--- DICTIONARIES (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

--- QUOTES [2 / 2 - 385 / 385] (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

KEYS (10k)

   1 Mansur al-Hallaj
   1 Huineng

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   10 Rick Riordan

   10 Lisa Kleypas

   8 Gillian Flynn

   7 Eckhart Tolle

   6 Derek Landy

   5 Roshani Chokshi

   5 Lewis Carroll

   5 Harlan Coben

   5 Emily Dickinson

   5 Anonymous

   4 Osho

   4 Neil Gaiman

   4 Mehmet Murat ildan

   4 Eoin Colfer

   4 C S Lewis

   4 Agatha Christie

   3 William Shakespeare

   3 William Peter Blatty

   3 Rabindranath Tagore
   3 Orson Scott Card

   3 J K Rowling

   3 Friedrich Nietzsche
   3 Evangeline Anderson

   3 Erin Hunter

   3 Chris Colfer

   2 William Goldman

   2 Tony Bertauski

   2 S Jae Jones

   2 Sherwood Smith

   2 Sherrilyn Kenyon

   2 Richelle Mead

   2 Rachel Hawthorne

   2 P L Travers

   2 Paulo Coelho

   2 Michael Grant

   2 Meg Cabot

   2 Marissa Meyer

   2 Marie Rutkoski

   2 Marguerite Duras

   2 Mansur al-Hallaj
   2 Leigh Bardugo

   2 Lana Del Rey

   2 Kristen Britain

   2 Jostein Gaarder

   2 Jay Asher

   2 Geneen Roth

   2 Gena Showalter

   2 Gaston Leroux

   2 Gaelen Foley

   2 Elizabeth Hoyt

   2 Eimear McBride

   2 Don DeLillo

   2 Danelle Harmon

   2 Cornelia Funke

   2 Cliff Ball

   2 Clea / Sage
   2 Catherynne M Valente

   2 Caroline B Cooney

   2 Carl Sandburg

   2 Brion Gysin

   2 Ambrose Bierce

1:Before you think good or evil, who are you? ~ Huineng,

2:I saw my Lord with the eye of the heartI asked, 'Who are You?'He replied, 'You'. ~ Mansur al-Hallaj,

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:I'm Marcus Hunter. Who are you? ~ Shane Kuhn

2:Who are you? Your angel. Vengeance. ~ Poppet

3:Who are YOU? said the Caterpillar. ~ Lewis Carroll

4:Before you think good or evil, who are you? ~ Huineng

5:Before you think good or evil, who are you? ~ Huineng,

6:if you’re not your body, who are you? ~ Tony Bertauski

7:I'm nobody, who are you? Are you nobody too? ~ Amy Harmon

8:Without possessions, success, fame; who are you? ~ Rajneesh

9:So I ask you again, Lazlo Strange… who are you? ~ Laini Taylor

10:Who are you?" "For you, Honey...I'm trouble. ~ Lisa Kleypas

11:Who are you? I am someone you have met in a bar. ~ Amor Towles

12:I am nobody! Who are you? Are you a nobody, too? ~ Emily Dickinson

13:Who are you? I know the answer: zero, shunya, nothingness. ~ Sri M

14:Who are you?" Ethan Nakamura. I have to kill you." ?? ~ Rick Riordan

15:“Who are you?” One who has waited long for you to speak. ~ C S Lewis

16:Who are you?' One who has waited long for you to speak. ~ C S Lewis

17:1) Who are you? 2) What do you do? 3) Why does it matter? ~ Marty Neumeier

18:Who are you?" Ethan Nakamura. I have to kill you." ?? ~ Rick Riordan

19:Everybody has to find out: who are you? What do you believe in? ~ Barry Manilow

20:who are you? Consciousness that has become conscious of itself. ~ Eckhart Tolle

21:Who are you? Do you serve the Tear?" "No. I serve the Mace. ~ Erika Johansen

22:Who are you? the band sang. I tried to remember but I really couldn't say. ~ Janet Fitch

23:Only once have I been made mute. It was when a man asked me, 'Who are you?' ~ Khalil Gibran

24:Who are you?” My voice came out a little breathy. “I’m Micah Callahan. ~ Laurell K Hamilton

25:I am not who you thik I am,' I say. 'Who are you?' 'I am number Four. ~ Pittacus Lore

26:She blinked at him. “Who are you?” Russo briefly told her his story. He didn’t ~ T J Brearton

27:Charlie turned to me. "Want some?" I said, "Nah." What I meant was: Who are you? ~ A S King

28:I saw my Lord with the eye of the Heart. I said: ‘Who are you?’ He answered: ‘You. ~ Anonymous

29:So who are you?” Jiming asked. “Other than a boy who brings wine to toads at night. ~ Grace Lin

30:Q.= WHO AM I? WHO ARE YOU? U.G = You are what you are doing RIGHT NOW! ~ U G Krishnamurti

31:Who are you?”, my answer would be: “Nothing in particular. Yet, I am. ~ Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj

32:I'm a Nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? There's a pair of us- don't tell! ~ Emily Dickinson

33:It's as though we had asked to have ice cubes in our wine, like, "Ick, who are you? ~ David Sedaris

34:Who are you?" asked Shadow. "The hardest part is simply surviving," said the man. ~ Neil Gaiman

35:A voice entered her mind. “Get up and run.” “Who are you?” “The Phoenix. We must go now. ~ Lia Davis

36:If he’s the stripper, then who are you?” “I’m Cash Davenport. I own the club. ~ Michelle Leighton

37:No, no, no, no. Who are you? What is this? Don't leave. They're leaving. They've left. ~ Don DeLillo

38:Who are you?" "No one of consequence." "I must know." "Get used to disappointment. ~ William Goldman

39:She said, 'I'm your biggest fan,' and I said, 'Who are you?' She said, 'Paris Hilton.' ~ Ricky Gervais

40:Who are you?" I asked. "You know who I am," he replied. "I'm yours." ~Clea / Sage, pg. 105 ~ Hilary Duff

41:I saw my Lord with the eye of the heart I asked, 'Who are You?' He replied, 'You'. ~ Mansur al-Hallaj,

42:Who are you?" "No one of consequence." "I must know." "Get used to disappointment. ~ William Goldman

43:Who are you?" I asked. "You know who I am," he replied. "I'm yours." ~Clea / Sage, pg. 105 ~ Hilary Duff

44:What are you thinking? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do? ~ Gillian Flynn

45:Who are you?’ asked Gurun. ‘I am the Polity black-ops stealth attack ship Obsidian Blade.’ ‘Fuck,’ said Gurun. ~ Neal Asher

46:Who are you?” the boy asked. He examined the stranger from head to toe and made a face. “You’re ugly.” “And ~ Claire Legrand

47:Are you a witch? A vulture, a hieroglyph, the sign or the name of a goddess? What sort of goddess is this? Who are you? ~ H D

48:And who are you?” She always liked to chat with her meals before disemboweling. You never knew what you might learn. ~ G A Aiken

49:It's as if they take all our questions and offer them straight back: Who are you? Why are you here? What do you want? ~ Shaun Tan

50:Who are you?” “He’s Lucky,” broke in Bruno. “And so are you. It’s amazing you weren’t crushed in there. Now come on. ~ Erin Hunter

51:Who are you?” Jane repeated. “Do you have a name, at least?” “I have many, but none will mean anything to you.” Jane ~ J T Ellison

52:I'm Nobody! Who are you?Are you – Nobody – too?Then there's a pair of us!Don't tell! they'd advertise - you know! ~ Emily Dickinson💚

53:Writers don't own their words. Since when do words belong to anybody. "Your very own words," indeed ! And who are you? ~ Brion Gysin

54:Who are you?" "I'm the stuff of your nightmares... Actually, I'm the stuff your nightmares wake up screaming about ~ Justin Somper

55:-Who are you? - No one else will ever need to know. - What do you mean? - I know who I am. That's enough for me. ~ Tahereh Mafi

56:From now on, as far as you’re concerned, Dink Meeker is God.’ ‘Then who are you?’ ‘The personnel officer who hired God. ~ Orson Scott Card

57:Rollo the Walker. Who are you?" "Dak," he answered. It seemed like Rollo expected more. "Uh, Dak the, er... Cheese Eater? ~ Carrie Ryan

58:Who are you? Answer; you are who you are in this given moment. Label-less. Limitless. Remember that from this day forward. ~ Connor Franta

59:I suggest to everyone: Look in the mirror. Ask yourself: Who are you? What are your talents? Use them, and do what you love. ~ Sylvia Earle

60:Then don't trust 'Neil'," Neil said. "Trust me." "Oh, but who are you? Do you have a name?" "If you need one, call me Abram. ~ Nora Sakavic

61:But who are you?" Percy—" I started to say. Then the skeletons turned around. "Gotta go!" What kind of name is Percy Gotta-go? ~ Rick Riordan

62:I think history is inextricably linked to identity. If you don't know your history, if you don't know your family, who are you? ~ Mary Pipher

63:Who are you?’ Gaia gasped. The girl froze for a moment. Looked at her. Smiled and said, ‘Who am I? I’m the Breeze, bitch! ~ Michael Grant

64:Who are you?” He smiled. Not mischievously or smugly, but warmly, and maybe with a touch of sadness. “I’m exactly who you see. ~ Helena Hunting

65:Who are you?' I didn't understand the question. I'm Uri', he said. 'What's your name?' I gave him my name. 'Stopthief. ~ Jerry Spinelli

66:. . . and that revelation murdered all that I once did know. Where once I asked of the God, 'Who are you?' now I ask, 'Who am I? ~ R Scott Bakker

67:One last question," Sprite said. "Who are you? Special Forces? CIA? Xenobiologist?" "I used to play a lot of World of Warcraft. ~ Edward W Robertson

68:Last week you looked at me with love. You wanted to touch me. Last week I was happy. Now? Who are you? I don’t even recognize you. ~ Suzanne Palmieri

69:But who are you?" Percy—" I started to say. Then the skeletons turned around. "Gotta go!" What kind of name is Percy Gotta-go? ~ Rick Riordan

70:The loyalty rate isn't that high. I could have a big hit, then put out the next single, and they say, Oh yeah, who are you? Prove it again. ~ Lenny Kravitz

71:Who are you? You and me were never this. This boy and girl that do not speak. But somehow I've left you behind and you're just looking on. ~ Eimear McBride

72:In an age of constant live connections, the central question of self-examination is drifting from ‘Who are you?’ towards ‘What are you doing? ~ Tom Chatfield

73:Who are you? A noise or a melody? Or may be you are a silence! If you are a silence, then you will be discovered only by the silent one! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan

74:Who are you?" I asked as he turned and headed deeper into the cavern. "I am Fenrir the Wolf." "I'm sorry, did you say you're a wolf? ~ Amanda Carlson

75:I did a radio interview; the DJ's first question was "Who are you?" I had to think. Is this guy really deep, or did I drive to the wrong station? ~ Mitch Hedberg

76:much for tea time and pleasantries. Who are you? What is it that you want from us? To suffer like you did on the cross? Well, we’re doing it. ~ William Peter Blatty

77:The Neck Cracker said, “Who are you?” again. Matt would not risk it. He sighed and took out his camera phone. “I’m Bob Smiley, Channel Nine News.” That ~ Harlan Coben

78:who are you? really." Nykyrian shrugged. "Never figured it out. takes too much time to think about myself, and time is one luxury i don't own." pg.90 ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon

79:who are you? really." Nykyrian shrugged. "Never figured it out. takes too much time to think about myself, and time is one luxury i don't own." pg.90 ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon

80:You have to examine a scene on the page first. Then you get into the basics of acting: Who are you? Who are you talking to? How do you feel about that person? ~ Debbie Allen

81:I am eternal. I am the night. I am the day. I am forever. And who are you?" "I'm Skulduggery Pleasant." "Oh, hell. (The Horror Writers' Halloween Ball) ~ Derek Landy

82:And I think you're brilliant, talented, courageous, beautiful. You're my miracle. But you're the only one who can say who you are with authority. So, who are you? ~ Angie Thomas

83:I'm putting you in Dink Meeker's toon. From now on, as far as you're concerned, Dink Meeker is God." "Then who are you?" "The personnel officer who hired God. ~ Orson Scott Card

84:suppose these questions stormcloud over every marriage: What are you thinking? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do? ~ Gillian Flynn

85:Then she sat down on a kitchen stool with the mysterious letter in her hand. Who are you? She had no idea. She was Sophie Amundsen, of course, but who was that? ~ Jostein Gaarder

86:Narcissus turned and scowled at Leo. “Who are you?” “I’m the Super-sized McShizzle, man!” Leo said. “I’m Leo Valdez, bad boy supreme. And the ladies love a bad boy. ~ Rick Riordan

87:And, ah, who are you? What Horseman, I mean.” Thanatos swung around. “Death.” Cara swallowed. Audibly. “As in, the Grim Reaper?” He snorted. “That poser. ~ Larissa Ione

88:I suppose these questions stormcloud over every marriage: What are you thinking? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do? ~ Gillian Flynn

89:Who are you?” “A friend!” shouted back the man. He ran toward Zaphod. “Oh yeah?” said Zaphod. “Anyone’s friend in particular, or just generally well-disposed to people? ~ Anonymous

90:Who are you?” I slip my hand through the slit of my overskirt, and my fingers close around the hard wood of the crossbow tiller. “Vengeance,” I say softly. ~ Robin LaFevers

91:What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?* ~ William Shakespeare

92:His eyes tight, his head angled in surmise, Karras rose and stared down at the priest, demanding huskily, “Who in the hell are you, pal? Who are you?” The soft ~ William Peter Blatty

93:Who are you? Where does the world come from? What annoying questions! And anyway where did the letters come from? That was just as mysterious, almost. ~ Jostein Gaarder

94:I'm putting you in Dink Meeker's toon. From now on, as far as you're concerned, Dink Meeker is God." "Then who are you?" "The personnel officer who hired God. ~ Orson Scott Card

95:Narcissus turned and scowled at Leo. “Who are you?” “I’m the Super-sized McShizzle, man!” Leo said. “I’m Leo Valdez, bad boy supreme. And the ladies love a bad boy. ~ Rick Riordan

96:I don’t know. I just heard the shots.” “Who are you? What is this place?” “I’m . . . I’m Sheila.” “Who’s the guy down there?” “Luke.” “And who is Luke?” “Just a guy I know. ~ David Baldacci

97:If I am so fortunate as to be listening to the Hammerklavier sonata, the only correct answer, if you ask me suddenly, "Who are you?" would be to hum the Hammerklavier. ~ Robert Anton Wilson

98:Look at the mirror! Who are you? You are not yourself, you are your culture! Do you want to be yourself? Then leave your prison and discover the paths beyond your path! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan

99:What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?* ~ William Shakespeare

100:Who are you? You don't belong to the police?' 'I am better than the police,' said Poirot. He said it without conscious arrogance. It was, to him, a simple statement of fact. ~ Agatha Christie

101:Within fifteen minutes the boy’s eyes had drifted open. Surprise dawned on his face. “Who are you?” he asked weakly. “The Christmas fairy,” Ian said. “You’re going to be okay, kid. ~ Robyn Carr

102:Who are you? You don't belong to the police?' 'I am better than the police,' said Poirot. He said it without conscious arrogance. It was, to him, a simple statement of fact. ~ Agatha Christie

103:I’ve always hated the “Who are you?" question. This is a philosophical inquiry. Answering that question is why we’re on earth. You can’t answer it in thirty seconds or in an elevator. ~ Sandy Nathan

104:Who are you?" "Your fantasy," I tease with a kiss, digging my nails into his shoulders. "No shit." He bites my lower lip, then sucks it into his mouth. "A fucking nightmare, too. ~ Eden Summers

105:WHO ARE YOU?” This is the first question your constituents want you to answer for them. Your leadership journey begins when you set out to find the answer and are able to express it. ~ James M Kouzes

106:Who are you? Are you in touch with all of your darkest fantasies? Have you created a life for yourself where you can experience them? I have. I am fucking crazy. But I am free. ~ Lana Del Rey

107:With everything going on in my life-going on in my head-I wanted to talk with you. Really talk. Just once. A chance we never seemed to get at school. Or at work. A chance to ask, Who are you? ~ Jay Asher

108:Never had he kissed lips so soft. He had not known that there were lips so soft in the whole world. Her tongue, though, was sandpaper-rough as it slipped against his. —Who are you? he asked. ~ Neil Gaiman

109:That is utterly preposterous! Who are you? Really, sir.” He turned to the Duke. “You can’t expect us to swallow such a preposterous tale. And from a mere servant . . . from a . . . a woman! ~ Julie McElwain

110:An enormous fish poked his head out of the water and stared at them. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Avon Snail, at your service," said Avon. "Edward Ant," said Edward. "But I am not at your service. ~ Avi

111:Just a moment," she said, "Murphy, yes?" "How did she know that?" Keith asked as the woman walked to the phone. "How do you have all of these strange connections inside Harrods? Who are you? ~ Maureen Johnson

112:The streets and the industry are two different things. You could be one super-hot artist in the streets, and you could walk into a corporate building, and people would be like, "Who are you?" ~ Chamillionaire

113:So now is I ask you, ‘’Who are you?’’ you answer, ‘‘I am the one who sees. From back in here somewhere, I look out, and I am aware of the events, thoughts, and emotions that pass before me. ~ Michael A Singer

114:As it was, I often looked at him and thought to myself, ‘Who are you? Oh my God, what are you that you can bear even to see this? What – oh God, what are you seeing with these eyes which look at me? ~ Gitta Sereny

115:He grinned. “Hey.” “Who are you?” I snapped, jerking the sides of my robe together and tying the sash. His eyebrows shot up. “Most people I know respond to a greeting with another greeting. ~ Rachel Hawthorne

116:The primary needs can be filled without language. We can eat, sleep, make love, build a house, bear children, without language. But we cannot ask questions. We cannot ask, 'Who am I? Who are you? Why? ~ Madeleine L Engle

117:There's a part of you that you can get a hold of, and there's a part of you that you can never get a hold of, and those are opposite things. Who are you? Which one are you? You are combinations of opposites. ~ Wayne Dyer

118:Who are you?" because even now, she couldn't let her questions go. "What are you?" That face that wasn't a face smiled. It was the most terrible thing she'd ever see, ever. "Magnus" he said. "I'm the end. ~ Rachel Caine

119:Who... who are you?' I asked at last. It was true. I had left a body in the park, but seriously, what was I supposed to do? Drag him back to my hotel and tell my bellhop my friend had had too much to drink? ~ Richelle Mead

120:At that moment, I was sure ... he would cry. It seems that Sakura-chan is the most important person in the world to Syaoran-kun. So when she said, "who are you?" I felt certain he would cry. I wonder if he's crying now. ~ CLAMP

121:My basic approach to interviewing is to ask the basic questions that might even sound naive, or not intellectual. Sometimes when you ask the simple questions like 'Who are you?' or 'What do you do?' you learn the most. ~ Brian Lamb

122:Who are you? What is your distinct contribution? That is so valuable whether it gets you anything or not. Trophies? Doesn't matter. If you know you did it, that's what keeps you going, you know? Success is illusive. ~ Rodney Mullen

123:They asked him, "Then who are you? Are you Elijah?" He said, "I am not." "Are you the Prophet?" He answered, "No." [καὶ ἠρώτησαν αὐτόν Τί οὖν Ἠλίας εἶ Σύ καὶ λέγει Οὐκ εἰμί Ὁ προφήτης εἶ σύ καὶ ἀπεκρίθη Οὔ] John 1:21 ~ Anonymous

124:What the hell? Who are you?” “The guy that’s going to kick your ass for hurting her,” said Adrian “What happened with us has nothing to do with you,” retorted Marcus. “Everything about her has to do with me. ~ Richelle Mead

