' he is willing to proceed; at the same time, he hopes that Callicles will correct him, if he falls into error. He recapitulates the advantages which he has already won:
Guru Granth Sahib first part, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
To reach your True Home after you die, you must conquer death while you are Still Alive.
The beautiful, Unstruck Sound of the Shabad is obtained, contemplating the Guru. ||2||
Liber 46 - The Key of the Mysteries, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
again, beat me, bite me, I shall feel that you are Still Alive, but do
not rest for ever in the frightful silence of the tomb!"
--
was Still Alive, and was living at Place du Chevalier du Guet, 6. He
would tell the story of his resurrection to any one who would listen to
Phaedo, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
15. The doctrine of the immortality of the soul was not new to the Greeks in the age of Socrates, but, like the unity of God, had a foundation in the popular belief. The old Homeric notion of a gibbering ghost flitting away to Hades; or of a few illustrious heroes enjoying the isles of the blest; or of an existence divided between the two; or the Hesiodic, of righteous spirits, who become guardian angels,had given place in the mysteries and the Orphic poets to representations, partly fanciful, of a future state of rewards and punishments. (Laws.) The reticence of the Greeks on public occasions and in some part of their literature respecting this 'underground' religion, is not to be taken as a measure of the diffusion of such beliefs. If Pericles in the funeral oration is silent on the consolations of immortality, the poet Pindar and the tragedians on the other hand constantly assume the continued existence of the dead in an upper or under world. Darius and Laius are Still Alive; Antigone will be dear to her brethren after death; the way to the palace of Cronos is found by those who 'have thrice departed from evil.' The tragedy of the Greeks is not 'rounded' by this life, but is deeply set in decrees of fate and mysterious workings of powers beneath the earth. In the caricature of Aristophanes there is also a witness to the common sentiment. The Ionian and Pythagorean philosophies arose, and some new elements were added to the popular belief. The individual must find an expression as well as the world. Either the soul was supposed to exist in the form of a magnet, or of a particle of fire, or of light, or air, or water; or of a number or of a harmony of number; or to be or have, like the stars, a principle of motion (Arist. de Anim.). At length Anaxagoras, hardly distinguishing between life and mind, or between mind human and divine, attained the pure abstraction; and this, like the other abstractions of Greek philosophy, sank deep into the human intelligence. The opposition of the intelligible and the sensible, and of God to the world, supplied an analogy which assisted in the separation of soul and body. If ideas were separable from phenomena, mind was also separable from matter; if the ideas were eternal, the mind that conceived them was eternal too. As the unity of God was more distinctly acknowledged, the conception of the human soul became more developed. The succession, or alternation of life and death, had occurred to Heracleitus. The Eleatic Parmenides had stumbled upon the modern thesis, that 'thought and being are the same.' The Eastern belief in transmigration defined the sense of individuality; and some, like Empedocles, fancied that the blood which they had shed in another state of being was crying against them, and that for thirty thousand years they were to be 'fugitives and vagabonds upon the earth.' The desire of recognizing a lost mother or love or friend in the world below (Phaedo) was a natural feeling which, in that age as well as in every other, has given distinctness to the hope of immortality. Nor were ethical considerations wanting, partly derived from the necessity of punishing the greater sort of criminals, whom no avenging power of this world could reach. The voice of conscience, too, was heard reminding the good man that he was not altogether innocent. (Republic.) To these indistinct longings and fears an expression was given in the mysteries and Orphic poets: a 'heap of books' (Republic), passing under the names of Musaeus and Orpheus in Plato's time, were filled with notions of an under-world.
16. Yet after all the belief in the individuality of the soul after death had but a feeble hold on the Greek mind. Like the personality of God, the personality of man in a future state was not inseparably bound up with the reality of his existence. For the distinction between the personal and impersonal, and also between the divine and human, was far less marked to the Greek than to ourselves. And as Plato readily passes from the notion of the good to that of God, he also passes almost imperceptibly to himself and his reader from the future life of the individual soul to the eternal being of the absolute soul. There has been a clearer statement and a clearer denial of the belief in modern times than is found in early Greek philosophy, and hence the comparative silence on the whole subject which is often remarked in ancient writers, and particularly in Aristotle. For Plato and Aristotle are not further removed in their teaching about the immortality of the soul than they are in their theory of knowledge.