125:I always get that. Who are you? Here's who I am: I'm that dog that dropped off down at the humane society, and he has about every breed in it. Whatever the situation is, you try to bring that breed out that helps success. ~ Jim McElwain

126:But science cannot provide deeply personal answers to your deeply personal questions. It cannot answer those four questions we identified earlier: Who are you? What are you here for? What matters most? What matters least? ~ Matthew Kelly

127:Who are you?” “Abby,” she says. “And you are?” “Ethan,” I answer. “He’s my twin.” Her eyes dart between us. “You don’t look anything alike.” “I’m a boy. She’s a girl. I sure as hell hope we don’t,” says Ethan. ~ Katie McGarry

128:The mind is always concerned with keeping the past alive, because without it - who are you? It constantly projects itself into the future to ensure its continued survival and to seek some kind of release or fulfillment there. ~ Eckhart Tolle

129:If these pages are thick with death, think of the battlefield. Corpses in different stages of decay, the slowly dying, moments of death exist around you everywhere. Who are you? You are among the living, but can you be certain? ~ Susan Griffin

130:He does not start guiltily, as he should, but frowns in annoyance. "Who are you?" I slip my hand through the slit of my overskirt, and my fingers close around the hard wood of the crossbow tiller. "Vengeance," I say softly. ~ R L LaFevers

131:Limerick:There Was An Old Person Of Burton There was an Old Person of Burton, Whose answers were rather uncertain; When they said, 'How d'ye do?' He replied, 'Who are you?' That distressing Old Person of Burton. ~ Edward Lear

132:Who are you?" he asked. I am the future queen of this world, at the very least. You may refer to me as Mistress Koboi for the next five minutes. After that you may refer to me as Aaaaarrrrgh, hold your throat, die screaming, and so on. ~ Eoin Colfer

133:Who are you?" he asked. I am the future queen of this world, at the very least. You may refer to me as Mistress Koboi for the next five minutes. After that you may refer to me as Aaaaarrrrgh, hold your throat, die screaming, and so on. ~ Eoin Colfer

134:I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there's a pair of us? Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know! How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog – To tell one's name – the livelong June – To an admiring Bog! ~ Emily Dickinson

135:The next step in human evolution is not inevitable, but for the first time in the history of the planet, it can be a conscious choice. Who is making that choice? You are. And who are you? Consciousness that has become conscious of itself. ~ Eckhart Tolle

136:No, really. It’s like . . .” He cocks his head. “There’s this scent clinging to you like smoke. It’s anger and despair and violent rage. So much more than one girl would ever have access to.” He leans forward, suddenly interested. “Who are you? ~ Kiersten White

137:He rallied a little. "Who are you? What do you know about this? Disease control is our job, not yours. Who are you?" "My name," I said, mostly uner my breath, "is Siobhan Grainne MacNamarra Walkingstick, and I'm the answer to all your prayers. ~ C E Murphy

138:He struggled to find himself, struggled to talk, his head now filled with sand dunes and desert winds. —Who are you? he asked again, gasping for the words. She stared at him with eyes the color of dark amber, then lowered her mouth to his and kissed ~ Neil Gaiman

139:I remained mostly silent. I was thinking my own questions, the same questions I’d thought for years, the ominous refrain of our marriage: What are you thinking, Amy? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do? ~ Gillian Flynn

140:I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there ’s a pair of us—don’t tell! They ’d banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog! ~ Emily Dickinson

141:Juliet took a hesitant step toward Troy, looking at him the way a child looks at a new toy. "I've henver heard a man speak in such a manner. Who are you? "I'm..." "That's Troy." O saod, stepping between them. The less Golden Boy said the better. ~ Suzanne Selfors

142:Who ARE You?" This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then. ~ Lewis Carroll

143:In the prologue, I said that the only answer to “Who are you?” is “When?” What was true for prologue is doubly true of epilogue. We never arrive. There are no final answers, only a series of snapshots taken along the path of “frenetic desperation.”   Movies ~ Frank Schaeffer

144:It's easy to be a good person when things are going well. We try to find people that will rise up when things are not going well. When we build a team, it's not just how is this person going to be when things are good... when things are rough... then who are you? ~ Bob Myers

145:Hel-lo, Morgan.” Staring at her mouth, he licked his lips, slowly, deliberately. Slimily. Was that a word? “Who are you?” she asked. He leered. “Whoever you want me to be.” What. A. Sleeze. She tilted her head as if she wasn’t very bright and didn’t understand. ~ Melinda Leigh

146:Who-who are you?" Seth asked, hesitantly."Wh-what do you want?" How else was was I supposed to reply? The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.I mean, I'd only seen the movie like seventeen times. "I'm Luke Skywalker," I said. "I'm here to rescue you. ~ Meg Cabot

147:Who ARE You?” This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, “I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then. ~ Lewis Carroll

148:Who are you?" he asked. "I'm a shabti, of course!" The figurine rubbed his dented head. He still looked quite lumpish, only now he was a living lump. "Master calls me Doughboy, though I find the name insulting. You may call me Supreme-Force-Who-Crushes-His-Enemies! ~ Rick Riordan

149:To the ego, the present moment hardly exists. It is always concerned with keeping the past alive, because without it - who are you? It constantly projects itself into the future to ensure its continued survival and to seek some kind of release or fulfillment there. ~ Eckhart Tolle

150:Who-who are you?" Seth asked, hesitantly."Wh-what do you want?" How else was was I supposed to reply? The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.I mean, I'd only seen the movie like seventeen times. "I'm Luke Skywalker," I said. "I'm here to rescue you. ~ Meg Cabot

151:Who are you?" he asked. "I'm a shabti, of course!" The figurine rubbed his dented head. He still looked quite lumpish, only now he was a living lump. "Master calls me Doughboy, though I find the name insulting. You may call me Supreme-Force-Who-Crushes-His-Enemies! ~ Rick Riordan

152:Who are you?' Mo looked at the White Women. Then he looked at Dustfinger's still face. Guess.' The bird ruffled up its golden feathers, and Mo saw that the mark on its breast was blood. You are Death.' Mo felt the word heavy on his tongue. Could any word be heavier? ~ Cornelia Funke

153:As far as prayer is concerned it is my freedom, it is my individual concern with God. If I am answerable, I am answerable to God, not to you. I am not praying to you, I am praying to God, and if I am praying wrongly, it is a matter to be settled between me and God. Who are you? ~ Osho

154:Who are you?" Aru grinned. This was the moment she had been waiting for all her life. In school, the teachers always asked instead: What's you name? Now, finally, she could say her dream response to Who are you? "Your worst nightmare," she said in a deep Batman voice. ~ Roshani Chokshi

155:The Torment turned his head to him, and frowned. "Who are you?" "I'm... sorry? It's me, it's Vaurien. Vaurien Scapegrace. I... built the cellar for you?" "Oh," the Torment said. "You. Why are you back? I thought you were dead. It would have been nice if you were dead ~ Derek Landy

156:Who are you?” I asked, the hard pressure between my legs sending waves of need and desire through me. But I wasn’t some little girl to be manipulated by lust. “Told you – my name is Gage. I’m with the Reaper’s motorcycle club, and I’ll be the man fucking you from now on. ~ Joanna Wylde

157:Who are you?' Mo looked at the White Women. Then he looked at Dustfinger's still face. Guess.' The bird ruffled up its golden feathers, and Mo saw that the mark on its breast was blood. You are Death.' Mo felt the word heavy on his tongue. Could any word be heavier? ~ Cornelia Funke

158:The question I've asked more often during our marriage, if not out loud, if not to the person who could answer. I supposed these questions stormcloud over every marriage: What are you thinking how are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do? ~ Gillian Flynn

159:Who are you?” said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, “I—I hardly know, sir, just at present—at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then. ~ Lewis Carroll

160:The question I've asked more often during our marriage, if not out loud, if not to the person who could answer. I supposed these questions storm cloud over every marriage: What are you thinking how are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do? ~ Gillian Flynn

161:Do yourself a favor,' I said. "Forget it. Forget you ever saw me." "Forget that you tried to kill me too?" "Yeah. That, too." "But who are you?" "Percy-" I started to say. Then the skeletons turned around. "Gotta go!" "What kind of name is Percy Gotta-go?" I bolted for the exit. ~ Rick Riordan

162:Who are you? Or should I first present myself to you? I’m Damerel, you know.’ ‘Yes, so I supposed, at the outset of our delightful acquaintance. Later, of course, I was sure of it.’ ‘Oh, oh – ! My reputation, Iago, my reputation!’ he exclaimed, laughing again. ~ Georgette Heyer

163:Let us even bid our dearest friends farewell, and defy them, saying, "Who are you? Unhand me: I will be dependent no more." Ah! seest thou not, O brother, that thus we part only to meet again on a higher platform, and only be more each other's, because we are more our own? ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

164:I'M Nobody! Who Are You? I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell! They'd banish -- you know! How dreary to be somebody! How public like a frog To tell one's name the livelong day To an admiring bog! ~ Emily Dickinson

165:To the ego, the present moment hardly exists. Only past and future are considered important. This total reversal of the truth accounts for the fact that in the ego mode the mind is so dysfunctional. It is always concerned with keeping the past alive, because without it - who are you? ~ Eckhart Tolle

166:Style, I think, is panache. Who are you? What did you do today? And what are you worth to me? What do you have to offer the world? How did you spend your time today on this planet? How are you spending your time every second? What are you doing now? Are you alive, or are you somnambulant? ~ Tom Hardy

167:The poets are supposed to liberate the words – not chain them in phrases. Who told the poets they were supposed to think? Poets are meant to sing and to make words sing. Writers don't own their words. Since when do words belong to anybody? 'Your very own words,' indeed! And who are you? ~ Brion Gysin

168:Who are you?” “One of your suitors,” he said, not missing a beat. He adjusted his garland. I backed away, body tensing. I had never seen him before. I knew that with utmost certainty. Did he mean to harm me? “That’s not an answer.” “And that wasn’t a thank you,” he said. ~ Roshani Chokshi

169:Kai frowned at her. "Who are you?" She brightened. "Oh, I'm Iko! You may not remember me, but we met at the market that day you brought in the android, only I was about this tall"--she held her hand at hip height--"and shaped kind of like an enormous pear, and significantly more pale. ~ Marissa Meyer

170:Evey Hammond: Who are you? V: Who? Who is but the form following the function of what and what I am is a man in a mask. Evey Hammond: Well I can see that. V: Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation I'm merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man who he is ~ Alan Moore

171:Do yourself a favor,' I said. "Forget it. Forget you ever saw me." "Forget that you tried to kill me too?" "Yeah. That, too." "But who are you?" "Percy-" I started to say. Then the skeletons turned around. "Gotta go!" "What kind of name is Percy Gotta-go?" I bolted for the exit. ~ Rick Riordan

172:I don't really pity any of my characters. I hold my characters under a harsh fluorescent lamp and ask "Who are you?" I'm not doing their makeup or giving them hairdos. They present themselves to me as they are and then I let them say what they want. Usually they're saying something too honest. ~ Ottessa Moshfegh

173:She was satisfied with the answer God had given Moses from the burning bush when Moses had seen fit to question. Who are you? Mose asks, and God comes back from that bush just as pert as you like: I Am, Who I AM. In other words, Mose, stop beatin around this here bush and get your old ass in gear. ~ Stephen King

174:I wanted more of those sweltering kisses. I felt terrible about that. But the warm sunny fragrance of him...he smelled better than any human being I'd ever met. "Okay" I said unsteadily, "forget what I said about not exchanging names. Who are you?" "For you, honey...I'm trouble." -Haven & Hardy ~ Lisa Kleypas

175:flipped open. A stranger sat in the uncomfortable-looking chair next to his hospital bed, the pads of his fingers pressed together under his chin. “Who are you?” Jacob asked. “I’m your Uncle John. John Laudner,” the man said. He leaned forward and extended a calloused palm. Jacob did not take the man’s ~ G P Ching

176:I wanted more of those sweltering kisses. I felt terrible about that. But the warm sunny fragrance of him...he smelled better than any human being I'd ever met. "Okay" I said unsteadily, "forget what I said about not exchanging names. Who are you?" "For you, honey...I'm trouble." -Haven & Hardy ~ Lisa Kleypas

177:You are an adult, and you can dress up whenever you want to. You don't need permission anymore! If you wake up next tuesday, and you feel like being Batman, go for it! And then you go to work, and your boss will look up and go "who are you," and you can say: "I am Batman. That's who I am, who are you?" ~ Lewis Black

178:We had all commenced that thrusting and parrying that always goes on when you meet new people. How I hated those games. I wondered if they went on forever. Did you ever grow up enough not to have to jockey for position? Could you ever just say, 'Hi, I'm Rachel Gold. I like to read and eat. Who are you? ~ Barbara Cohen

179:Who are you?” asked Shasta. “Myself,” said the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again “Myself,” loud and clear and gay: and then the third time “Myself,” whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it seemed to come from all around you as if the leaves rustled with it. ~ C S Lewis

180:She slit the throat of Coyote because he double-crossed her, and she buried alive Naayéé’ Neizghání, the hero of Dinétah, even though she really loved him. She shot a powerful medicine man through the heart. So, who are you? Who are you that she won’t slit your throat? That she won’t bury you alive? ~ Rebecca Roanhorse

181:What are you thinking, Amy? The question I’ve asked most often during our marriage, if not out loud, if not to the person who could answer. I suppose these questions stormcloud over every marriage: What are you thinking? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do? ~ Gillian Flynn

182:Demandred blocked Lan's attack but he breathed hoarsely. "Who are you?" Demandred whispered again. "No one of this Age has such skill. Asmodean? No, no. He couldn't have fought me like this. Lews Therin? It is you behind that face, isn't it?" "I am just a man," Lan whispered. "That is all I have ever been. ~ Robert Jordan

183:Who are you?” she managed to ask. “And why are you here?” “I am Iain Donovan, the Earl of Ashton,” he answered. “At your service.” He bowed, and in his grin, she detected a teasing air. An Irishman, she was certain, given his speech patterns. But an earl? Exactly how empty headed did he think she was? Rose ~ Michelle Willingham

184:I glanced over at them. “Clark? That’s your name? I was calling you the Missionary all this time.” He flashed his perfect white teeth. “Gosh, thanks, buddy! That’s quite the bold moniker, and don’t think I don’t appreciate—” “Now shut the fuck up,” I said. “Both of you. Grown-ups are talking.” “Who are you?” Angus said. ~ Craig Schaefer

185:Break the stupid rule, Eadlyn. Marry the man you love. If he’s good enough for you to approve of, then I certainly do. And if the people don’t, that can be their problem. Because who are you?” “I’m Eadlyn Schreave, and no one in the world is as powerful as me,” I blurted without thought. He nodded. “Damn right you are. ~ Kiera Cass

186:Figure out whether or not you believe in yourself, and if you don't, find a way to. Because even more than you want it, you must believe it. And learn about yourself. The rhythm of one's spirit is just as important as what you look like or what you sound like. Who are you? What's your voice? What are you dying to contribute? ~ Chris Pratt

187:Jessica: Who are you? Tell me for more certainty. Albeit, I'll swear that I do know your tongue. Lorenzo: Lorenzo, and thy love. Jessica: Lorenzo, certain, and my love indeed. For who love I so much? And now who knows but you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours? Lorenzo: Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art. ~ William Shakespeare

188:If you let other people decide what you think about something like that, if you just follow along because it’s trendy, then who are you? When the flock changes direction tomorrow, what, you just throw away everything you think and start over, because other people said so? Then what are you, underneath? You’re nothing. You’re no one. ~ Tana French

189:He stared at Elle. “Who are you?” “You know me. I’m Elle, your Intruder.” Elle forced her lips into the mold of a smile. The prince shook his head, and her heart ached. “No, who are you really?” Elle reached out and grabbed his hand. “I am Elle. Nothing’s changed, Severin. I’m still the demanding busy-body who was bit by a squirrel.” In ~ K M Shea

190:I remember being at Greenblatt's on Sunset, and some guy just walked straight up to me, and he had some bling on and whatever, and said something about a party down in Malibu and asked if I would jump in his car and go to the party. All I could think was, 'Who are you? I don't know you, and I don't care about how good your car is.' ~ Yvonne Strahovski

191:said. “Who are you? Was my uncle working for you? Did you kill him?” “So many questions,” Crawley muttered. “But I’m afraid we’re not authorized to give you the answers.” The second man lifted his hand and Alex saw that he was holding a gun. He stood up behind the desk, holding the file as if to protect himself. “No…” he began. The man ~ Anthony Horowitz

192:Who are you?' 'My name is Francesca Giordano.' Il re dei contrabbandieri paled. He pressed himself into the high back of his chair and stared at me in disbelief. 'You can't be her. She's old and has warts.' 'Because she is strega? Ask yourself, why would any self-respecting witch go about looking old and with warts? ~ Sara Poole

193:Who are you? What do you want? Who are you?” Her voice was light and fast and intense and her mouth trembled. She seemed to be on the narrow edge of emotional disaster, holding herself in check with the greatest effort. And about her was a rich and heavy scent of brandy, and an unsteadiness, the eyes too swift and not exactly in focus. ~ John D MacDonald

194:Who are you?' he asked suddenly. I'm not sure,' replied the other. 'I rather think I am your long-lost brother.' But I haven't got a brother,' objected Tommy. It only shows how very long-lost I was,' replied his remarkable relative. 'But I assure you that, before they managed to long-loose me, I used to live in this house myself. ~ G K Chesterton

195:I am Detective Inspector Me. This is my partner, Detective Her." The traffic warden frowned. "Her?" "Me," said Stephanie. "Him?" "Not me," said Skulduggery. "Her." "Me," said Stephanie. "You?" said the traffic warden. "Yes," said Stephanie. "I'm sorry, who are you?" Stephanie looked at him. "I'm Her, he's Me. Got it? ~ Derek Landy

196:Her death would leave me scattered, talking to chairs and pillows. Don't let us die, I want to cry out to that fifth-century sky ablaze with mystery and spiral light. Let us both live forever, in sickness and health, feebleminded, doddering, toothless, liver-spotted, dim-sighted, hallucinating. Who decides these things? What is out there? Who are you? ~ Don DeLillo

197:Every angel is terrible. And yet, alas I welcome you, almost fatal birds of the soul, knowing about you. ... If the archangel came now, the perilous one, from the back of the stars but one step lower and toward us, our own high beating heart would slay us. Who are you? You early successes, spoiled darlings of creation... ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

198:The sun of the first day Put the question To the new manifestation of life- Who are you? There was no answer. Years passed by. The last sun of the last day Uttered the question on the shore of the western sea In the hush of evening- Who are you? No answer came again. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Sun Of The First Day

199:You' re Benjamin Ripley, aren't you?" "Uh... no." It was worth a shot. And for half a second it almost seemed to work. The assassin hesitated, slightly confused, then asked, "Then who are you?" "Jonathan Monkeywarts" I winced. It had been the first name to popped into my head. I made a mental note to be more prepared next time this happened. ~ Stuart Gibbs

200:Who are you?" she asked. "A man who will do anything for another kiss." "Just a kiss?" "Nay. I want it all, but I'll take whatever you give me." The world faded away as his head bent to her. A dark lock of hair fell forward and tickled her cheek. Hal's pale blue eyes ensnared her, trapped her. Captured her. And then his lips were on hers. ~ Donna Grant

201:What is going on? Who are you?" "I don't have ti-" "Make time!" I snapped. "I've covered almost two hundred miles on horseback. I haven't had a good night's sleep in a week, and I've nearly been killed twice. So before I do anything else, you're going to have to tell me who you are and why it's so very important that you get my clothes off. ~ Leigh Bardugo