Talks With Sri Aurobindo 1, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
SATYENDRA: They say Ashwatthama is Still Alive.
124
--
SRI AUROBINDO: No, "Trees and Shrubs". (Laughter) Is he Still Alive? (Laughter)
NIRODBARAN: You are sending people to the other world! (Laughter)
--
be. They are better writers than she. If Romesh Dutt was Still Alive, he would
have protested against his exclusion. He could have said, "If Toru, why not
--
dead, one Still Alive. We don't know about the remaining one.
SRI AUROBINDO: One was Deshpande who was very intimate: he is dead.
Talks With Sri Aurobindo 2, #Talks With Sri Aurobindo, #unset, #Zen
of things critics say about a poet after his death. I am Still Alive. I should be
immune so long as I am alive. (Laughter)
The Act of Creation text, #The Act of Creation, #Arthur Koestler, #Psychology
times as if he were Still Alive. In the former case, the successive flashes of
reality which disrupt the web of illusion bring happy relief; in the
--
imitation of Voice and gesture another tradition Still Alive in the
nursery room. The minstrels and troubadours, the joculators or
The Gospel According to Matthew, #The Bible, #Anonymous, #Various
57 When it was evening, there came a rich man from Arimathea, named Joseph, who also was a disciple of Jesus. 58 He went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. Then Pilate ordered it to be given to him. 59 And Joseph took the body, and wrapped it in a clean linen shroud, 60 and laid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn in the rock; and he rolled a great stone to the door of the tomb, and departed. 61 Mary Magdalene and the other Mary were there, sitting opposite the sepulchre. 62 Next day, that is, after the day of Preparation, the chief priests and the Pharisees gathered before Pilate 63 and said, "Sir, we remember how that impostor said, while he was Still Alive, 'After three days I will rise again.' 64 Therefore order the sepulchre to be made secure until the third day, lest his disciples go and steal him away, and tell the people, 'He has risen from the dead,' and the last fraud will be worse than the first." 65 Pilate said to them, "You have a guard of soldiers; go, make it as secure as you can." 66 So they went and made the sepulchre secure by sealing the stone and setting a guard.
CHAPTER 28
Thus Spoke Zarathustra text, #Thus Spoke Zarathustra, #Friedrich Nietzsche, #Philosophy
Zarathustra is Still Alive. Verily, do I still live? I found
life more dangerous among men than among animals;
Wikipedia - Eating live animals -- Practice of eating animals that are still alive
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/144716.The_Sea_Birds_Are_Still_Alive
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35503542-i-m-still-alive
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35554737-i-m-still-alive
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/39168692-in-every-moment-we-are-still-alive
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/45457222-still-alive---sie-wei-wo-sie-dich-findet
dedroidify.blogspot - intuition-is-still-alive
Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century (1999 - 2001) - The legendary detective Sherlock Holmes has been dead for many years, and is now only seen in the history books in the 22nd century. But when a bunch of odd crimes begin to happen, Inspector Beth Lestrade has reason to believe Professor Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes worst enemy, is still alive and is st...
Saint Seiya: The Hades Chapter (2002 - 2008) - Hades is planning to take over the world, to achieve that goal, he sends out deceased Gold Saints to take Athena's head. Seiya and the other Bronze Saints come to help but their help isn't appreciated by the remaining Gold Saints that are still alive.
Snow White(1987) - A prince, seeking the greatest treasure, stumbles upon seven little men guarding a coffin. They tell him the story of Snow White, a beautiful princess who was forced to run away from home after her jealous stepmother tried to have her killed. When she realizes that the girl is still alive and living...
Earth vs. the Spider(1958) - A teenage couple finds a giant spider in cave after convincing the locals that there is a monstrous spider the sheriff then decides to kill the beast with DDT. Convinced the creature is dead they leave the lifeless body in the local high school gym however it turns out the spider is still alive and...
Chopper Chicks In Zombietown(1989) - Riding around on their motorbikes, a gang of tough women bikers are the only thing that stands between a crowd of Zombies, which have been accidentally let out of their secure cave (!), and those still alive in the town.