202:Who are you?" Violet asked. It is confusing to fall asleep in the daytime and wake up at night. "what are you doing with Uncle Monty's reptiles?" Klaus asked. It is also confusing to realize you have been sleeping on stairs, rather than in a bed or sleeping bag. "Dixnik?" Sunny asked. It is always confusing why anyone would choose to wear a plaid shirt. ~ Daniel Handler

203:So if you're not Artemis Fowl, then who are you?" The boy extended a dripping hand straight up. "My name is Orion. I am so pleased to meet you at last. I am, of course, your servant." Holly shook the proferred hand, thinking that manners were lovely, but she really needed someone cunning and ruthless right now, and this kid didn't appear to be very cunning. ~ Eoin Colfer

204:Man! What are you? Who are you? Just a shadow in this universe! You always forget this and the truth will always remind you what you really are! Do you want to be a real thing, not just a shadow? Improve your science ten thousand times; improve your science hundred thousand times! If you can’t improve your science, you will remain as a miserable shadow! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan

205:The Brigands charged in with their weapons drawn. "Who are you?" Young Bertie asked. "We're the bad guys!" their leader announced. "What are you going to do?" "Plunder and pillage!" one of them yelled. The others immediately shoved him. "Not in front of the kid, Ralph! Fer cryin' out loud..." "Oh, yeah. Sorry! We're here to take your candy! ~ Lisa Mantchev

206:Don't watch Kroll Show if you don't have a Nielsen box. I honestly don't care. Feel free to DVR it and not watch it because that will somehow help my ratings maybe, but honestly I'm talking to the four of you with a Nielsen box. If you have a Nielsen box, like, who are you? Where do you live? How do I find you? You're a unicorn and I don't believe that you exist. ~ Nick Kroll

207:Out on the Nevsky, in the deepening dusk, a long double file of cyclists came riding, guns slung on their shoulders. They halted, and the crowd pressed in and deluged them with questions. "Who are you? Where do you come from?" asked a fat old man with a cigar in his mouth. "Twelfth Army. From the front. We came to support the Soviets against the damn' bourgeoisie! ~ John Reed

208:So if you're not Artemis Fowl, then who are you?" The boy extended a dripping hand straight up. "My name is Orion. I am so pleased to meet you at last. I am, of course, your servant." Holly shook the proferred hand, thinking that manners were lovely, but she really needed someone cunning and ruthless right now, and this kid didn't appear to be very cunning. ~ Eoin Colfer

209:Let us have compassion for those under chastisement. Alas, who are we ourselves? Who am I and who are you? Whence do we come and is it quite certain that we did nothing before we were born? This earth is not without some resemblance to a gaol. Who knows but that man is a victim of divine justice? Look closely at life. It is so constituted that one senses punishment everywhere. ~ Victor Hugo

210:Who are you?" she inquired, as the cat passed by. I'm the cat that looked at a king," he replied. And I," she remarked with a toss of her head, "am the cow that jumped over the moon." Is that so?" said the cat. "Whatever for?" The cow stared. She had never been asked that question before. And suddenly it occured to her that there might something else to do than jumping over moons. ~ P L Travers

211:Staying requires being curious about who you actually are when you don't take yourself to be a collection of memories.When you don't infer your existence form replaying what happened to you, when you don't take yourself to be the girl your mother/father/brother/teacher/lover didn't see or adore. When you sense yourself directly, immediately, right now, without preconception, who are you? ~ Geneen Roth

212:Staying requires being curious about who you actually are when you don't take yourself to be a collection of memories.When you don't infer your existence from replaying what happened to you, when you don't take yourself to be the girl your mother/father/brother/teacher/lover didn't see or adore. When you sense yourself directly, immediately, right now, without preconception, who are you? ~ Geneen Roth

213:What you see is what you see, but that is never everything. Sarajavo is Sarajevo whatever you see or don't see. America is America. The past and future exist without you. And what you don't know about me is still my life. What I don't know about you is still your life. Nothing at all depends on you seeing it or not seeing it. I mean, who are you? You don't have to see or know everything. ~ Aleksandar Hemon

214:Who are you?" she inquired, as the cat passed by. I'm the cat that looked at a king," he replied. And I," she remarked with a toss of her head, "am the cow that jumped over the moon." Is that so?" said the cat. "Whatever for?" The cow stared. She had never been asked that question before. And suddenly it occured to her that there might something else to do than jumping over moons. ~ P L Travers

215:What we do is not as important as what we are. Our functionalistic modern society tends to reduce our being to our function. What is the first question we ask about someone? “What does he do?” But love never asks that question first. The first question for love is always “Who are you?” rather than “What do you do?” Being is prior to doing, and love’s realism refuses to reverse that real order. ~ Peter Kreeft

216:Who are you?” I ask, opening the door the rest of the way and crossing my arms over my chest. His eyes move to my arms and then back up, and his smile gets wider. “Aye.” “What?” I frown when he chuckles. “Name’s Aye.” “Like when a pirate says yes?” I inquire. Then I growl, “What’s so funny?” when he bends over, holding his stomach and laughing. ~ Aurora Rose Reynolds Myla ~ Aurora Rose Reynolds

217:Hello, everyone," he says cheerfully.  "I don't think I've met all of you.  Just got here this morning and now I'm on my way back again!" "Who are you?"  Tony says. The new guy looks crestfallen.  "Greg Ritchie," he says. Then, when no one seems to react, he jogs their memory.  "President of the United States." "Oh!  Sorry.  Nice to meet you, Mr.President," Tony says, extending his hand.  "Tony Michaels. ~ Anonymous

218:I have no friends. Who are you? What are you doing here?” “Massster used to call me Legion before he called me Ssstupid Idiot.” It moved one step closer, humming with giddiness. Grinning, fangs making another appearance. “Want to play?” Legion. Interesting. “One of a thousand what?” “Minionsss.” Another step. Servants of hell, Wrath supplied with disgust. Useless, disposable, unworthy. Eat him. Aeron ~ Gena Showalter

219:Who are you?” the creature asked in a flat, sandpaper voice. “I am the egg man,” I said seriously. Darius slightly shook his head. He probably also rolled his eyes. “Egg man,” the creature said. Its head slowly turned to Darius. The suit wasn’t hiding him from the boat captain. “Who are you?” Darius stared at him for a beat. “I am the walrus.” I couldn’t help myself. I was a Beatles fan. “Goo goo g’joob. ~ K F Breene

220:Do not destroy the dignity of the other person. That person is as valuable in existence as you are. There is no need to impose your ideas on anybody. Who are you? What authority have you got to impose your ideas on others? You can share, you can tell, you can expose your heart. And if the other feels that something falls in tune with him, and chooses it, it is their decision, not your imposition. Revolutionaries ~ Osho

221:Are you the person in Regan?” asked the psychiatrist. Regan nodded. “Who are you?” “Nowonmai,” she answered gutturally. “That’s your name?” Another nod. “You’re a man?” She said, “Say.” “Did you answer?” “Say.” “If that’s ‘yes,’ nod your head.” Regan nodded. “Are you speaking in a foreign language?” “Say.” “Where do you come from?” “Dog.” “You say that you come from a dog?” “Dogmorfmocion,” Regan replied. ~ William Peter Blatty

222:Fame as she walked at evening in a city saw the painted face of Notoriety flaunting beneath a gas-lamp, and many kneeled unto her in the dirt of the road. "Who are you?" Fame said to her. "I am Fame," said Notoriety. Then Fame stole softly away so that no one knew she had gone. And Notoriety presently went forth and all her worshippers rose and followed after, and she led them, as was most meet, to her native Pit. ~ Lord Dunsany

223:He strips his shirt over his head and I catch my breath, watching those long hard muscles ripple. I know how his shoulders look, bunched, when he's on top of me, how his face gets tight with lust, as he eases inside me. "Who am I?" "Jericho" "Who are you?" He kicks off his boots, steps out of his pants. He's commando tonight. My breath whooshes out of me in a run-on word: "Whogivesafuck? ~ Karen Marie Moning

224:ALBUS: Who are you? Because this is sort of my house and . . . DELPHI: I’m a thief, of course. I’m about to steal everything you own. Give me your gold, your wand, and your Chocolate Frogs! (She looks fierce and then smiles.) Either that or I’m Delphini Diggory. (She ascends the stairs and sticks out a hand.) Delphi. I look after him — Amos — well, I try. (She indicates AMOS.) And you are? ALBUS (rueful grin): Albus. ~ J K Rowling

225:Still, picture the noble snake, having molted, slithering away, newly glistening. There’s the skin, in a big disorganized pile behind it. Is the snake asking you to notice that a snake was here earlier? No; the snake doesn’t care one way or the other. It has moved on. No, indeed, you can’t call a snake sloppy or careless or fault it for leaving tracks in its wake. Besides, who are you? Snakes have been here for millions of years. ~ John Darnielle

226:Who are you?” she demanded, pulling her thin lace robe tightly around her. “And what have you been doing in my head?” “The dreams you mean?” he asked, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for her to dream of him. “Yes, of course,” Liv snapped. “What the hell are those all about?” “I dreamed of you, too,” he said simply, ignoring her question in the most infuriating manner. “It was the only thing that kept me sane.” “I…I… ~ Evangeline Anderson

227:Linh Cinder. Such a pleasure. My master has spoken so highly of you.” Cinder paused and studied her again. “Who are you?” “I’m called Darla. I am Captain Thorne’s mistress.” Cinder blinked. “Excuse me?” “He asked me to stay and keep watch over the vehicle,” she said. “He’s just gone inside to be heroic. I’m sure he’ll be glad to know you’re here. I believe he’s under the impression that you’re out in space somewhere. ~ Marissa Meyer

228:When I opened my eyes, we were still surrounded by darkness. A lantern, standing on the ground, showed a bubbling well. The water splashing from the well disappeared, almost at once, under the floor on which I was lying, with my head on the knee of the man in the black cloak and the black mask. He was bathing my temples and his hands smelt of death. I tried to push them away and asked, ‘Who are you? Where is the voice?’ His only answer was a sigh. ~ Gaston Leroux

229:I had gone back home to finish my book in 2011, and that's when these laws really started coming into states all across the country. I needed to get back to Brooklyn, so I had my two dogs and I rented a van and I called up Planned Parenthood and I said, "I have to drive back to Brooklyn. I've got two dogs and a van. What if I did some fundraisers for you along the way?" And they were like, "Who are you?" I was like, "No, this is a super good idea." ~ Lizz Winstead

230:The two girls used to meet several times a day, and every time they met, Kitty's eyes said: "Who are you? What are you? Are you really the exquisite creature I imagine you to be? But for goodness' sake don't suppose," her eyes added, "that I would force my acquaintance on you, I simply admire you and like you." "I like you too, and you're very, very sweet. And I should like you better still, if I had time," answered the eyes of the unknown girl. ~ Leo Tolstoy

231:Spirit, who are you?' Andy demanded. Bobby remained silent, his entire body strained, his lips tightly together, his eyes bulging out. He was taking frantic, short breaths through his nose. His face was crimson. Spirit,' said Andy, 'I command you to tell us who you are in Jesus' name!' Don't you mention that name!' the spirit hissed and then cursed. I will mention that name again and again,' said Hank. You know that name has defeated you. ~ Frank E Peretti

232:This is a very important undercover operation which you are endangering just by talking to us.” He opened his jacket. “Look, I have a gun. I am Detective Inspector Me. This is my partner, Detective Her.” The traffic warden frowned. “Her?” “Me,” said Stephanie. “Him?” “Not me,” said Skulduggery. “Her.” “Me,” said Stephanie. “You?” said the traffic warden. “Yes,” said Stephanie. “I’m sorry, who are you?” Stephanie looked at him. “I’m Her, he’s Me. Got it? Good. ~ Derek Landy

233:Well?' Jasper said when Mairelon did not reply. 'Who are you?' 'No, no,' Mairelon said. 'I asked you first. I also, if you recall, asked how you found this place and what you intend to do here, and you haven't told me that, either.' 'We might ask you the same thing,' Jasper retorted. 'You might, but I don't recommend it,' Mairelon said. 'You'll get a reputation as a poor conversationalist if you all can do is repeat what other people say to you. ~ Patricia C Wrede

234:Pastor Jill’s sons glared as he approached. The street went quiet, like in a Western. The people were ready for a showdown. Matt said, “How are you doing?” The brothers might have been twins. One kept up the stare. The other started loading Eva’s belongings into the trunk. Matt did not blink. He kept smiling and walking. “I’d like you to stop that now.” Crossed-Tree-Trunk-Arms said, “Who are you?” Pastor Jill came out. She looked over at Matt and scowled too. ~ Harlan Coben

235:Who are you?" "I am Death," said the creature. "I thought that was obvious." "But you're so small!" "Only because you are small. You are young and far from your Death, September, so I seem as anything would seem if you saw it from a long way off-very small, very harmless. But I am always closer than I appear. As you grow, I shall grow with you, until at the end, I shall loom huge and dark over your bed, and you will shut your eyes so as not to see me. ~ Catherynne M Valente

236:Where am I?” I ask. “Where are my parents and my brother? Where’s my home? And who are you?” He blinks a couple of times before smiling faintly as though something has just amused him. “I’m afraid you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.” Wizard of Oz references? I’m somewhere, I don’t know where, and that’s the best I get? Well, I’m not some dumb little girl willing to put up with that, and he certainly isn’t any kind of wizard. - Celestra Caine, FADE by Kailin Gow ~ Kailin Gow

237:You do not have a mind belongs to yourself! Your thoughts are the thoughts of your culture! When you speak, it is not you but your culture, your religion, your traditions, your political or spiritual leaders speak! If not you but your culture, your religion etc. are speaking on behalf of you, then what are you, who are you? A stupid puppet? Get a mind which belongs to yourself! Only then you will be able to speak with your own thoughts on behalf of your own self! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan

238:The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, 'Let me in - let me in!' 'Who are you?' I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. 'Catherine Linton,' it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of LINTON? I had read EARNSHAW twenty times for Linton) - 'I'm come home: I'd lost my way on the moor!' As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child's face looking through the window. ~ Emily Bronte

239:My theory is that everything went to hell with Prohibition, because it was a law nobody could obey. So the whole concept of the rule of law was corrupted at that moment. Then came Vietnam, and marijuana, which clearly shouldn't be illegal, but is. If you go to jail for ten years in Texas when you light up a joint, who are you? You're a lawbreaker. It's just like Prohibition was. When people accept breaking the law as normal, something happens to the whole society, you see? ~ Orson Welles

240:My theory is that everything went to hell with Prohibition, because it was a law nobody could obey. So the whole concept of the rule of law was corrupted at that moment. Then came Vietnam, and marijuana, which clearly shouldn't be illegal, but is. If you go to jail for ten years in Texas when you light up a joint, who are you? You're a lawbreaker. It's just like Prohibition was. When people accept breaking the law as normal, something happens to the whole society. You see? ~ Peter Biskind

241:Who are you?" "I am Death," said the creature. "I thought that was obvious." "But you're so small!" "Only because you are small. You are young and far from your Death, September, so I seem as anything would seem if you saw it from a long way off-very small, very harmless. But I am always closer than I appear. As you grow, I shall grow with you, until at the end, I shall loom huge and dark over your bed, and you will shut your eyes so as not to see me. ~ Catherynne M Valente

242:You belong to the biblical race of Nephilim. Your real father was an angel who fell from heaven. You're half mortal." The boy's dark eyes lifted, meeting Chauncey's. "Half fallen angel." Chauncey's tutor's voice drifted up from the recesses of his mind, reading passages from the Bible, telling of a deviant race created when angels cast from heaven mated with mortal women. A fearsome and powerful race. A chill that wasn't entirely revulsion crept through Chauncey. "Who are you? ~ Becca Fitzpatrick

243:It's your storm, and the future of us all depends on you now. So who are you? Sage, an orphan boy who cares only for himself? Or the undisciplined, rebellious prince your father sent away? Life has tested your resilience and strength and willpower, and you have succeeded in ways nobody ever thought possible. But the storm has never been worse, and it will either destroy you, or define you. When everything is taken from you, can you still stand before us as Jaron, the Ascendant King of Carthya? ~ Jennifer A Nielsen

244:As the mirror to my hand, the flowers to my hair, kohl to my eyes, tambul to my mouth, musk to my breast, necklace to my throat, ecstasy to my flesh, heart to my home -- as wing to bird, water to fish, life to the living -- so you to me. But tell me, Madhava, beloved, who are you? Who are you really? Vidyapati says, they are one another. [2203.jpg] -- from In Praise of Krishna: Songs from the Bengali, Translated by Edward C. Dimock, Jr. / Translated by Denise Levertov ~ Vidyapati, As the mirror to my hand

245:His skin was furred like that of a horse. Snakes danced and hissed from his head, their thin bodies acting as his hair. Two long fangs protruded over his bottom lip. He had human hands, but his feet were hooves. Muscle was stacked upon muscle on his torso, and his nipples were pierced by two large silver rings. Metal chains circled his neck, wrists and ankles, and those chains kept him tethered to the pillars. “Who are you?” Strider demanded. No need to ask what the thing was. Ugly as shit covered it. He ~ Gena Showalter

246:With everything going on in my life – going on in my head – I wanted to talk with you. Really talk. Just once. A chance we never seemed to get at school. Or at work. A chance to ask, Who are you?' We didn’t get that chance because I was afraid. Afraid that I had no chance with you. That’s what I thought. And I was fine with that. Because whit if I got to know you and you turned out to be just like they said? What if you weren’t the person I hoped you were? That, more than anything, would have hurt the most. ~ Jay Asher

247:close your eyes. Continue offering these good wishes while visualizing both the Wild Child and the Dictator until you genuinely mean it, until you can feel compassion toward both sides of yourself. When you get there, consider the following question. Who are you? The only reason you can “see” and offer kindness to both Dictator and the Wild Child is that you’re not either one of them. You’ve moved into a third realm of consciousness, which resides, literally, in a different part of your brain. Call it the Watcher. ~ Martha N Beck

248:Business is about problem-solving, but it does not always have to be about maximizing profit. When I went into business, my interest was to figure out how to solve problems I see in front of me. That's why I looked at the poverty issue. I got involved in lots of things to address it, and one of them was money lending with loans and credits and savings accounts, and in the process I created Grameen Bank. So you can also have social objectives. Ask yourself these questions: Who are you? What kind of world do you want? ~ Muhammad Yunus

249:It’s delicious,” she said politely. “Thank you” came the distracted reply. The woman was looking around her curiously. “Are you all right? There’s something strange…” She trailed off and peered at Myfanwy thoughtfully. “Your mind is different. Something has happened to you; it’s almost as if—” She stood up abruptly, knocking over her chair, which dissolved into vapor, and backed away from the table. The plants writhed, drawing in around her. “Who are you? I can’t understand it. You are not Rook Thomas, and yet you are! ~ Daniel O Malley

250:I witnessed my Maker with my heart's eye. I asked, 'Who are You?' He answered, 'You!' For You one cannot ask, Where? Because where is Where for You? You do not pass through the imagination Or else we'll know where You are. You are He who is everywhere Yet You are nowhere. Where are You? In my annihilation is my annihilation's annihilation And You are found in my annihilation. [2469.jpg] -- from Islamic Mystical Poetry: Sufi Verse from the Early Mystics to Rumi, Translated by Mahmood Jamal ~ Mansur al-Hallaj, I Witnessed My Maker

251:Who are you? What’s your name?” “Mi Mi.” “Do you hear that thumping noise?” “No.” “It must be here somewhere.” Tin Win knelt down. Now it was nearly next to his ear. “I hear it more and more distinctly. A soft pulsing. You really don’t hear it?” “No.” “Close your eyes.” Mi Mi closed her eyes. “Nothing,” she said, and laughed. Tin Win leaned over and felt her breath on his face. “I think it’s coming from you.” He crept closer to her and held his head just in front of her chest. There it was. Her heartbeat. ~ Jan Philipp Sendker

252:Ramona was willing to talk about anything, now, about things beyond the present moment. Childhoods in El Modena and at the beach. The boats offshore. Their work. The people they knew. The huge rocks jumbled under them: "Where did they come from, anyway?" They didn't know. It didn't matter. What do you talk about when you're falling love? It doesn't matter. All the questions are, Who are you? How do you think? Are you like me? Will you love me? And all the answers are, I am like this, like this, like this. I am like you. I like you. ~ Kim Stanley Robinson

253:I’ll return within a half hour,” Helen said. “I promise.” Winterborne didn’t relinquish his grip. “I promise,” she repeated. With her free hand, she stroked his fingers lightly, coaxing them to loosen. He tried to dampen his lips with his tongue before speaking. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely. “Lady Helen.” “What time is it?” Helen sent a questioning glance to Mrs. Church, who went to the mantel clock. “It’s four o’clock,” the housekeeper reported. He was going to time her, Helen realized. And heaven help her if she was late. ~ Lisa Kleypas

254:I don't think there's a right or wrong things in your style. It's about how you clearly reflect who you are; how you more clearly tell the story. Who are you? How do you want to transmit that to the world, and how do you more clearly say that? Then I have a philosophy, FFPS: fit, fabric, proportion, and silhouette. Proportion's everything, really, knowing your body and understanding that. Those things have been really crucial for me. It's about being clear about the story you want to tell to the world about who you are - and maybe a little bit of FFPS. ~ Laverne Cox

255:Sophia looked down her long nose at the girl. “Who are you?” “I’m Abigail, ma’am,” she said, curtsying. “This is my brother, Jamie. I apologize for him.” Sophia arched an eyebrow. “I’ll wager you do that quite a lot.” Abigail sighed, sounding world-weary. “Yes, I do.” “Good girl.” Sophia almost smiled. “Younger brothers can be a chore sometimes, but one must persevere.” “Yes, ma’am,” Abigail said solemnly. “Come on, Jamie,” Alistair said. “Let’s go into dinner before they form a Society for Bossy Older Sisters. ~ Elizabeth Hoyt

256:Action and speech are so closely related because the primordial and specifically human act must at the same time contain the answer to the question asked of every newcomer: “Who are you?” This disclosure of who somebody is, is implicit in both his words and his deeds; yet obviously the affinity between speech and revelation is much closer than that between action and revelation,4 just as the affinity between action and beginning is closer than that between speech and beginning, although many, and even most acts, are performed in the manner of speech. Without ~ Hannah Arendt

257:The air between us was electrified. Licking my lips, I finally asked, “Who are you?” His mouth spread in a sinister smile. “Isn’t that the whole point of a masquerade ball? To not know anything about anyone?” I nodded while I tried to swallow the disappointment. You just freaking met him, woman; get a grip! “Probably.” My hoarse reply made him squeeze my hand harder, and then he let go. “What’s a beautiful girl like you doing outside alone?” His abrupt change of subject seemed wrong, like he was acting a part. His demeanor changed; his mouth lifted in a cocky smile. ~ V F Mason

258:He questioned us one after the other. Each one of his questions—all of them very simple: Who were we? Why had we come?—caught us completely off our guard and seemed to probe our very insides. Who are you? Who am I? We could not answer him as we could a police official or a customs inspector. Give one's name and profession? What does that mean? But *who* are you? And *what* are you? The words we uttered—we had none better—were worthless, repugnant and grotesque as dead things. We realized that with the guides of Mount Analogue, we could no longer get away with just words. ~ Ren Daumal

259:I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. How could I know this city was tailor-made for love? How could I know you fit my body like a glove? I like you. How unlikely. I like you. How slow all of a sudden. How sweet. You cannot know. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. I have time. Please, devour me. Deform me to the point of ugliness. Why not you? Why not you in this city and in this night, so like other cities and other nights you can hardly tell the difference? I beg of you. ~ Marguerite Duras

260:I really cannot understand the point of what you're saying. Really,' said Clotilde, looking at her. 'What a very extraordinary person you are. What sort of a woman are you? Why are you talking like this? Who are you?' Miss Marple pulled down the mass of pink wool that encircled her head, a pink wool scarf of the same kind that she had once worn in the West Indies. 'One of my names,' she said, 'is Nemesis.' 'Nemesis? And what does that mean?' 'I think you know,' said Miss Marple. 'You are a very well educated woman. Nemesis is long delayed sometimes, but it comes in the end. ~ Agatha Christie

261:I remembered that she had also looked at me in that way in the past, from that remote dream where I made the chair spin on its back legs and remained facing a strange woman with ashen eyes. It was in that dream that I asked her for the first time: 'Who are you?' And she said to me: 'I don't remember.' I said to her: 'But I think we've seen each other before.' And she said, indifferently: 'I think I dreamed about you once, about this same room.' And I told her: 'That's it. I'm beginning to remember now.' And she said: 'How strange. It's certain that we've met in other dreams. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez

262:We were moving off now. From each other. As cannot be. Helped. I didn't want it from that time on. You know. All that. When you said sit with me on the school bus. I said no. That inside world had caught alight and what I wanted. To be left alone. To look at it. To swing the torch into every corner of what he'd we'd done. Know it and wonder what does it mean. I learned to turn it off, the world that was not my own. Stop up my ears and everything. Who are you? You and me were never this. This boy and girl that do not speak. But somehow I've left you behind and you're just looking on. ~ Eimear McBride

263:I think of that, too: her mind. Her brain, all those coils, and her thoughts shuttling through those coils like fast, frantic centipedes. Like a child, I picture opening her skull, unspooling her brain and sifting through it, trying to catch and pin down her thoughts. What are you thinking, Amy? The question I've asked most often during our marriage, if not out loud, if not to the person who could answer. I suppose these questions stormcloud over every marriage: What are you thinking? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do? ~ Gillian Flynn

264:Nella swallowed. “Who are you?” “Rio,” he said. “Who are you?” His voice, soft and seductive, held a hint of hidden wickedness. With difficulty, Nella clamped her lips shut. She could not reveal her true name— not yet, until she was certain who he worked for. “I’m . . .” She stopped, her mouth trying to form the right name anyway. Her brain felt thick, as though perfumed tendrils wove through it. “Yours,” she finished. Rio’s eyes flickered. “That’s dangerous, beautiful. Very dangerous.” Nella didn’t care. Right now, she wanted every inch of danger he could give her. ~ Allyson James

265:Who are you?” “I don’t know,” the girl said. “Sometimes I think I grew up in India, but my parents both died or something, and now I need to find my secret garden, with a wall around it, and a hidden door with a key a robin will show me. The flowers grow slowly there, and they don’t change into other things.” Castine nodded and threw a helpless glance at Vickery, then looked back at the girl. “Is your name,” she asked gently, “Mary Lennox?” “I pretend it is,” the girl whispered. “Where I am, things fall out of the people’s heads, and I pick them up before the lizards can. I found Mary Lennox. ~ Tim Powers

266:She blinked up at him in confusion. “What happened?” “The horse reared and fell.” Christopher’s voice came out in a rasp. “Tell me your name.” “Why are you asking me that?” “Your name,” he insisted. “Beatrix Heloise Hathaway.” She looked at him with round blue eyes. “Now that we know who I am…who are you?” At Christopher’s expression, Beatrix snickered and wrinkled her nose impishly. “I’m teasing. Really. I know who you are. I’m perfectly all right.” Over Christopher’s shoulder, Beatrix caught sight of Leo shaking his head in warning, drawing a finger across his throat. ~ Lisa Kleypas

267:The brightness of day darkened to night. Little could be seen except a rider, cloaked and hooded in gray, mounted on a shadowy horse. She felt unexplained attraction, coupled with fear, toward the rider. She was drawn inexorably closer to him. He twisted toward her. Though she couldn't see his features beneath his hood, she felt his cold gaze as if he could see her where she stood in the library. Icy daggers of fear pierced her heart. Who are you? he demanded. Who watches? She felt unseen eyes search for her, and felt his smile. The mirror goes both ways, he said. ~ Kristen Britain

268:To be so at one with one's own destiny that no one will be able to tell the dancer from the dance, that the answer to the question, Who are you? will be the Cardinal's answer, "Allow me ... to answer you in the classic manner, and to tell you a story," is the only aspiration worthy of the fact that life has been given us. This is also called pride, and the true dividing line between people is whether they are capable of being"in love with {their} destiny" or whether they "accept as success what others warrant to be so ... at the quotation of the day. They tremble, with reason, before their fate. ~ Isak Dinesen

269:Egos are drawn to bigger egos. Darkness cannot recognize light. Only light can recognize light. So don’t believe that the light is outside you or that it can only come through one particular form. If only your master is an incarnation of God, then who are you? Any kind of exclusivity is identification with form, and identification with form means ego, no matter how well disguised. Use the master’s presence to reflect your own identity beyond name and form back to you and to become more intensely present yourself. You will soon realize that there is no “mine” or “yours” in presence. Presence is one. ~ Eckhart Tolle

270:I really cannot understand the point of what you're saying. Really,' said Clotilde, looking at her. 'What a very extraordinary person you are. What sort of a woman are you? Why are you talking like this? Who are you?' Miss Marple pulled down the mass of pink wool that encircled her head, a pink wool scarf of the same kind that she had once worn in the West Indies. 'One of my names,' she said, 'is Nemesis.' 'Nemesis? And what does that mean?' 'I think you know,' said Miss Marple. 'You are a very well educated woman. Nemesis is long delayed sometimes, but it comes in the end. ~ Agatha Christie

271:Who are you?” Her eyes snapped open, and her voice held a hysterical edge. “Do I even know who you are?” He stepped over Walker’s battered corpse and grabbed her by the shoulders, leaned down so that his no-doubt foul breath washed over her face. “I am your husband, my lady.” She turned her face away from him. He shook her. “The one you promised to obey always.” “Simon—” “The one you said you’d cleave to, forsaking all others.” “I—” “The one you make love to at night.” “I don’t know if I can live with you anymore.” The words were a whisper, but they rang in his head like a death knell. ~ Elizabeth Hoyt

272:By the Hospital Lane goes the 'Faeries Path.' Every evening they travel from the hill to the sea, from the sea to the hill. At the sea end of their path stands a cottage. One night Mrs. Arbunathy, who lived there, left her door open, as she was expecting her son. Her husband was asleep by the fire; a tall man came in and sat beside him. After he had been sitting there for a while, the woman said, 'In the name of God, who are you?' He got up and went out, saying, 'Never leave the door open at this hour, or evil may come to you.' She woke her husband and told him. 'One of the good people has been with us,' said he. ("Village Ghosts") ~ W B Yeats

273:Mr. Moundshroud, who are YOU? And Mr. Moundshroud, way up there on the roof, sent his thoughts back: I think you know, boy, I think you know. Will we meet again, Mr. Moundshroud? Many years from now, yes, I’ll come for you. And a last thought from Tom: O Mr. Moundshroud, will we EVER stop being afraid of nights and death? And the thought returned: When you reach the stars, boy, yes, and live there forever, all the fears will go, and Death himself will die. Tom listened, heard, and waved quietly. Mr. Moundshroud, far off, lifted his hand. Click. Tom’s front door went shut. His pumpkin-like-a-skull, on the vast Tree, sneezed and went dark. ~ Ray Bradbury

274:She swallows and swallows the water. And as she swallows she swallows the possibility she will always be alone. Swallows the river that will flow into the sea that is made from other waters that have flowed from mountains and hills, that will leak into oceans. She swallows geography, learns to swim in changing tides and temperatures, learns different strokes of the arms and legs, learns to speak in many tongues. She does this because she has no choice but to do so, and she comes out of the river to find him there, holding her earrings in his hand, and he says, ‘But they don’t fit. Who are you?’" (from "Swallowing Geography" by Deborah Levy) ~ Deborah Levy

275:Chicks THE CHICK in the egg picks at the shell, cracks open one oval world, and enters another oval world. 'Cheep... cheep... cheep' is the salutation of the newcomer, the emigrant, the casual at the gates of the new world. 'Cheep... cheep'... from oval to oval, sunset to sunset, star to star. It is at the door of this house, this teeny weeny eggshell exit, it is here men say a riddle and jeer each other: who are you? where do you go from here? (In the academies many books, at the circus many sacks of peanuts, at the club rooms many cigar butts.) 'Cheep... cheep'... from oval to oval, sunset to sunset, star to star. ~ Carl Sandburg

276:Raphael came through the door like a child's nightmare, his eyes glowing an almost solid silver with wrath, his gleaming fangs fully extended, blood painting his mouth a brilliant red, dripping from his chin to shine wetly against the tattered remains of his black shirt. His huge chest was heaving with the fury of his breath, and his hands curled into claws as his gaze found her and he growled a warning. 'Release her, human.' 'Who are you? the man rasped, fear taking away his breath, coarsening his voice. 'Release her.' The man tightened his grip, 'Come closer and she dies.' Rachael's mouth widened in a terrifying smile, 'You think to bargain with me? ~ D B Reynolds

277:Who are you?” asked Enoch. The larger, stronger angel spoke first, “We are Gabriel and Uriel, the archangels from the throne of Elohim.” “Elohim?” Enoch had heard of the name. His tribe descended from the line of Seth that had worshipped this god as the creator of all things. But when the dispersion had occurred and his ancestors had settled in the city, they were visited by the gods of Shinar, and this Elohim faded into obscurity. An abstract blurred memory of a distant unseen deity seemed impotent in the real presence of the pantheon with its Four High Gods, Anu, Enlil, Enki, and Ninhursag, and their mighty signs and wonders. “Everything you worship is a lie,” said Gabriel. ~ Brian Godawa

278:Someone's at the door! Someone's at the door!!!" they both yelled. "I just told you, it's my—" I called, knowing they couldn't hear. "Hey. Get away from the door, you miserable jack-off," I heard Chuck shout at my dad. "I'll rip your ass in half." "Me too! I'll rip your ass in half, too!!" yelled Johnny Depp. "We hate you. We hate you. We hate you. We hate you." "You guys, knock it off," I said, racing to open the door. "I just told you...it's my—Hi, Daddy," I said, hugging him. "Come on in! Great to see you again!!" screamed Chuck. "Thank God you're finally here!" screamed Johnny Depp. "We missed you. Where you been? Welcome back! Who are you?? ~ Merrill Markoe

279:Hey, who are you?” he quacked. “Where are you? What’s going on and is there any way of stopping it?” “Please relax,” said the voice pleasantly, like a stewardess in an airliner with only one wing and two engines, one of which is on fire, “you are perfectly safe.” “But that’s not the point!” raged Ford. “The point is that I am now a perfectly safe penguin, and my colleague here is rapidly running out of limbs!” “It’s all right, I’ve got them back now,” said Arthur. “Two to the power of fifty thousand to one against and falling,” said the voice. “Admittedly,” said Arthur, “they’re longer than I usually like them, but …” “Isn’t there anything,” squawked Ford in avian fury, “you feel you ought to be telling us? ~ Douglas Adams

280:And so we have come full circle, and return to the essential question: who are you? From a scientific perspective, you are miraculous. You are stardust. You contain the same energy and matter that created the universe 13 billion years ago. You were once that energy—inside the infinitesimally small point of light that began all of life. Everything around you, everything you can see, touch, and taste, is made of this matter, this same universal energy: the water that shines, the tree that reaches, the bird in flight, the grass that grows. The saints and sages across the ages said it this way: you are brothers and sisters with all of creation. If who you are and how things work are one and the same, then who you are is love. ~ Tom Shadyac

281:Wanderer, who are you? I watch you go on your way, without scorn, without love, with impenetrable eyes - damp and downhearted, like a plumb line that returns unsatisfied from every depth back into the light (what was it looking for down there?), with a breast that does not sigh, with lips that hide their disgust, with a hand that only grips slowly: who are you? What have you done? Take a rest here, this spot is hospitable to everyone, - relax! And whoever you may be: what would you like now? What do you find relaxing? Just name it: I'll give you whatever I have! - "Relaxing? Relaxing? How inquisitive you are! What are you saying! But please, give me - -" What? What? Just say it! - "Another mask! A second mask!" ... ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

282:Who are you? She asked silently, as she laid away the collector's quotations, his drawings, his scraps of famous poetry: "Come live with me and be my love..." interleaved with menus: 'oysters, fish stew, tortoise in its shell, bread from the oven, honey from the honeycomb.' The books were unsplattered but much fingered, their pages soft with turning and re-turning, like collections of old fairy tales. Often Jess thought of Rapunzel and golden apples and enchanted gardens. She thought of Ovid, and Dante, and Cervantes, and the Pre-Raphaelites, for sometimes McClintock pictured his beloved eating, and sometimes sleeping in fields of poppies, and once throned like Persephone, with strawberry vines entwined in her long hair. ~ Allegra Goodman

283:A voice spoke in his head, mellow and vast: "Long have we watched you, little one." "Who's there?" he quavered. "Who are you?" "Your concepts are inadequate." "Malfunction! Malfunction!" squalled the scouter. "Shut up, it's not a malfunction. Who's talking to me?" "You may call us: Rulers of the Galaxy." The scouter was lunging wildly, buffeting him as it tried to escape the white grasp. Strange crunches, firings of unknown weapons. Still the white stasis held. "What do you want?" he cried. "Want?" said the voice dreamily. "We are wise beyond knowing. Powerful beyond your dreams. Perhaps you can get us some fresh fruit." - 'Painwise ~ James Tiptree Jr

284:I hope you understand that change—real change—is difficult. Our lives are like undercurrents that we cannot change, we can only drift along if we are to survive. I am no different than every other human being, having lived the tainted hand I’ve been dealt. And it’s clear I’ve condemned my grandchildren to the same miserable fate. And cursed the world with them, as well.” “Free will, then,” Drayton said, “does not exist?” “Free will?” She chuckled, whimsically plucking at the window. “It’s a dream, Mr. Drayton. We’re victims of our thoughts, our genes, DNA, the malfunctions given to us by our parents and environment. Free will, Mr. Drayton, is a concept. It does not exist.” “And who is saying that?” “I am.” “And who are you? Your thoughts?” She ~ Tony Bertauski

285:Looking at herself suddenly deformed into an out-of-body dream;the image in the mirror was someone else. An unbearable melancholy washed over her. She stifled a sob, momentarily overwhelmed by her situation, by tonight’s danger, and by her whole existence as a spy. Look at you, she thought. What are you doing? Who are you? A ridiculous fanatic fighting alone in the dark, overwhelming dangers arrayed against you, the odds of surviving slim, your friends far away, separated from the man you love. How long will you last? How did her mentor General Korchnoi -he spied for CIA for fourteen years- summon the will and determination to keep going? Dominika blinked as tears slid down the cheeks of the revenant in the mirror. It wasn’t her; it was someone else crying. ~ Jason Matthews

286:The words kept landing like punches, dazing Adam, sapping his resistance, leaving him shaken and confused and ready to take a standing eight count. He wanted to fight back, grab the guy by the shirt, toss him across the room for insulting his wife like this. But he didn’t for two reasons. One, there was the whole dazed-like-taking-punches, sapped-resistance thing. Two, something about the way the man spoke, something about the guy’s confident tone, the damn conviction in his voice, made Adam start thinking it might be smartest to listen. “Who are you?” Adam asked. “Does it matter?” “Yeah, it does.” “I’m the stranger,” he said. “The stranger with important knowledge. She lied to you, Adam. Corinne. She was never pregnant. It was all a ruse to get you back.” Adam ~ Harlan Coben