Scary Movie 2(2001) - A blatant knock-off of possession and spirit movies from the same guys who brought you the first Scary Movie. The group from the first movie is still alive somehow, and a year after the first movie they are trying to find new lives. A weird school professor announces that he is studying paranormal a...
Double Jeopardy (1999) ::: 6.5/10 -- R | 1h 45min | Crime, Drama, Mystery | 24 September 1999 (USA) -- A woman framed for her husband's murder suspects he is still alive; as she has already been tried for the crime, she can't be re-prosecuted if she finds and kills him. Director: Bruce Beresford Writers:
Get Low (2009) ::: 7.0/10 -- PG-13 | 1h 43min | Drama, Mystery | 27 August 2010 (USA) -- A movie spun out of equal parts folk tale, fable and real-life legend about the mysterious, 1930s Tennessee hermit who famously threw his own rollicking funeral party... while he was still alive. Director: Aaron Schneider Writers:
H+ -- 5min | Sci-Fi | TV Series (2011- ) Episode Guide 54 episodes H+ Poster ::: A future-set story in which a virus has wiped out most of the human race, and those still alive have their minds linked to the Internet 24 hours a day. Here, a viral incident leads to a new world order. Stars:
The Railway Man (2013) ::: 7.1/10 -- R | 1h 56min | Biography, Drama, Romance | 23 May 2014 (USA) -- A former British Army officer, who was tortured as a prisoner of war at a Japanese labor camp during World War II, discovers that the man responsible for much of his treatment is still alive and sets out to confront him. Director: Jonathan Teplitzky Writers:
https://happytreefriends.fandom.com/wiki/Still_Alive
Anime Tenchou -- -- Gainax -- 1 ep -- Other -- Action Parody -- Anime Tenchou Anime Tenchou -- This is the Animation Store Manager!! -- -- Anime Tenchou is a CM character for Animate, one of Japan's biggest retailer of anime, games, and manga. The character series was created by Shimamoto Kazuhiko for publicity purposes. Later adapted into a manga, a weekly radio drama and this OVA animated by GAINAX and directed by Anno Hideaki. -- -- Anizawa Meito is the blazing store manager. He is a fireball who loves animation merchandise at heart. He takes over the dying wish of the former store manager, though still alive, who was attacked by the rival store and becomes a “store manager” of newly opened animation goods specialty store, Animate. The scarlet, “store manager visor” is his trademark. -- -- (Source: AniDB) -- OVA - Aug 19, 2002 -- 9,501 6.04
Choujuu Kishin Dancougar: Hakunetsu no Shuushou -- -- - -- 4 eps -- - -- Mecha Sci-Fi Space -- Choujuu Kishin Dancougar: Hakunetsu no Shuushou Choujuu Kishin Dancougar: Hakunetsu no Shuushou -- After all the battles the Jyusenki-tai has been through, they have gone on their own separate ways. But one person will bring them all together again: Shapiro Keats. The man who sided with Muge Zarbados all the way back in the beginning is still alive. One friend-turned-foe awaits the Jyusenki-tai once again, in what will be their final battle. -- -- (Source: ANN) -- OVA - Dec 16, 1989 -- 931 5.95
Dragon Ball Z: Saiya-jin Zetsumetsu Keikaku -- -- Toei Animation -- 2 eps -- Manga -- Adventure Comedy Fantasy Sci-Fi Shounen -- Dragon Ball Z: Saiya-jin Zetsumetsu Keikaku Dragon Ball Z: Saiya-jin Zetsumetsu Keikaku -- Dr. Raichii is the only Tsufurujin (the race eradicated by the Saiyajin many years ago) thought to have survived. He now is going to take revenge on the only surviving Saiyajin still alive, Goku and Vegita. He uses machines that emit destron, a gas that will destroy all life on Earth. Now the the Z warriors only have 72 hours to find and destroy Dr. Raichii. -- -- (Source: ANN) -- -- Licensor: -- Bandai -- OVA - Jul 23, 1993 -- 40,450 6.78