287:Damn it," the man facing her muttered. "Who are you?" "Lady Pandora Ravenel. I'll tell them..." Her voice trailed away as she found herself looking up at an arrogant young god, tall and big framed, every line of him taut with feline grace. The tiny pendant lamp overhead sent sunstruck golden glints playing among the thick, well-cut layers of his amber hair. His eyes were winter-blue, his cheekbones high and straight, the line of his jaw hard enough to chisel marble. The full, sensuous curves of his lips lent a note of erotic dissonance to his otherwise classic features. One glance at him was enough to make her feel as if she were trying to breathe at high altitude. What would it do to a man's character to be so inhumanly beautiful? It couldn't be anything good. ~ Lisa Kleypas

288:"Joss" "What?" "What?" Dylan asked back. "You just said my name." "No I didn't" "Sorry that was me." I sat up, banging my head on the roof. "Who is that?" "Hey, stay down here where the air is good, okay?" Dylan pulled me gently back down. "Hows your head?" "Not good, I think." "Um, okay, so you here me. Heather's right, you do think loud. I mean, I've never heard you before, but my Talent seems to be a lot more selective than her's. But now that she's got me turned in to you-" "Who are you?" "It's still me, Marshall. It's Dylan. I'm right here." "My name's Joel." "Joel?" "Joss, what are you talking about?" He took my face in his hands. "Who's Joel?" "The voice in my head, I guess." "Jesus. ~ Susan Bischoff

289:Who are You, who keeps my heart awake? Every moment is lit by You, so that I feel no longer separate from You. Whose flute is playing sweet and bitter songs of love? It starts the cuckoos singing, and calls the nectar-heavy bees of my desire. A young wife could be blooming in the season of honey, watching the moon, and be stolen in a moment. Touch Radha, Whoever You are. She shivers at Your feet, risking everything to bear love's searing fire. Master, is that not You? She's grown reckless with her soul. Her fear is gone, her hesitation. Who are You? She'll weep at Your lotus feet until she knows. [2260.jpg] -- from The Lover of God, by Rabindranath Tagore / Translated by Tony Stewart ~ Rabindranath Tagore, Who are You, who keeps my heart awake? (from The Lover of God)

290:I turned around, looking for escape. Behind me was a great obsidian mirror, like the one I had once found in the room with the tree full of memories. In its reflection, the stone halls of Naraka glittered. “You are not a sadhvi,” said a voice. I looked up, stunned to see Amar standing before me. He helped me to my feet, but I couldn’t look at him. Every time I glanced into his face, that flat look of no recognition slashed through me. He jerked my chin up. “Do not lie to me. Who are you?” Tears prickled hot behind my eyes and the answer I gave him was so true, I could feel it echoing through all my hollow spaces: “I don’t know.” He released his hold on my chin but he didn’t step away. “You asked to see me alone. Why?” Because I love you. ~ Roshani Chokshi

291:Listen to me. I know something else. It will begin again. 200,000 dead and 80,000 wounded in nine seconds. Those are the official figures. It will begin again. It will be 10,000 degrees on the earth. Ten thousand suns, people will say. The asphalt will burn. Chaos will prevail. An entire city will be lifted off the ground, and fall back to earth in ashes…I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. How could I know this city was tailor-made for love? How could I know you fit my body like a glove? I like you. How unlikely. I like you. How slow all of a sudden. How sweet. You cannot know. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. I have time. Please, devour me. Deform me to the point of ugliness. Why not you? ~ Marguerite Duras

292:The Spirit Of A Sponge I dreamed one night that Stephen Massett died, And for admission up at Heaven applied. 'Who are you?' asked St. Peter. Massett said: 'Jeems Pipes, of Pipesville.' Peter bowed his head, Opened the gates and said: 'I'm glad to know you, And wish we'd something better, sir, to show you.' 'Don't mention it,' said Stephen, looking bland, And was about to enter, hat in hand, When from a cloud below such fumes arose As tickled tenderly his conscious nose. He paused, replaced his hat upon his head, Turned back and to the saintly warden said, O'er his already sprouting wings: 'I swear I smell some broiling going on down there!' So Massett's paunch, attracted by the smell, Followed his nose and found a place in Hell. ~ Ambrose Bierce

293:Who are you?" Rosemary said in amazement. She had never seen men like these before. Cloaks of green and brown fell from their broad shoulders and every hand gripped a round shield an evil-looking spear. Beneath the thick yellow hair, eyes glinted hard and wild. One of the men rode near and peered down at Rosemary. Unlike the rest, he was clean-shaven and pleasant-looking, and she was surprised to see that he was no older than herself. Nonetheless his blond-red hair was bound with golden circlet and he was obviously the leader. He suddenly smiled at her and his eyes were bright with humour and curiosity. "It is hardly your place to question us, girl." He reached out and touched her hair. "Hair like the night...and such strange clothing. But you are fair-faced. Whose slave might you be? ~ O R Melling

294:After a few moments, her eyes became as glossy as his and she also spoke in complete nonsense. “Who are you?” Mother Goose asked the caterpillar. “What I am,” he said. “Where are you?” she said. “Here with you,” the caterpillar said. “And if this were the Castle of Hearts?” Mother Goose asked. “We’d be there,” he said. “But where?” she asked. “In the castle,” he said. “Ah, so there would be here,” she said, and they nodded together. “Here would be what’s left.” The caterpillar nodded. “Am I what’s left?” she asked. “You’re what’s right, of course.” “But what’s right is wrong.” “And what’s left is right.” “I understand completely,” Mother Goose said. “Thank you so much, Mr. Caterpillar.” The others stared at them absolutely dumbfounded. Mother Goose hopped down from the mushroom and moseyed back to them. ~ Chris Colfer

295:Who are you? A simple son of the soil, as you pretend to yourself? Oh, no. You, too, are among the infirm—you are the dreamer, the madman in a madder world, our own midwestern Don Quixote without his Sancho, gamboling under the blue sky… But you have the taint, the old infirmity. You think there's something here, something to find. Well, in the world you'd learn soon enough. You, too, are cut out for failure; not that you'd fight the world. You'd let it chew you up and spit you out, and you'd lie there wondering what was wrong. Because you'd always expect the world to be something it had no wish to be. The weevil in the cotton, the worm in the beanstalk, the borer in the corn. You couldn't face them, and you couldn't fight them; because you're too weak, and you're too strong. And you have no place to go in the world. ~ John Williams

296:Becoming a woman felt a bit like becoming famous. For, from being benevolently generally ignored – the base-line existence of most children – a teenage girl is suddenly fascinating to others, and gets bombarded with questions: What size are you? Have you done it yet? Will you have sex with me? Have you got ID? Do you want to try a puff of this? Are you seeing anyone? Have you got protection? What’s your signature style? Can you walk in heels? Who are your heroes? Are you getting a Brazilian? What porn do you like? Do you want to get married? When are you going to have kids? Are you a feminist? Were you just flirting with that man? What do you want to do? WHO ARE YOU? All ridiculous questions to ask of a 13-year-old simply because she now needs a bra. They might as well have been asking my dog. I had absolutely no idea. ~ Caitlin Moran

297:In one marijuana experience, my informant became aware of the presence and, in a strange way, the in-appropriateness of this silent "watcher," who responds with interest and occasional critical comment to the kaleidoscopic dream imagery of the marijuana experience but is not part of it. "Who are you?" my informant silently asked it. "Who wants to know?" it replied, making the experience very like a Sufi or Zen parable. But my informant's question is a deep one. I would suggest the observer is a small part of the critical faculties of the left hemisphere, functioning much more in psychedelic than in dream experiences, but present to a degree in both. However, the ancient query, "Who is it who asks the question?" is still unanswered; perhaps it is another component of the left cerebral hemisphere. An asymmetry in the temporal lobes ~ Anonymous

298:Wind Song LONG ago I learned how to sleep, In an old apple orchard where the wind swept by counting its money and throwing it away, In a wind-gaunt orchard where the limbs forked out and listened or never listened at all, In a passel of trees where the branches trapped the wind into whistling, 'Who, who are you?' I slept with my head in an elbow on a summer afternoon and there I took a sleep lesson. There I went away saying: I know why they sleep, I know how they trap the tricky winds. Long ago I learned how to listen to the singing wind and how to forget and how to hear the deep whine, Slapping and lapsing under the day blue and the night stars: Who, who are you? Who can ever forget listening to the wind go by counting its money and throwing it away? ~ Carl Sandburg

299:To the ego, the present moment hardly exists. Only past and future are considered important. This total reversal of the truth accounts for the fact that in the ego mode the mind is so dysfunctional. It is always concerned with keeping the past alive, because without it — who are you? It constantly projects itself into the future to ensure its continued survival and to seek some kind of release or fulfillment there. It says: “One day, when this, that, or the other happens, I am going to be okay, happy, at peace.” Even when the ego seems to be concerned with the present, it is not the present that it sees: It misperceives it completely because it looks at it through the eyes of the past. Or it reduces the present to a means to an end, an end that always lies in the mind-projected future. Observe your mind and you’ll see that this is how it works. ~ Eckhart Tolle

300:The Connecticut River March 2, 1704 Temperature 10 degrees They marched. “Ask your Indian his name,” Mercy said softly to Eben. “They like that.” So Eben patted his chest and said, “Eben.” Then he touched his Indian’s arm and said, “Who are you?” “Thorakwaneken.” Eben said it over and over until Thorakwaneken nodded and Eben supposed he had the pronunciation right. Mercy pointed to a squirrel sitting on a branch. “Thorakwaneken,” she said, “what is that?” “Arosen.” “Arosen,” repeated Mercy, and Eben echoed her. Arosen. Squirrel. Eben would rather have had that knife pierce his chest and kill him than live to acquire an Indian vocabulary, but it was something to do and it kept Mercy cheerful. Eben did not much care if he lived, but he could not bear the thought of one more girl dying. ~ Caroline B Cooney

301:The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. 'Who are you?' said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, 'I — I hardly know, sir, just at present — at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.' 'What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. 'Explain yourself!' 'I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, 'because I'm not myself, you see.' 'I don't see,' said the Caterpillar. 'I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,' Alice replied very politely, 'for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing. ~ Lewis Carroll

302:He had no faintest conception till that very hour of how they would look, and even doubted their existence. But when he saw them he knew that he had always known them and realized what part each one of them had played at many an hour in his life when he had supposed himself alone, so that now he could say to them, one by one, not ‘Who are you?’ but ‘So it was you all the time.’ All that they were and said at this meeting woke memories. The dim consciousness of friends about him which had haunted his solitudes from infancy was now at last explained; that central music in every pure experience which had always just evaded memory was now at last recovered...He saw not only Them; he saw Him. This animal, this thing begotten in a bed, could look on Him. What is blinding, suffocating fire to you is now cool light to him, is clarity itself, and wears the form of a man. ~ C S Lewis

303:Forty-two minutes later, keys worked the lock, the door swung open, and Lucas Worley came halfway through the door before seeing me. He was carrying a newspaper and a Starbucks cup. He looked surprised, but he hadn’t yet seen the dope on the table. “What the fuck is this? Who are you?” “Come inside and close the door, Luke. Can I call you Luke? Or is it Lucas? Lucas seems pretentious.” He was a little bit taller than he had looked in the car. His eyes were bright and sharp, and he spoke quickly. You could tell he was used to talking. You could tell he was used to saying bright things and having them appreciated, and you could tell that he thought he was brighter than he really was. Probably where the smugness came from. He said, “Maybe I’m confused. Isn’t this my house? Isn’t that my sofa? The only thing that doesn’t seem to belong here is you.” Showing attitude. ~ Robert Crais

304:You’re Pastor Mike Johnston?” “Yes. Who are you?” “Pastor Johnston, I am with the United States government, and we are here to arrest all of you who are subversives. If you come quietly with us, no harm will come to you or your congregation. I really don’t want to crack some heads to get my point across,” “Took you government types long enough to start rounding up the Christians, I was expecting this in the 2010’s. I assume that you’re taking us to the FEMA Camp that’s between here and Florence. Am I right?” Ellison looked at his fellow team members, then looked back at Johnston, and asked, “How do you know that?” “You think the camps were a secret? Foolish boy, that’s probably been the worst kept secret held by the government in my lifetime. While I don’t agree with what you’re doing, we will go with you. Ladies and gentlemen, follow these men to wherever they want you to go. ~ Cliff Ball

305:Leafpaw found her gaze drifting around the cave. She padded away from where Cinderpelt and Stoneteller were exchanging experiences and wove among the stone claws until they were hidden from sight. Her paws felt heavy, and tiredness weighed on her pelt like water. She lay down on the damp stone floor and rested her nose upon her paws, mesmerized by the glitter of water dripping from stone. She closed her eyes. StarClan? Are you here? Her mind swirled with the sound of rushing water. At the very edge of her thoughts, she heard the roaring of a lion and saw the rippling of shadowy pelts—pelts she did not recognize. Who are you? she asked desperately. Voices breathed back to her, speaking words she did not understand. Panic flooded Leafpaw, and she blinked open her eyes. StarClan was not here. She could hear only the voices of the Tribe’s ancestors. Leafpaw had never felt so alone in her life. ~ Erin Hunter

306: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

307:Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.’ She sat down. Ron looked taken aback. ‘Er – all right.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.’ He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed grey and fast asleep. ‘Are you sure that’s a real spell?’ said the girl. ‘Well, it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and it’s all worked for me. Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard – I’ve learnt all our set books off by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough – I’m Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?’ She said all this very fast. Harry looked at Ron and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he hadn’t learnt all the set books off by heart either. ~ J K Rowling

308:Father And Mother Do Not Speak To Me Father and mother do not speak to me What about the younger brother? He minds his own affairs Let the next birth be in India I should like to believe in rebirth, but... Don't you go to the stadium and the tagora? There are enough of American tourists there. Their cameras are twinkling all the time. They must have forgotten to take their eyes. Why are you so sad today? You saw Aravindan's 'Pokkuveyil,' didn't you? Good to learn that there are such people here and there. Do you know these extremists? It seems they are more imaginative. Why so lonely in Athens where twenty-five lacs live? Maybe, because there are so many. Athens, Athens, you too drink foreign wine? Everything is business, Sir? Who are you? Athena or Aphrodite Hera or Artemis Zues' Ganymede Or a shepherd girl In the villages that still survive? ~ Ayyappa Paniker

309:At that moment the new messenger was knocking on the apartment door. It was the first apartment door she had ever knocked on. It was the first apartment door she had ever seen. But she knew how it would feel. She had been coached. It would feel like a long time, but really it was nothing more than counting from one to five. She had been coached about everything. She had taken the bus into town. First time ever. She saw paved roads for the first time ever. But due to long hours of stream-of-consciousness briefing from the others she knew how to do it. She was prepared. She didn’t stand out. She stumbled once or twice, but so does every weary long-distance traveler. Perfection would have stood out worse. One, two, three, four, five. The door opened. A young Saudi guy said, “Who are you?” The new messenger said, “I seek sanctuary and haven. Our faith requires you to provide it. As do our elders and betters in this venture.” The Saudi boy said, “Come in.” He ~ Lee Child

310:Cyrano: I can see him there---he grins--- He is looking at my nose---that skeleton ---What's that you say? Hopeless?---Why, very well!--- But a man does not fight merely to win! No---no---better to know one fights in vain!... You there---Who are you? A hundred against one--- I know them now, my ancient enemies--- Falsehood!...There! There! Prejudice---Compromise---Cowardice--- What's that? No! Surrender? No! Never---never!... Ah, you too, Vanity! I knew you would overthrow me in the end--- No! I fight on! I fight on! I fight on! Yes, all my laurels you have riven away And all my roses; yet in spite of you, There is one crown I bear away with me, And to-night, when I enter before God, My salute shall sweep all the stars away From the blue threshold! One thing without stain, Unspotted from the world, in spite of doom Mine own!--- And that is... Roxane: ---That is... Cyrano: My white plume.... ~ Edmond Rostand

311:Who are you, Martin Eden? he demanded of himself in the looking- glass, that night when he got back to his room. He gazed at himself long and curiously. Who are you? What are you? Where do you belong? You belong by rights to girls like Lizzie Connolly. You belong with the legions of toil, with all that is low, and vulgar, and unbeautiful. You belong with the oxen and the drudges, in dirty surroundings among smells and stenches. There are the stale vegetables now. Those potatoes are rotting. Smell them, damn you, smell them. And yet you dare to open the books, to listen to beautiful music, to learn to love beautiful paintings, to speak good English, to think thoughts that none of your own kind thinks, to tear yourself away from the oxen and the Lizzie Connollys and to love a pale spirit of a woman who is a million miles beyond you and who lives in the stars! Who are you? and what are you? damn you! And are you going to make good? ~ Jack London

312:Who are you?" asked the guard standing in front of the stairs leading up to the upper floors, leading to Elinor. Above, all was still silent. No one had thought to warn the girls working upstairs. "Chambermaid," Winn said ina ridiculously high voice. "I must warn the girls upstairs." Winn risked a glance at the man and saw he looked skeptical. Bloody hell. What was he to do now? Women always needed help, and men seemed to enjoy helping them, so he added, "Can you help me?" "I..." The man hesitated, and Winn considered that perhaps it was only attractive women men enjoyed assisting. Foncé's man leaned closer, scrutinizing him, and Winn decided he'd better not take a chance. "Oh, dear! Look at that!" he screeched, pointing behind the man. When the guard turned to look, Winn kicked him. The man fell against the stairs, and Winn fell on him, ramming his head into the wooden slats. As the man's eyes drifted closed, Winn muttered, "That's for thinking I wasn't pretty enough. ~ Shana Galen

313:Another big group of dolphins had just surfaced alongside our moving vessel—leaping and splashing and calling mysteriously back and forth in their squeally, whistly way, with many babies swift alongside their mothers. And this time, confined to just the surface of such deep and lovely lives, I was becoming unsatisfied. I wanted to know what they were experiencing, and why to us they feel so compelling, and so—close. This time I allowed myself to ask them the question that was forbidden fruit: Who are you? Science usually steers firmly from questions about the inner lives of animals. Surely they have inner lives of some sort. But like a child who is admonished that what they really want to ask is impolite, a young scientist is taught that the animal mind—if there is such—is unknowable. Permissible questions are “it” questions: where it lives; what it eats; what it does when danger threatens; how it breeds. But always forbidden—always forbidden—is the one question that might open the door: “Who?” — Carl Safina ~ Carl Safina

314:her all the way to the crossroads, and I think it more than adequate.” Everyone gaped at her like she was mad. “Our goal,” she continued, “was to distract the king, was it not? To distract the king and those who serve him, to send them on a merry chase. It would have been nice to meet the lady, and to use her captivity to our advantage, but our first intention was to empty the tombs of its guards, yes?” Immerez calmed and nodded, and Sarge let out a breath of relief. Karigan’s own thoughts were awhirl. They kidnapped Estora just to distract the king? To empty the tombs? What were they up to? “Who are you?” she asked the woman. The woman did not answer, but withdrew a pendant from beneath her chemise. It was crudely made of iron, but shaped into a design Karigan knew well: a dead tree. “Second Empire,” she whispered. She glanced at the onlookers. “You’re all Second Empire?” Some drew out pendants like the woman’s, and others raised their hands, palms outward, to show the tattoo of the dead tree. The old woman smiled kindly ~ Kristen Britain

315:He slotted some ice, connected the construct, and jacked in. It was exactly the sensation of someone reading over his shoulder. He coughed. "Dix? McCoy? That you man?" His throat was tight. "Hey, bro," said a directionless voice. "It's Case, man. Remember?" "Miami, joeboy, quick study." "What's the last thing you remember before I spoke to you, Dix?" "Nothin'." "Hang on." He disconnected the construct. The presence was gone. He reconnected it. "Dix? Who am I?" "You got me hung, Jack. Who the fuck are you?" "Ca--your buddy. Partner. What's happening, man?" "Good question." "Remember me being here, a second ago?" "No." "Know how a ROM personality construct works?" "Sure, bro, it's a firmware construct." "So I jack it into the bank I'm using, I can give it sequential real-time memory?" "Guess so," said the construct. "Okay, Dix,. You are a ROM construct. Got me?" "If you say so," said the construct. "Who are you?" "Case." "Miami," said the voice, "joeboy, quick study. ~ William Gibson

316:Some stories last many centuries, others only a moment. All alter over that lifetime like beach-glass, grow distant and more beautiful with salt. Yet even today, to look at a tree and ask the story Who are you? is to be transformed. There is a stage in us where each being, each thing, is a mirror. Then the bees of self pour from the hive-door, ravenous to enter the sweetness of flowering nettles and thistle. Next comes the ringing a stone or violin or empty bucket gives off -- the immeasurable's continuous singing, before it goes back into story and feeling. In Borneo, there are palm trees that walk on their high roots. Slowly, with effort, they lift one leg then another. I would like to join that stilted transmigration, to feel my own skin vertical as theirs: an ant-road, a highway for beetles. I would like not minding, whatever travels my heart. To follow it all the way into leaf-form, bark-furl, root-touch, and then keep walking, unimaginably further. ~ Jane Hirshfield

317:Liv’s head jerked up and she found she was staring into a pair of wholly alien eyes. They weren’t the gold of a Beast Kindred or the pale ice blue of a Tranq Kindred or any of the varying shades of brown, green, or blue she’d seen in the few Twin Kindred she’d met. They were a deep glossy black that reminded her of a black hole—a place where even light couldn’t escape. As she watched a red vertical slit appeared in the center of each large iris and elongated alarmingly like a cat’s. Only no cat she’d ever seen had crimson and black eyes. “Who…who are you?” she asked, finding her voice at last. The eyes were set in a cold, calculating masculine face with skin the strange color of a dark grey pearl. The speaker had hair as black as his eyes which was pulled back from the stark bones of his face in a way that seemed to emphasize the cruel set of his mouth. More than that, Liv couldn’t see except that he wore some kind of cape over his shoulders. “Who are you?” she asked again since he hadn’t answered her the first time. “I am your destiny. Are you mine? ~ Evangeline Anderson

318:She bit her lower lip, a habit the village gossip had once told her was unladylike and unattractive. Strange; all her life she'd striven to become a proper young woman, to make her family proud of her. These past few months, she'd spent doing the opposite. Trying to pass as a man, a soldier. Her worst fear had been that she'd be caught impersonating someone who didn't exist. She never imagined she'd tell anyone of her own free will. She swallowed. "So you... you should know it's true. I'm not... Ping." "If you're not Ping, then who are you?" Shang asked. "I'm..." Mulan sucked in her breath. Her voice shook, and she worried her heart might burst out of its armor. She set down her sword, rubbed the sweat off her palms onto her bare arm. Then she reached for her hair and undid the knot. The black sheet of hair tumbled down, brushing just against her shoulder blades. "My ancestors were right," she said, surprised by how calm her voice was. "My parents never had a son. There is no Ping." She raised her eyes to meet Shang's. "There is only- Mulan. ~ Elizabeth Lim

319:church that was supposed to have fewer than fifty members who attended. They got themselves ready and entered the building. The church members were in prayer, when the head of this team said in as loud as voice as possible, “All right, listen up. All of you are under arrest. If you come quietly, none of you will be harmed. Follow these men out to your church bus, where we will transport you to a facility for all of you,” “Now hold on, wait just a minute. Who are you?” Looking at an iPad, the man said, “You must be Pastor Matthew Tyler. According to my information, you have thirty members, but it looks to me like you only have twenty-four. Where’s the other six?” “You still haven’t told me what business you have arresting us,” The man sighed, rolled his eyes, and replied, “We’re with the United States government. All of you, including others who have the same or similar beliefs, are all considered threats. We’re transporting you to a place that will hold all of you until such a time when we feel you’re no longer a menace to society. Now, where are the six who are missing? ~ Cliff Ball

320:If dogs had gods, those they worshiped would wag their tails and bark. If sheep had gods, they would follow woolly deities who grazed. As the world is, almost all folk have many things in common, as if the gods who shaped them were using certain parts of a pattern over and over again. The folk striding towards us through the green, green grass might have been the pattern itself, the pattern from whose rearranged pieces the rest of us had been clumsily reassembled. As bronze, which had brought us here, is an alloy of copper and tin, so I saw that sirens were an alloy of these folk and birds, sphinxes of them and birds and lions, satyrs of them and goats, fauns of them and horses. And I saw that we centaurs blended these folk and horses as well, though in different proportions, as one bronze will differ from another depending on how much is copper and how much tin. Is it any wonder, then, that, on seeing this folk, I at once began to wonder if I had any true right to exist? “Who are you? What is your folk?” I asked him. “I am Geraint,” he answered. “I am a man. ~ Harry Turtledove

321:Do you repent?” asked a deep, solemn voice, which caused Danglars’ hair to stand on end. His feeble eyes endeavored to distinguish objects, and behind the bandit he saw a man enveloped in a cloak, half lost in the shadow of a stone column. “Of what must I repent?” stammered Danglars. “Of the evil you have done,” said the voice. “Oh, yes; oh, yes, I do indeed repent.” And he struck his breast with his emaciated fist. “Then I forgive you,” said the man, dropping his cloak, and advancing to the light. “The Count of Monte Cristo!” said Danglars, more pale from terror than he had been just before from hunger and misery. “You are mistaken—I am not the Count of Monte Cristo.” “Then who are you?” “I am he whom you sold and dishonored—I am he whose betrothed you prostituted—I am he upon whom you trampled that you might raise yourself to fortune—I am he whose father you condemned to die of hunger—I am he whom you also condemned to starvation, and who yet forgives you, because he hopes to be forgiven—I am Edmond Dantes! ~ Alexandre Dumas fils

322:Hadrian walked over to where the boys were fighting and sat on the grass near Denek to watch. Denek, who was only twelve years old, glanced at him curiously. “Who are you?” “My name is Hadrian,” he replied as he extended his hand. The boy shook it, squeezing harder than was necessary. “You’re Denek, right? The Pickerings’ third son? Perhaps you should speak with my friend Myron, seeing as how I hear you are monastery-bound.” “Am not!” he shouted. “Going to the monastery, I mean. I can fight as well as Fanen.” “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Hadrian said. “Fanen is flat-footed, and his balance is off. He’s not going to improve much either, because Mauvin is teaching him, and Mauvin is favoring his right and rocks back on his left too much.” Denek grinned at Hadrian and then turned to his brothers. “Hadrian says you both fight like girls!” “What’s that?” Mauvin said, whacking aside Fanen’s loose attack once more. “Oh, ah, nothing,” Hadrian said, trying to recant, and glared at Denek, who just kept grinning. “Thanks a lot,” he told the boy. ~ Michael J Sullivan

323:After a few moments, her eyes became as glossy as his and she also spoke in complete nonsense. “Who are you?” Mother Goose asked the caterpillar. “What I am,” he said. “Where are you?” she said. “Here with you,” the caterpillar said. “And if this were the Castle of Hearts?” Mother Goose asked. “We’d be there,” he said. “But where?” she asked. “In the castle,” he said. “Ah, so there would be here,” she said, and they nodded together. “Here would be what’s left.” The caterpillar nodded. “Am I what’s left?” she asked. “You’re what’s right, of course.” “But what’s right is wrong.” “And what’s left is right.” “I understand completely,” Mother Goose said. “Thank you so much, Mr. Caterpillar.” The others stared at them absolutely dumbfounded. Mother Goose hopped down from the mushroom and moseyed back to them. “The caterpillar said to go back to the fork and take a left,” she said. “He did?” Alex asked. “It’s all about the keywords,” Mother Goose said. “I used to be friends with a sultan who enjoyed the hookah, too. Lester, I’m going to need you to carry me the rest of the way – I’m awfully tired. ~ Chris Colfer

324:Mr Wisdom,' said the girl who had led him into the presence. 'Ah,' said Howard Saxby, and there was a pause of perhaps three minutes, during which his needles clicked busily. 'Wisdom, did she say?' 'Yes. I wrote "Cocktail Time"' 'You couldn't have done better,' said Mr Saxby cordially. 'How's your wife, Mr Wisdom?' Cosmo said he had no wife. 'Surely?' "I'm a bachelor.' Then Wordsworth was wrong. He said you were married to immortal verse. Excuse me a moment,' murmured Mr Saxby, applying himself to the sock again. 'I'm just turning the heel. Do you knit?' 'No.' 'Sleep does. It knits the ravelled sleave of care.' (After a period of engrossed knitting, Cosmo coughs loudly to draw attention to his presence.) 'Goodness, you made me jump!' he (Saxby) said. 'Who are you?' 'My name, as I have already told you, is Wisdom' 'How did you get in?' asked Mr Saxby with a show of interest. 'I was shown in.' 'And stayed in. I see, Tennyson was right. Knowledge comes, but Wisdom lingers. Take a chair.' 'I have.' 'Take another,' said Mr Saxby hospitably. ~ P G Wodehouse

325:Are you sure that’s a real spell?’ said the girl. ‘Well, it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and its all worked for me. Nobody in my family’s magic at all. It was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard – I’ve learnt all our set books off by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough – I’m Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?’ She said all this very fast. Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he hadn’t learned all the course books by heart either. ‘I’m Ron Weasley,’ Ron muttered. ‘Harry Potter,’ said Harry. ‘Are you really?’ said Hermione. ‘I know all about you, of course – I got a few extra books for background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.’ ‘Am I?’ said Harry, feeling dazed. ‘Goodness, didn’t you know, I’d have found out everything I could if it was me,’ said Hermione. ~ J K Rowling

326:Baby Picture It's in the heart of the grape where that smile lies. It's in the good-bye-bow in the hair where that smile lies. It's in the clerical collar of the dress where that smile lies. What smile? The smile of my seventh year, caught here in the painted photograph. It's peeling now, age has got it, a kind of cancer of the background and also in the assorted features. It's like a rotten flag or a vegetable from the refrigerator, pocked with mold. I am aging without sound, into darkness, darkness. Anne, who are you? I open the vein and my blood rings like roller skates. I open the mouth and my teeth are an angry army. I open the eyes and they go sick like dogs with what they have seen. I open the hair and it falls apart like dust balls. I open the dress and I see a child bent on a toilet seat. I crouch there, sitting dumbly pushing the enemas out like ice cream, letting the whole brown world turn into sweets. Anne, 29 who are you? Merely a kid keeping alive. ~ Anne Sexton

327:Then, recalling what he had said, she turned to him eagerly. “What’s my surprise?” Most Ancient turned and reached for something that was behind him. He picked it up and placed it in her arms, and it looked up at her with wide, curious eyes. It was what she had once been: tiny, a wisp of a thing, with a mischievous smile and a trusting, visible heart. “Oh!” she cried. She hugged it to her, against her badge. “What’s its name?” “Ask it,” Most Ancient suggested. “Who are you?” she asked the diminutive, transparent creature in her arms, keeping her voice calm so that it wouldn’t be scared. “New Littlest,” it told her. She was puzzled and almost frightened at first. The she thought, Of course! Most Ancient could not have always have been Most Ancient, and Thin Elderly must once have been something else. Even Fastidious – well, maybe not. Perhaps she had always been Fastidious. She cradled New Littlest, moving her hands as gently as possible around the fragile little thing, and turned back to ask Most Ancient what she needed to know. “Who am I now?” “Gossamer,” he told her. ~ Lois Lowry

328:AHall80: Heh. It’s all right. How you feeling? RubyMars: Compared to how I was feeling three weeks ago, a thousand times better. Compared to how I felt two months ago, still like crap. RubyMars: :) AHall80: You eating? RubyMars: Yes, Mommy Aaron. I’m back up ten pounds. RubyMars: Am I being too… familiar with you? I don’t want to make you feel weird. AHall80: No. You’re how I expected AHall80: You’re packing on that weight quick. RubyMars: …… AHall80: I’m messing with you. Glad you are AHall80: Am I being too familiar now? RubyMars: No, you’re just like I expected. RubyMars: :) RubyMars: How’s the constipation? AHall80: …. RubyMars: …. AHall80: …. RubyMars: No? You didn’t like that question? AHall80: ….. AHall80: Did you finish your dating website profile? RubyMars: I’ll take it you’re still constipated. AHall80: Who are you? RubyMars: I’m tired. I haven’t been sleeping much. My sister says I get feisty when I’m tired. AHall80: I see. Now I know for next time. I’ll be prepared. ~ Mariana Zapata

329:Who are you?” Luce asked, falling to her knees. “What do you want?” “Show some respect.” The angel’s throat convulsed as if he meant to bark, but his voice came out warbled and faint and old. “Earn my respect,” Luce said. “And I’ll give it to you.” He gave her half an evil smirk and dropped his head low. Then he pulled down the cloak to expose the back of his neck. Luce blinked in the dim light. His neck bore a painted brand, which shimmered gold in the glow of streetlights mingled with the moon. She counted seven points on the star. He was one of the Scale. “Recognize me now?” “Is this how the Throne’s enforcers work? Bludgeoning innocent angels?” “No Outcast is innocent. Nor is anyone else, for that matter, until they are proven to be so.” “You’ve proven yourself innocent of any honor, striking a girl from behind.” “Insolence.” He wrinkled his nose at he. “Won’t get you far with me.” “That’s exactly where I want to be.” Luce’s eyes darted to Olianna, to her pale hand and the starshot clenched in its grip. “But it’s not where you will stay,” the Scale said haltingly, as if having to force himself to commit to heir illogical banter. ~ Lauren Kate

330:Damn it, talk to me. Who are you?”Now she looked back at me, her green eyes full and hard and very bright. “I am Death.”I felt an inward shudder pass over me, a reflexive tremor of dread. The first time I tried to speak, my throat was too dry and I had to swallow twice just to get enough moisture to form words. “What’s that supposed to mean?”“You are in no position to question me, Perry.”Her voice was brittle. “You must think of your family.”“Believe me, I am.”“Then for now at least, you will do as I say.”I thought about my little sister, alone in the house and frightened, and the two men with cropped military haircuts, how they had come after us downtown, and my fear crackled up into a sharp orange flame of fury. “You should never have brought my family into this. You had no right to do that.”“I did what was necessary.”“Putting Annie’s life in danger? How does that help the plan?”“It was an insurance policy, nothing more. Everything else is just a cover.”“What about when we were dancing?”I said. “Was that just part of the cover too?”She turned back to the window, the lights of the city playing across our faces as the cab cut through the night. “Gobi.”But she didn’t look over again. ~ Joe Schreiber

331:I’m a girl, Harry, I don’t have many choices. I debuted this year. I have to marry. If I don’t, then I would be like . . . a hat that’s seen one too many seasons.” “But what if you weren’t a girl? What if . . . what if you were me?” He quickly reversed the dance and moved us in the opposite direction. “If I’m . . . you . . . then who are you?” I was having trouble keeping up. With both the change in the dance and the change in the conversation. “I’m you.” “Well, then . . .” That was simple. “I’d marry me!” “You’d marry . . . you’d marry me?” “Of course. I’d call you my darling. My darling Clara.” Harry twirled me. “And then I’d call you dear Harry. No. No. I’d call you dearest Harry.” “And we could talk all we wanted, forever even, and never worry about making calls or attending balls, or operas, or private dinners.” He guided me effortlessly on the dance floor. “And we could go to Europe. We could live there.” “Where?” Harry raised a brow. “England?” I frowned. “Italy?” I nodded. “And I would . . . I would love you forever, dearest Harry.” “And I you, my darling Clara.” We stared into each other’s eyes for a long instant, and then I began to giggle and he began to chuckle and soon we were laughing together. ~ Siri Mitchell

332:A voice from the creature, smooth as buttered oil. "He-llo," is said. "Ding-dong. You look remarkably like dinner." I'm Charlie Nancy," said Charlie Nancy. "Who are you?" I am Dragon," said the dragon. "And I shall devour you in one slow mouthful, little man in a hat." Charlie blinked. What would my father do? He wondered. What would Spider have done?... Er. You’re bored with talking to me now, and you’re going to let me pass unhindered,” he told the dragon, with as much conviction as he was able to muster. Gosh. Good try. But I’m afraid I’m not,” said the dragon, enthusiastically. Actually, I’m going to eat you.” You aren’t scared of limes, are you?” asked Charlie, before remembering that he’d given the lime to Daisy. The creature laughed, scornfully. “I,” it said, “am frightened of nothing.” Nothing?” Nothing,” it said. Charlie said “Are you extremely frightened of nothing?” Absolutely terrified of it,” admitted the Dragon. You know,” said Charlie, “Have nothing in my pockets. Would you like to see it?” No,” said the dragon, uncomfortably, “I most definitely would not.” There was a flapping of wings like sails, and Charlie was alone on the beach. “That,” he said, “was much too easy. ~ Neil Gaiman

333:The traffic warden looked up. "This your car?" "It is," said Skulduggery. The traffic warden nodded. "Very nice, very nice. But you can't park here, day or night." "I wasn't aware of that." "There's a sign right over there." "I didn't think it applied to me." "Why wouldn't it have applied to you?" Skulduggery tilted his head. "Because I'm special." "Don't care how special you think you are, you're parked in a no parking area and as such you're---" "We're here on official police business." The traffic warden narrowed his eyes. "You're Garda? I'm going to need to see some identification." "We're undercover," said Skulduggery. "This is a very important undercover operation which you are endangering just by talking to us." He opened his jacket. "Look, I have a gun. I am Detective Inspector Me. This is my partner, Detective Her." The traffic warden frowned. "Her?" "Me," said Stephanie. "Him?" "Not me," said Skulduggery. "Her." "Me," said Stephanie. "You?" said the traffic warden. "Yes," said Stephanie. "I"m sorry, who are you?" Stephanie looked at him. "I'm Her, he's Me. Got it? Good. You better get out of here before you blow our cover. They've got snipers. ~ Derek Landy

334:Who am I? Who am I?” “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.” "And who are you?" "I'm Willem Ragnarsson. And I will never let you go. ~ Hanya Yanagihara

335:...All who ever died, live; they are reborn and have no end, nor will there ever be an end. All, save you. For you would not have death. You lost death, you lost life, in order to save yourself. Yourself! Your immortal self! What is it? Who are you?" "I am myself. My body will not decay and die-" "A living body suffers pain, Cob; a living body grows old; it dies. Death is the price we pay for our life and for all life." "I do not pay it! I can die and in that moment live again! I cannot be killed; I am immortal. I alone am myself forever!" "Who are you, then?" "The Immortal One." "Say your name." "The King." "Say my name. I told it to you but a minute since. Say my name!" "You are not real. You have no name. Only I exist." "You exist: without name, without form. You cannot see the light of day; you cannot see the dark. You sold the green earth and the sun and stars to save yourself. But you have no self. All that which you sold, that is yourself. You have given everything for nothing. And so now you seek to draw your world to you, all that light and life you lost, to fill up your nothingness. But it cannot be filled. Not all the songs of earth, not all the stars of heaven, could fill your emptiness. ~ Ursula K Le Guin

336:I scrambled off the water buffalo, biting back a wince as I struggled for some balance. Catching my breath, I backed away from Amar. In the shadows, the hood over his face glinted sinister. “Do not come near me!” I hissed. Amar halted. “Let me explain,” he began. “I understand that this is not--” I lunged for a stick and brandished it at him. “Who are you?” Amar laughed. “A stick? I’ve brought you to the Night Bazaar; do you really think a stick would protect you?” I gripped the stick harder. “Not that you need protection from me,” he added quickly. “Who are you?” “Amar.” “Where are you from?” “Akaran.” I gave him a hard look, but I wasn’t sure how much he could see through his covering. “What are you?” He drew himself up. “A raja and your husband.” There was no hesitation in his voice. “Why have you brought me here?” My voice shook. I couldn’t stop staring at the Night Bazaar. There it was. And here I was. Standing on the same plot of land shared with beings that--until now--had only existed in stories. “What do you want from me?” He stopped. The smile was gone from his lips. “I want your perspective and honesty,” he said, before adding in a softer voice, “I want to be humbled by you. ~ Roshani Chokshi