Dragon Ball Z: Saiya-jin Zetsumetsu Keikaku -- -- Toei Animation -- 2 eps -- Manga -- Adventure Comedy Fantasy Sci-Fi Shounen -- Dragon Ball Z: Saiya-jin Zetsumetsu Keikaku Dragon Ball Z: Saiya-jin Zetsumetsu Keikaku -- Dr. Raichii is the only Tsufurujin (the race eradicated by the Saiyajin many years ago) thought to have survived. He now is going to take revenge on the only surviving Saiyajin still alive, Goku and Vegita. He uses machines that emit destron, a gas that will destroy all life on Earth. Now the the Z warriors only have 72 hours to find and destroy Dr. Raichii. -- -- (Source: ANN) -- OVA - Jul 23, 1993 -- 40,450 6.78
Godzilla 3: Hoshi wo Kuu Mono -- -- Polygon Pictures -- 1 ep -- Original -- Action Adventure Sci-Fi -- Godzilla 3: Hoshi wo Kuu Mono Godzilla 3: Hoshi wo Kuu Mono -- A door opens, and a golden seal shatters a star. -- -- It is the early 21st century. Mankind has lost the battle for planet Earth to Godzilla, and has taken to the stars in search of a new home. But the search ends in vain, forcing them and their alien allies back to Earth. But 20,000 years have passed in their absence, and the Earth is a wholly different place. -- -- The planet's flora and fauna now embody and serve Godzilla. Earth is a monster's planet, ruled by the largest Godzilla ever at 300 meters in height. Godzilla Earth. -- -- Human protagonist, Captain Haruo, yearns to defeat Godzilla and retake the planet for mankind. There, he meets aboriginal descendants of the human race, the Houtua tribe. The Houtua twin sisters, Maina and Miana, lead him to the skeletal remains of Mecha-Godzilla, an old anti-Godzilla weapon, which to everyone's surprise is still alive in the form of self-generating nanometal. Taken from the Mecha-Godzilla carcass, the nanometals have gradually been rebuilding a "Mecha-Godzilla City," a potential weapon capable of destroying Godzilla Earth. -- -- As the strategy develops, a rift forms between the humans and the Bilusaludo, one of several alien races that had joined the humans on their exodus from Earth. Their leader, Galu-gu, believes that the secret to defeating Godzilla lies in the use of superhuman powers – namely, the nanometal integration – but Haruo resists, fearing that in defeating monsters, they must not become monsters themselves. Haruo ultimately uses his means for defeating Godzilla Earth to destroy the Mecha-Godzilla city so as to prevent nanometal assimilation, killing Galu-gu. However, his childhood friend, Yuuko, has been absorbed by the nanometal integration and has fallen into a brain dead coma. -- -- The human race, once again, is lost. Metphies, commander of the priestly alien race, Exif, marvels at the miraculous survival of Haruo, he begins to attract a following. The Exif has secretly harbored this outcome as their "ultimate goal." Miana and Maina issue warnings against Metphies, while Haruo begins to question mankind's next move. -- -- With no means for defeating Godzilla Earth, mankind watches as King Ghidorah, clad in a golden light, descends on the planet. The earth shakes once again with as war moves to a higher dimension. -- -- What is Godzilla exactly? Does mankind stand a chance? Is there a future vision in Haruo's eyes? Find out in the finale. -- -- (Source: Official site) -- Movie - Nov 9, 2018 -- 23,950 6.26
Lupin III: Lupin vs. Fukusei-ningen -- -- Tokyo Movie Shinsha -- 1 ep -- Manga -- Action Adventure Mystery Comedy Seinen -- Lupin III: Lupin vs. Fukusei-ningen Lupin III: Lupin vs. Fukusei-ningen -- Lupin, the master thief/spy/Jack of all Trades, has been executed, but he is still alive, and not even Lupin himself knows how that is possible. While trying to figure out, however, he and his gang are thrust into a conspiracy involving clones, Lupin's un-trustworthy rival Fujiko, and a miniature madman's plot to take over the world. -- -- (Source: ANN) -- -- Licensor: -- Discotek Media, Geneon Entertainment USA -- Movie - Dec 16, 1978 -- 10,133 6.98