337:When the girl didn’t move, Gavin summoned her near with his fingers. His heart thrummed as she obeyed, stepping up close to him. Her young stature was much shorter than his tall, wiry form. Gavin regarded her prettiness - pale cheeks, pink lips, inquisitive eyes. Fascinated by her, he longed to know her name. “Who are you?” he asked. He heard the girl utter the same question at the same time. Cocking his head, he claimed, “I asked you first.” “No you didn’t,” she protested, shaking her red-hooded head, “I asked you at the same time you asked me.” Gavin grinned at her insistence. It was hard for him not to chuckle. “Well, then, I suppose we’ll have to go with ‘girls first’.” His grin widened into a white smile. The girl gestured to herself. “I’m Little Red Riding Hood.” He recognized the name of a fairy tale character, and groaned under his breath at not having discovered this dreamer’s real name. “Actually,” she confessed almost immediately, “I’m not really Red Riding Hood. My name is Annabelle, but I’m pretending to be her because……well……because this is my dream and that’s what I wish to dream about.” Oh glorious day! He’d learned her name! Annabelle! Annabelle! What a perfectly sweet sound was this utterance of…..Annabelle. ~ Richelle E Goodrich

338:As so often had happened in battle, Christopher’s instincts took over completely, prompting action at a speed faster than thought. He heard nothing, but he felt his throat vibrate with a hoarse cry, while his body vaulted over the paddock fence. Beatrix reacted from instinct as well. As the horse began to fall, she yanked her booted feet from the stirrups and pushed away from him in midair. She hit the ground and rolled twice, thrice, while the horse’s body crashed beside her…missing her by a matter of inches. As Beatrix lay still and dazed, the maddened horse struggled to its feet, its hooves pounding the ground beside her with skull-splitting force. Christopher snatched her up and carried her to the side of the paddock, while Leo approached the enraged horse and somehow managed to grab the reins. Lowering Beatrix to the ground, Christopher searched her for injuries, running his hands over her limbs, feeling her skull. She was panting and wheezing, the breath having been knocked out of her. She blinked up at him in confusion. “What happened?” “The horse reared and fell.” Christopher’s voice came out in a rasp. “Tell me your name.” “Why are you asking me that?” “Your name,” he insisted. “Beatrix Heloise Hathaway.” She looked at him with round blue eyes. “Now that we know who I am…who are you? ~ Lisa Kleypas

339:Who are you?” asked the little prince, and added, “You are very pretty to look at.” “I am a fox,” said the fox. “Come and play with me,” proposed the little prince. “I am so unhappy.” “I cannot play with you,” the fox said. “I am not tamed.” “Ah! Please excuse me,” said the little prince. But, after some thought, he added: “What does that mean– ‘tame’?” “You do not live here,” said the fox. “What is it that you are looking for?” “I am looking for men,” said the little prince. “What does that mean– ‘tame’?” “Men,” said the fox. “They have guns, and they hunt. It is very disturbing. They also raise chickens. These are their only interests. Are you looking for chickens?” “No,” said the little prince. “I am looking for friends. What does that mean– ‘tame’?” “It is an act too often neglected,” said the fox. It means to establish ties.” “ ‘To establish ties’?” “Just that,” said the fox. “To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world. . . ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry

340:Who are you? Where do you fit into poetry and myth? Do you know who I think you are, Ramsay? I think you are Fifth Business. You don't know what that is? Well, in opera in a permanent company of the kind we keep up in Europe you must have a prima donna -- always a soprano, always the heroine, often a fool; and a tenor who always plays the lover to her; and then you must have a contralto, who is a rival to the soprano, or a sorceress or something; and a basso, who is the villain or the rival or whatever threatens the tenor. "So far, so good. But you cannot make a plot work without another man, and he is usually a baritone, and he is called in the profession Fifth Business, because he is the odd man out, the person who has no opposite of the other sex. And you must have Fifth Business because he is the one who knows the secret of the hero's birth, or comes to the assistance of the heroine when she thinks all is lost, or keeps the hermitess in her cell, or may even be the cause of somebody's death if that is part of the plot. The prima donna and the tenor, the contralto and the basso, get all the best music and do all the spectacular things, but you cannot manage the plot without Fifth Business! It is not spectacular, but it is a good line of work, I can tell you, and those who play it sometimes have a career that outlasts the golden voices. Are you Fifth Business? You had better find out. ~ Robertson Davies

341:He was waiting in the reception hall, a lone figure lost in the vast, vaulted chamber. The Herrani representative was an elderly man whose thin frame leaned heavily on his walking stick. Kestrel faltered. She approached more slowly. She couldn’t help looking over his shoulder for Arin. He wasn’t there. “I thought the barbarian days of the Valorian empire were over,” the man said dryly. “What?” said Kestrel. “You’re barefoot.” She glanced down, and only then realized that her feet were freezing, that she’d forgotten even the existence of shoes when she’d left her dressing chamber and hurtled through the palace for all to see, for the Valorian guards flanking the reception hall to see right now. “Who are you?” Kestrel demanded. “Tensen, the Herrani minister of agriculture.” “And the governor? Where is he?” “Not coming.” “Not…” Kestrel pressed a palm to her forehead. “The emperor issued a summons. To a state function. And Arin declines?” Her anger was folding onto itself in as many layers as her ball gown--anger at Arin, at the way he was committing political suicide. Anger at herself. At her own bare feet and how they were proof--pure, naked, cold proof--of her hope, her very need to see someone that she was supposed to forget. Arin had not come. “I get that disappointed look all the time,” Tensen said in a cheerful tone. “No one is ever excited to meet the minister of agriculture. ~ Marie Rutkoski

342:He was waiting in the reception hall, a lone figure lost in the vast, vaulted chamber. The Herrani representative was an elderly man whose thin frame leaned heavily on his walking stick. Kestrel faltered. She approached more slowly. She couldn’t help looking over his shoulder for Arin. He wasn��t there. “I thought the barbarian days of the Valorian empire were over,” the man said dryly. “What?” said Kestrel. “You’re barefoot.” She glanced down, and only then realized that her feet were freezing, that she’d forgotten even the existence of shoes when she’d left her dressing chamber and hurtled through the palace for all to see, for the Valorian guards flanking the reception hall to see right now. “Who are you?” Kestrel demanded. “Tensen, the Herrani minister of agriculture.” “And the governor? Where is he?” “Not coming.” “Not…” Kestrel pressed a palm to her forehead. “The emperor issued a summons. To a state function. And Arin declines?” Her anger was folding onto itself in as many layers as her ball gown--anger at Arin, at the way he was committing political suicide. Anger at herself. At her own bare feet and how they were proof--pure, naked, cold proof--of her hope, her very need to see someone that she was supposed to forget. Arin had not come. “I get that disappointed look all the time,” Tensen said in a cheerful tone. “No one is ever excited to meet the minister of agriculture. ~ Marie Rutkoski

343:She tried to lower him to the pillows, but he resisted with a grunt. One of his hands clamped around her wrist. Although his grip wasn’t painful, she felt the strength of it. If he wished to, he could have easily snapped her bones. “I’ll go fetch something to make you feel better,” she said gently. “I’ll come back soon.” Winterborne let her ease him down to the pillows, but he didn’t let go. Perturbed, Helen contemplated his large hand before her gaze traveled to his face. His eyes and forehead were obscured by bandages, but the bone structure beneath his bruised and scratched complexion was austerely angled, the cheekbones paring-knife sharp, the jaw sturdy and emphatic. There were no smile lines around the mouth, no touch of softness anywhere. “I’ll return within a half hour,” Helen said. “I promise.” Winterborne didn’t relinquish his grip. “I promise,” she repeated. With her free hand, she stroked his fingers lightly, coaxing them to loosen. He tried to dampen his lips with his tongue before speaking. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely. “Lady Helen.” “What time is it?” Helen sent a questioning glance to Mrs. Church, who went to the mantel clock. “It’s four o’clock,” the housekeeper reported. He was going to time her, Helen realized. And heaven help her if she was late. “I’ll return by half past four,” she said. After a moment, she added softly, “Trust me.” Gradually Winterborne’s hand opened, freeing her. ~ Lisa Kleypas

344:You. What a strange word that is. She thought, I have never laid eyes on you. I am waiting for you. The old man prays for you. He almost can’t believe he has you to pray for. Both of us think about you the whole day long. If I die bearing you, or if you die when you are born, I will still be thinking, Who are you? and there will be only one answer out of all the people in the world, all the people there have ever been or will ever be. If we find each other in heaven, we’ll say, So there you are! We’d be perfect in heaven, no regrets, no grudges, nothing to make you turn a cold eye on me the way you might do someday when you’re old enough to really see me. When I tell you that that knife is the only thing I have to leave you. Then I’d be all hard and proud, like it didn’t even matter what you thought. What else can a person do? And it would be the only thing that mattered, because no one else could say “you” and mean the same thing by it. But there would be years when the child would just want to sit on her lap. He’d favor her over anybody. He’d be crying and she’d pick him up, and then it would take him a minute to be done crying, but that would be all that was left of it, because she had her arms around him. Comfort. That’s strange, too. When she used to lie there almost asleep, with her cheek on the old man’s sweater, the night all around her chirping and whispering, the comfort of it was a thing she’d have promised herself the whole day long. ~ Marilynne Robinson

345:Jonathan Sacks; “One way is just to think, for instance, of biodiversity. The extraordinary thing we now know, thanks to Crick and Watson’s discovery of DNA and the decoding of the human and other genomes, is that all life, everything, all the three million species of life and plant life—all have the same source. We all come from a single source. Everything that lives has its genetic code written in the same alphabet. Unity creates diversity. So don’t think of one God, one truth, one way. Think of one God creating this extraordinary number of ways, the 6,800 languages that are actually spoken. Don’t think there’s only one language within which we can speak to God. The Bible is saying to us the whole time: Don’t think that God is as simple as you are. He’s in places you would never expect him to be. And you know, we lose a bit of that in English translation. When Moses at the burning bush says to God, “Who are you?” God says to him three words: “Hayah asher hayah.”Those words are mistranslated in English as “I am that which I am.” But in Hebrew, it means “I will be who or how or where I will be,” meaning, Don’t think you can predict me. I am a God who is going to surprise you. One of the ways God surprises us is by letting a Jew or a Christian discover the trace of God’s presence in a Buddhist monk or a Sikh tradition of hospitality or the graciousness of Hindu life. Don’t think we can confine God into our categories. God is bigger than religion. ~ Krista Tippett

346:What is the Other?" they ask. The Other is the one who taught me whatI should be like, but not what I am. The Other believes that it is our obligation to spend our entire life thinking about how to get our hands on as much money a possible so that we will not die of hunger when we are old. So we think so much about money and our plans for acquiring it that we discover we are alive only when our days on earth are practically done. And then it's too late." And you? Who are you?" I am just like everyone else who listens to their heart: a person who is enchanted by the mystery of life. Who is open to miracles, who experiences joy and enthusiasm for what they do. It's just that the Other, afraid of disappointment,kept me from taking action." But there is suffering in life," one of the listeners said. And there are defeats. No one can avoid them. But it's better to lose some of the battles in the struggle for your dreams than to be defeated without ever even knowing what you're fighting for." That's it?" another listener asked. Yes, that's it. When I learned this, I resolved to become the person I had always wanted to be. The Other stood there in the corner of my room, watching me, but I will never let the Other into myself again----even though it has already tried to frighten me, warning me that it's risky not to think about the future. From the moment that I ousted the Other from my life, the Divine Energy began to perform its miracles. ~ Paulo Coelho

347:Have you ever thought about it? If somebody asks, “Who are you?” what do you answer? You say your name. The name is not yours, because you came into the world without a name. You came nameless; it is not your property, it has been given to you. And any name, A-B-C-D, would have been useful. It is arbitrary. It is not essential in any way. If you are called “Susan” good; if you are called “Harry” good, it makes no difference. Any name would have been as applicable to you as any other. It is just a label. A name is needed to call you by, but it has nothing to do with your being. Or you say, “I am a doctor” or you say, “I am an engineer”—or a businessman, or a painter, or this and that—but nothing says anything about you. When you say, “I am a doctor,” you say something about your profession, not about you. You say how you earn your living. You don’t say anything about life, you say something about your living. You may be earning your living as an engineer, or as a doctor, or as a businessman—it is irrelevant. It does not say anything about you. Or you say your father’s name, your mother’s name, you give your family tree—that too is irrelevant because that doesn’t define you. Your being born in a particular family is accidental; you could as well have been born in another family and you would not even have noticed the difference. These are just utilitarian tricks—and man becomes a “self.” This self is a pseudoself, a created, manufactured self, homemade. And your own real self remains deep down hidden in mist and ~ Osho

348:Have you ever thought about it? If somebody asks, “Who are you?” what do you answer? You say your name. The name is not yours, because you came into the world without a name. You came nameless; it is not your property, it has been given to you. And any name, A-B-C-D, would have been useful. It is arbitrary. It is not essential in any way. If you are called “Susan” good; if you are called “Harry” good, it makes no difference. Any name would have been as applicable to you as any other. It is just a label. A name is needed to call you by, but it has nothing to do with your being. Or you say, “I am a doctor” or you say, “I am an engineer”—or a businessman, or a painter, or this and that—but nothing says anything about you. When you say, “I am a doctor,” you say something about your profession, not about you. You say how you earn your living. You don’t say anything about life, you say something about your living. You may be earning your living as an engineer, or as a doctor, or as a businessman—it is irrelevant. It does not say anything about you. Or you say your father’s name, your mother’s name, you give your family tree—that too is irrelevant because that doesn’t define you. Your being born in a particular family is accidental; you could as well have been born in another family and you would not even have noticed the difference. These are just utilitarian tricks—and man becomes a “self.” This self is a pseudoself, a created, manufactured self, homemade. And your own real self remains deep down hidden in mist and mystery. I was reading: ~ Osho

349:It wasn’t something that would last, we both knew that, but it was a small, quick delight, and sometimes in this world, there was nothing wrong with that. I stumbled back across campus. There were students still out. I tried to stay in the shadows, but Barry, the student who visits my office weekly, spotted me and cried out, “Taking the walk of shame, Teach?” Caught. I gave him a good-hearted wave and continued serpentine-style to my humble abode. A sudden head rush hit me as I entered. I stayed still, waiting for my legs to come back to me. When the dizziness receded, I headed into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of ice water. I drank it in big gulps and poured another. I would be hurting tomorrow, no question about it. Exhaustion weighed down my bones. I stepped into my bedroom and flicked on the light. There, sitting on the edge of my bed, was the man with the maroon baseball cap. I jumped back, startled. The man gave me a friendly wave. “Hey, Jake. Sheesh, look at you. Have you been out carousing?” For a second, no more, I just stood there. The man smiled at me as though this were the most natural encounter in the history of the world. He even touched the front of his cap at me, as though he were a professional golfer acknowledging the gallery. “Who the hell are you?” I asked. “That’s not really relevant, Jake.” “Like hell it isn’t. Who are you?” The man sighed, let down, it seemed, by my seemingly irrational insistence on knowing his identity. “Let’s just say I’m a friend.” “You were in the café. In Vermont.” “Guilty.” “And ~ Harlan Coben

350:The Mysterious Visitor Spirit, lovely guest, who are you? Whence have you flown down to us? Taciturn and without a sound Why have you abandoned us? Where are you? Where is your dwelling? What are you, where did you go? Why did you appear, Heavenly, upon the Earth? Mayhap you are youthful Hope, Who arrives from time to time Cloaked in magic From a land unknown? Merciless as Hope, Sweetest joy you show us For a moment, then Take it back and fly away. Was it Love that you enacted For us all in mystery? . . . Days of love, when one beloved Rendered this world beautiful Ah! then, sighted through the veil Earth did seem unearthly... Now the veil has lifted; Love is gone; Life is empty, joy - a dream. Was it Thought, enchanting You embodied for us here? Far removed from every worry, With a dreamy finger pointing To her lips, she sallies forth Just like you, from time to time, Ushers us without a sound Back to bygone days. Or within you dwells the sacred spirit Of Dame Poetry? . . . Just like you, she came from Heaven Veiling us twofold: Using azure for the skies, And clear white for earth; What lies near is lovely through her; All that's distant - known. Or perhaps 'twas premonition That descended in your guise And to us with clarity described All that's sacred and divine? Thus it often happens in this life: Something brilliant flies to meet us, Raises up the veil And then beckons us beyond. ~ Vasily Zhukovsky

351:I dashed down the narrow steps. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I turned into the hallway and came up short. A lumberjack was standing there. Or at least, that’s what he looked like. A really young, really hot lumberjack. He was tall and broad, with midnight black hair that curled around his ears and across his brow, creating the perfect frame for his startling blue eyes. He was wearing an unbuttoned red plaid flannel shirt that was so thick it was almost a jacket. Beneath that he wore a black turtleneck sweater. He was turned slightly so I couldn’t see his other hand. Lumberjacks carried axes. I had a flashback to The Shining. My heart hammered against my ribs. I didn’t know this guy. Who was he? And where was Mom? He grinned. “Hey.” “Who are you?” I snapped, jerking the sides of my robe together and tying the sash. His eyebrows shot up. “Most people I know respond to a greeting with another greeting.” “Well, I’m not someone you know, am I? For all I know you’re a serial killer.” He chuckled. How could anyone chuckle in the morning? “Do I look like a serial killer?” he asked. I guessed not, but still… “What are you doing here?” I demanded. “Your mom hired my dad to do some repairs. They’re in the kitchen discussing details.” “So you just decided to make yourself at home?” He narrowed his eyes. “Your mom said I could look around. I’ve never been in this house before, but it’s always interested me because of the turrets. I have this thing for turrets. I’m Josh Wynter, by the way.” “And do you become Josh Summer in June?” I asked. ~ Rachel Hawthorne

352:Alex was so confused, she shook her head. The others felt their sanity slipping from their brains just by being in proximity to the caterpillar. This is going great," Conner said with a massive eye roll. "This worm is clearly insane; let's find someone who can actually help us." "Let me handle this one, kids," Mother Goose said. "He's not crazy, the hookah is just making his brain sleepy. I might understand him if I get on his level." Mother Goose walked up to the caterpillar and had a bouncy seat on the mushroom beside him. "May I?" she asked, and gestured to the hookah. The caterpillar passed it to her and Mother Goose smoked it. After a few moments, her eyes became as glossy as his and she also spoke in complete nonsense. "Who are you?" Mother Goose asked the caterpillar. "What I am," he said. "Where are you?" she said. "Here with you," the caterpillar said. "And if this were the Castle of Hearts?" Mother Goose asked. "We'd be there," he said. "But where?" she asked. "In the castle," he said. "Ah, so there would be here,: she said, and they nodded together. "Here would be what's left." The caterpillar nodded. "Am I what's left?" she asked. "You're what's right, of course." "But what's right is wrong." "And what's left is right." "I understand completely," Mother Goose said. "Thank you so much, Mr. Caterpillar." The others stared at them absolutely dumbfounded. Mother Goose hopped down from the mushroom and moseyed back to them. :The caterpillar said to go back to the fork and take a left," she said. "He did?" Alex asked. "It's all about the keywords," Mother Goose said. ~ Chris Colfer