Nagasarete Airantou -- -- feel. -- 26 eps -- Manga -- Harem Comedy Romance Ecchi Fantasy Shounen -- Nagasarete Airantou Nagasarete Airantou -- Ikuto Touhohin just had a fight with his old man, one that led him to make a rash decision to run away from home. He boards a ship, deciding to take a vacation, but the ship is suddenly hit by a huge storm—one that sends Ikuto overboard! When he regains consciousness, he realizes he is still alive on some island. An isolated island. An isolated island with nothing but girls. Beautiful girls. Stranded on an island with only girls, no electricity, gas, radio, television, like he was back in the stone age. -- -- (Source: AniDB) -- -- Licensor: -- Discotek Media -- TV - Apr 5, 2007 -- 86,196 7.26
Nagasarete Airantou -- -- feel. -- 26 eps -- Manga -- Harem Comedy Romance Ecchi Fantasy Shounen -- Nagasarete Airantou Nagasarete Airantou -- Ikuto Touhohin just had a fight with his old man, one that led him to make a rash decision to run away from home. He boards a ship, deciding to take a vacation, but the ship is suddenly hit by a huge storm—one that sends Ikuto overboard! When he regains consciousness, he realizes he is still alive on some island. An isolated island. An isolated island with nothing but girls. Beautiful girls. Stranded on an island with only girls, no electricity, gas, radio, television, like he was back in the stone age. -- -- (Source: AniDB) -- TV - Apr 5, 2007 -- 86,196 7.26
Nanatsu no Taizai -- -- A-1 Pictures -- 24 eps -- Manga -- Action Adventure Ecchi Fantasy Magic Shounen Supernatural -- Nanatsu no Taizai Nanatsu no Taizai -- In a world similar to the European Middle Ages, the feared yet revered Holy Knights of Britannia use immensely powerful magic to protect the region of Britannia and its kingdoms. However, a small subset of the Knights supposedly betrayed their homeland and turned their blades against their comrades in an attempt to overthrow the ruler of Liones. They were defeated by the Holy Knights, but rumors continued to persist that these legendary knights, called the "Seven Deadly Sins," were still alive. Ten years later, the Holy Knights themselves staged a coup d’état, and thus became the new, tyrannical rulers of the Kingdom of Liones. -- -- Based on the best-selling manga series of the same name, Nanatsu no Taizai follows the adventures of Elizabeth, the third princess of the Kingdom of Liones, and her search for the Seven Deadly Sins. With their help, she endeavors to not only take back her kingdom from the Holy Knights, but to also seek justice in an unjust world. -- -- -- Licensor: -- Funimation -- 1,505,474 7.84
Pokemon Movie 16: Shinsoku no Genosect - Mewtwo Kakusei -- -- OLM -- 1 ep -- Game -- Action Adventure Comedy Kids Fantasy -- Pokemon Movie 16: Shinsoku no Genosect - Mewtwo Kakusei Pokemon Movie 16: Shinsoku no Genosect - Mewtwo Kakusei -- The homeland of the Genesect exists no more. After three hundred million years, the snowy mountains where the Paleozoic Pokemon once lived are no longer habitable — but not all of the race are actually extinct. Several specimens are still alive and desperate to find a new place to call home. Led by a Shiny Genesect and accompanied by the Legendary Pokemon Mewtwo, the vagabond creatures arrive in New Tork City. -- -- Perceiving the city skyline as similar to their initial habitat, the Genesect take over the city center, driving out other Pokemon and threatening the existence of the local populace. On top of that, the Genesect leader confronts Mewtwo in a cunning, fast-paced duel that is bound to destroy the entire city – and it’s up to Satoshi and his companions to save the city and reconcile the feuding Pokemon. -- -- -- Licensor: -- The Pokemon Company International -- Movie - Jul 13, 2013 -- 32,936 6.34
Saint Seiya: Meiou Hades Juuni Kyuu-hen -- -- Toei Animation -- 13 eps -- Manga -- Adventure Sci-Fi Shounen -- Saint Seiya: Meiou Hades Juuni Kyuu-hen Saint Seiya: Meiou Hades Juuni Kyuu-hen -- Hades is planning to take over the world, to achieve that goal, he sends out deceased Gold Saints to take Athena's head. Seiya and the other Bronze Saints come to help but their help isn't appreciated by the remaining Gold Saints that are still alive. -- -- (Source: ANN) -- OVA - Nov 9, 2002 -- 46,471 8.06
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