353:Easy, Lilenta.” The deep voice from her dreams filled her ears and Liv told herself she had to be dreaming again. But was she dreaming the warm, spicy scent of his skin? Was she dreaming the long fingers that stroked strands of hair away from her cheek so tenderly? Suddenly she knew where she was and what was going on. And none of it was a dream. The dark man! Liv sat up and jumped to her feet, staggering a few steps before his hand shot out to catch her. She backed away just before his fingers closed on her wrist. “How long have I been out?” She couldn’t believe she’d fainted in the first place—what a horribly weak and girly thing to do! But it had been so shocking, seeing what she thought was a dream turned into hard, cold reality. Well he’s certainly hard but I’d say hot describes him better than cold, jabbered a little voice in her brain. As in hotter than any guy you’ve ever been with. Liv hated that little voice but she had to agree with it—the Kindred warrior certainly put Mitch in the shade. “You collapsed.” There was a look of concern in his amber eyes. “How do you feel?” “How do you think I feel? I’m here against my will in nothing but my underwear,” Liv threw at him. “So I see.” Hot amber eyes raked her body again, making Liv flush when she realized she’d practically just given him permission to stare. “Who are you?” she demanded, pulling her thin lace robe tightly around her. “And what have you been doing in my head?” “The dreams you mean?” he asked, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for her to dream of him. “Yes, of course,” Liv snapped. “What the hell are those all about?” “I dreamed of you, too,” he said simply, ignoring her question in the most infuriating manner. “It was the only thing that kept me sane.” “I…I… ~ Evangeline Anderson

354:And then in a swift, calculating move, Rothbury sprang forward, covering her body with his own. For a second her breath felt trapped in her chest and she was instantly immobile underneath his weight. His warm, hard thigh sat heavy between hers. Panting from exertion, a shameful lick of heat ignited deep in her belly. Effortlessly, he joined her wrists together, holding them above her head with only one hand while the long, blunt-tipped fingers of the other trailed a silky path down her cheek. "Who are you?" he whispered. Her breath hitched at the explosion of feeling and thought thrumming through her. He looked so dominant above her, so beautiful, like he was created specifically for seduction. None of her wicked imaginings had prepared her for the plethora of sensations he sparked with only his fingertips upon her face. Belatedly, she realized her body refused to listen to her mind. She had quit squirming. In fact, she had begun to relish the intoxicating feel of his long, lean-muscled body atop hers. His warm, bare chest pressed onto her bodice, his solid thigh planted firmly against her sex. Her eyes dipped to his mouth, which was partially open, baring his straight white teeth. All she would have to do was arch her neck and her mouth would fasten to his. She shivered, surprised and ashamed at the way her body reacted to him. She needed to escape before he discovered her identity. But her mind warred between what was right and what felt wonderful. In the end, years of dire warnings from her pious father about the sins of the flesh returned at least some of her good sense. "Get off of me," she demanded, albeit weakly. "Absolutely not," he growled, his breath feathering hotly against her mouth, her cheek, her neck. "I'll not let you get away now. Not before I find out who you are. Wanted a taste, did you? ~ Olivia Parker

355:So now what do I do? Do I just approach and start slamming my palms on the window, demanding answers? That seemed somewhat logical. It also seemed kind of stupid. Do I sit here and wait? For how long? And what if the car drives off? Then what? I was still hunched behind the bush, trying to decide what to do, when the decision was made for me. The front passenger door opened and the bald guy stepped out. He still wore the dark suit, and despite the hour, he even had the sunglasses on. For a moment the man stood perfectly still, his back to the bush. Then he slowly turned his head and said, “Mickey.” Gulp. I had no idea how he had seen me, but it didn’t matter now. I stood up. He stared at me from behind those sunglasses, and in spite of the heat, I swear I felt a chill. “You have questions,” the bald man said to me. He spoke with one of those exaggerated British accents that almost sound phony. Like he’d gone to some fancy prep school and wanted to make sure you knew it. “But you’re not yet ready for the answers.” “What does that mean?” “It means,” he said, still with that accent, “just what it sounds like.” I frowned. “It sounds like something you’d read on a bad fortune cookie.” There was the hint of a smile on the bald man’s face. “Don’t tell anyone about us.” “Like who?” “Like anyone. Like your uncle.” “Myron? What would I tell him anyway? I don’t know anything. Who exactly are you? Or, as you put it, us?” “You’ll know,” he said, “when the time is right.” “And when will that be?” The man slid back into the car. He never seemed to hurry, but every moment was almost supernaturally fast and fluid. “Wait!” I shouted. I moved quickly, trying to reach the car door before it closed. “What were you doing in that house? Who are you?” But it was too late. He slammed the door shut. The car started up. Now, as I semi-planned earlier, I slapped the tinted windows with my palm. “Stop!” The ~ Harlan Coben

356:You can’t just abduct me and hold me for hostage! And hostage for what? Who do you think you are? My brother is one of the most powerful men in England! When he catches up to you, he’ll slit your belly and strangle you with your own entrails! Do you know what you’ve done?” The Irishman just shrugged, unconcerned, and shoved his other arm into his coat sleeve. “Does your sister Mrs. Lord know that I’m here? Does your brother-in-law, Captain Lord? The admiral, Sir Elliott?” “Don’t be stupid, of course not.” “Does anyone know?” “Not yet.” “Who are you? In actuality?” “Ruaidri O’ Devir, ma’m, just as ye thought.” He picked up a tricorne hat and headed for the door. “I wish to know why I am here!” He stopped then, his patience exhausted, and looked her straight in the eye. “Your brother developed an explosive which he’s about to sell to your country. My country needs it so we can win this miserable struggle with yours. Since I doubt England or your brother are going to just hand it over to us, ye’re my payment for it. A ransom, if ye will. Understand?” “What do you mean your country? Ireland is not at war with England… you are mad.” “No, Sunshine. I’m not mad. I’m a commissioned captain in America’s Continental Navy if ye must know, and because John Adams decided there’s nobody in the Navy as audacious, reckless or downright foolish as I am, he chose me to come and get that explosive. Ye’re my ransom. If yer family wants ye back, they’ll hand it over as well as the formula on how t’ create it. Now are ye finished? I’ve a ship to see to.” She stared at him, aghast. “Your sister is married to a captain in the Royal Navy… her brother-in-law is a famous admiral… you would dare do this right under all their noses?” He smiled then, his long lashes throwing shadow against his cheekbones in the dim orange glow of the lantern and in that moment, he looked almost handsome. Almost. “Indeed, I would.” The smile spread. “Indeed, I have. ~ Danelle Harmon

357:There were dozens of theories about what it was, that dome. Every scientist in the world, it seemed, had made a pilgrimage to the site. Tests had been conducted, measurements taken. They had tried drilling through it. Under it. Had flown over it. Had dug beneath it. Had approached it by submarine. Nothing worked. Every species of doomsayer from Luddite to End Times nut had had his say. It was a judgment. On America’s technological obsession, on America’s moral failure. This. That. Something else. Then the twins had popped out. Just like that. First Emma. Then, a few minutes later, Anna. Alive and well at the exact moment of their fifteenth birthday. They told tales of life inside the bowl. What they called the FAYZ. Connie Temple’s heart had swelled with pride for what she had learned of her son, Sam. And crashed into despair with tales of her other son, her unacknowledged child, Caine. Then, nothing. No other kids arrived for a while. Black despair settled over the families as they realized that it would be only these two. Months passed. Many lost faith. How could kids survive alone? But then, the Prophetess had reached into their dreams. One night Connie Temple had a lurid, incredible dream. She’d never had such a detailed dream. It was terrifying. The power of it took her breath away. There was a girl in that dream. This girl spoke to her in the dream. It’s a dream, the girl said. Yes, just a dream, Connie had answered. Not just a dream. Never say “just” a dream, the girl had corrected. A dream is a window to another reality. Who are you? Connie had asked. My name is Orsay. I know your son. Connie had been about to say, Which one? But some instinct stopped her. The girl did not look dangerous. She looked hungry. Do you have a message for Sam? the girl asked. Yes, Connie said. Tell him to let them go. Let them go. Let them go off into the red sunset. ~ Michael Grant

358:A man runs into an old friend who had somehow never been able to make it in life. "I should give him some money", he thinks. But instead he learns that his old friend has grown rich and is actually seeking him out to repay the debts he had run up over the years. They go to a bar they used to frequent together and the friend buys drinks for everyone there, When they ask him how he became so successful, he answers that until only a few days ago, he had been living the role of the Other. "What is the Other?", they ask. "The 'Other' is the one who taught me what I should be like, but not what I am. The Other believes that it is out obligations to spend our entire life thinking about how to get our hands on as much money as possible so that we will not die of hunger when we are old. So we think so much about money and our plans for acquiring it that we discover that we are alive only when our days on earth are practically done. And then it's too late." "And you? Who are you?" "I am just like everyone else who listens to their heart: a person who is enchanted by the mystery of life. Who is open to miracles, who experiences joy and enthusiasm for what they do. It's just that the Other, afraid of disappointment, kept me from taking actions". "But there is suffering in life", one of the listeners said. "And there are defeats. No one can avoid them. But it's better to lose some of the battles in the struggle for your dreams than to be defeated without ever even knowing what you're fighting for." "That's it?", another listener asked. "Yes, that's it. When I learned this, I resolved to become the person I had always wanted to be. The Other stood there in the corner of my room, watching me, but I will never let the Other into myself again - even though it has already tried to frighten me, warning me that it's risky not to think about the future." "From the moment that I ousted the Other from my life, the Divine Energy began to perform its miracles". ~ Paulo Coelho

359:The boy was gripping a lantern in his right hand. Perhaps he had taken it from the butler’s office. He might have looked awkward, but he moved like a cat. Cristian didn’t even sense him approach. The boy raised the lantern high above his head. Cristian fumbled with the lock on the door, his shaking left hand trying to work the mechanism while his right arm held the dagger to Flora’s throat. The boy took a step. Then another. He was almost within reach. The door swung open. Cristian started to turn. “Now!” Cass screamed. The boy slammed the lantern hard against Cristian’s skull, and Cass heard the same crunching sound she’d heard when she’d hit him with the fireplace poker. He slumped to the ground, unconscious. The dagger fell to the floor with a clatter. Flora landed on her hands and knees, shaking and sobbing. Luca thundered down the servants’ stairs, skidding to a stop as he witnessed the chaos. Bortolo and Narissa were right behind him. “Cass, what happened?” Luca asked. The servants were weeping. The boy who had knocked out Cristian looked a bit dazed himself. The lantern hung limply from his right hand. “He saved us.” Cass gestured at the boy. Luca only then recognized the crumpled form on the floor. “Cristian,” he said. Turning to Narissa, he added, “Send for the Town Guard immediately.” Narissa hurried toward the front of the house. Cristian groaned, his eyelids fluttering. Flora stumbled back from him, one hand clutching her throat. Luca placed the sole of his boot on Cristian’s neck. “Someone get some rope,” he barked. Turning to the sandy-haired boy, he asked, “Who are you?” “Matteo Querini.” The boy set the lantern on the kitchen counter and frowned at Cristian. “Where I come from, a man does not hold a blade to a lady’s throat.” He turned to Cass. “Signorina Caravello, I presume? I’m here to assume control of the estate. Sorry. I was a bit delayed in my arrival.” “On the contrary.” Cass dipped into a shallow curtsy. “I’d say you arrived just in time. ~ Fiona Paul

360:The horoscope loomed in my thoughts. Perhaps it had been right all this time. A marriage that partnered me with death. My wedding, sham though it was, would bring more than just my end. I breathed deeply and a calm spiraled through me. This was my final taste: a helix of air, smacking of burnt things and bright leaves. I pulled the vial from my bangles, fingers shaking. This was my last sight: purling fire and windows that soared out of reach. I raised the vial to my lips. My chest was tight, silk clinging damply to my back, my legs. This was my last sound: the cadence of a heart still beating. “May Gauri live a long life,” I mouthed. The poison trickled thickly from the rim and I tilted my head back, eyes on the verge of shutting-- And then: a shatter. My eyes opened to empty hands clutching nothing. Spilled poison seeped into the rug and shards of glass glinted on the floor, but all of that was obscured by the shadow of a stranger. “There’s no need for that,” said the stranger. He wiped his hands on the front of his charcoal kurta, his face partially obscured by a sable hood studded with small diamonds. All I could see was his tapered jaw, the serpentine curve of his smile and the straight bridge of his nose. Like the suitors, he wore a garland of red flowers. And yet, all of that I could have forgotten. Except his voice… It drilled through the gloaming of my thoughts, pulled at me in the same way the mysterious intruder’s voice had tugged. But where the woman’s voice brought fury, this was different. The hollow inside me shifted, humming a reply in melted song. I could have been verse made flesh or compressed moonlight. Anything other than who I was now. A second passed before I spoke. By then, the stranger’s lips had bent into a grin. “Who are you?” “One of your suitors,” he said, not missing a beat. He adjusted his garland. I backed away, body tensing. I had never seen him before. I knew that with utmost certainty. Did he mean to harm me? “That’s not an answer.” “And that wasn’t a thank you,” he said. ~ Roshani Chokshi

361:The door handle turned. Someone knocked, and a man's voice called, "Uh, hello?" Valkyrie looked at Skulduggery, looked back at the others, looked at Skulduggery again. "Hello," Skulduggery said, speaking loudly to be heard over the alarm. "Hi," said the man. "The door's locked." "Is it?" "Yes." "That's funny" said Skulduggery. "Hold on a moment." He reached out, jiggled the handle a few times, then stepped back. "Yes, it's locked. You wouldn't happen to have the key, would you?" There was a delay in response from the other side. "I'm sorry," the man called, "Who am I speaking with?" Skulduggery tilted his head. "Who am I speaking with?" "This is Oscar Nightfall." "Are you sure?" "What?" "Are you sure you are who you say you are? This is the Great Chamber, after all. It's a very important place for very important people. It is not beyond the realms of possibility that someone, and I'm not saying that this applies to you in particular, but someone could conceivably lie about who they are in order to gain access to this room. I have to be vigilant, especially now. There's a war on, you know." Oscar Nightfall sounded puzzled. Who are you?" "Me? I'm nobody. I'm a cleaner. I'm one of the cleaners. I was cleaning the thrones and the door shut behind me. Now I can't get out. Could you try and find a key?" "What's your name? Give me you name." "No. It's mine." "Tell me your name!" "My name is Oscar Nightfall." "What? No it isn't. That's my name." "Is it? Since when?" "Since I took it!" "You didn't ask me if you could take it. I was using it first." "Open this door immediately." "I don't have the key." "I'll fetch the Cleavers." "I found the key. It was in the keyhole. It's always the last place you look isn't it? I'm unlocking the door now. Here we go." Skulduggery relaxed the air pressure, opened the door, and pulled Oscar Nightfall inside. Valkyrie stuck out her foot, and Oscar stumbled over it and Vex shoved him to Ghastly and Ghastly punched him. Oscar fell down and didn't get up again. Skulduggery closed the door once more. ~ Derek Landy

362:Yorick Hard by an excavated street one sat In solitary session on the sand; And ever and anon he spake and spat And spake again-a yellow skull in hand, To which that retrospective Pioneer Addressed the few remarks that follow here: 'Who are you? Did you come 'der blains agross,' Or 'Horn aroundt'? In days o' '49 Did them thar eye-holes see the Southern Cross From the Antarctic Sea git up an' shine? Or did you drive a bull team 'all the way From Pike,' with Mr. Joseph Bowers?-say! 'Was you in Frisco when the water came Up to Montgum'ry street? and do you mind The time when Peters run the faro game Jim Peters from old Mississip-behind Wells Fargo's, where he subsequent was bust By Sandy, as regards both bank and crust? 'I wonder was you here when Casey shot James King o' William? And did you attend The neck-tie dance ensuin'? _I_ did not, But j'ined the rush to Go Creek with my friend Ed'ard McGowan; for we was resolved In sech diversions not to be involved. 'Maybe I knowed you; seems to me I've seed Your face afore. I don't forget a face, But names I disremember-I'm that breed Of owls. I'm talking some'at into space An' maybe my remarks is too derned free, Seein' yer name is unbeknown to me. 'Ther' was a time, I reckon, when I knowed Nigh onto every dern galoot in town. That was as late as '50. Now she's growed Surprisin'! Yes, me an' my pardner, Brown, 667 Was wide acquainted. If ther' was a cuss We didn't know, the cause was-he knowed us. 'Maybe you had that claim adjoinin' mine Up thar in Calaveras. Was it you To which Long Mary took a mighty shine, An' throwed squar' off on Jake the Kangaroo? I guess if she could see ye now she'd take Her chance o' happiness along o' Jake. 'You ain't so purty now as you was then: Yer eyes is nothin' but two prospect holes, An' women which are hitched to better men Would hardly for sech glances damn their souls, As Lengthie did. By G--! I _hope_ it's you, For' _(kicks the skull)_ 'I'm Jake the Kangaroo.' ~ Ambrose Bierce

363:I sat up, fought against dizziness. Somewhere in the distance a single bell rang out the pattern for gold-candles and the beginning of another day. “Drink.” The cup was near to hand. I rose on one elbow and reached for it. Some sips later I felt immeasurably better. My eyesight cleared, and so did my thoughts. I remembered the interlude during the night, and frowned across the fire at my companion. He looked exactly the same as ever--as if he’d sat up for a single time measure and not for an entire night. The plain hat, simply tied hair, ordinary clothing unmarked by any device; I squinted, trying to equate this slight figure with that arrogant plume-helmed commander riding on the ridge above the last battle. But if he is who I think he is, they’re used to being up all night at their stupid Court parties, I thought grimly. “You seem to know who I am,” I said. “Who are you?” “Does it matter?” His use of my own words the night before surprised me a little. Did he expect flattery? Supposedly those so-refined Court aristocrats lived on it as anyone else lives on bread and drink. I considered my answer, wanting to make certain it was not even remotely complimentary. “I’m exactly as unlikely to blab our secrets to an anonymous flunky as I am to a Court decoration with a reputation as a gambler and a fop,” I said finally. “’Court decoration’?” he repeated, with a faint smile. The strengthening light of dawn revealed telltale marks under his eyes. So he was tired. I was obscurely glad. “Yes,” I said, pleased to expand on my insult. “My father’s term.” “You’ve never wished to meet a…Court decoration for yourself?” “No.” Then I added cheerily, “Well, maybe when I was a child.” The Marquis of Shevraeth, Galdran’s commander-in-chief, grinned. It was the first real grin I’d seen on his face, as if he were struggling to hold in laughter. Setting his cup down, he made a graceful half-bow from his seat on the other side of the fire and said, “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Meliara.” I sniffed. “And now that I’ve been thoroughly put in my place,” he said, “let us leave my way of life and proceed to yours. ~ Sherwood Smith

364:Night, forever. But within it, a city, shadowy and only real in certain ways. The entity cowered in its alley, where the mist was rising. This could not have happened! Yet it had. The streets had filled with… things. Animals! Birds! Changing shape! Screaming and yelling! And, above it all, higher than the rooftops, a lamb rocking back and forth in great slow motions, thundering over the cobbles… And then bars had come down, slamming down, and the entity had been thrown back. But it had been so close! It had saved the creature, it was getting through, it was beginning to have control… and now this… In the darkness of the inner city, above the rustle of the never-ending rain, it heard the sound of boots approaching. A shape appeared in the mist. It drew nearer. Water cascaded off a metal helmet and an oiled leather cloak as the figure stopped and, entirely unconcerned, cupped its had in front of its face and lit a cigar. Then the match was dropped on the cobbles, where it hissed out, and the figure said: “What are you?” The entity stirred, like an old fish in a deep pool. It was too tired to flee. “I am the Summoning Dark.” It was not, in fact, a sound, but had it been, it would have been a hiss. “Who are you?” “I am the Watchman.” “They would have killed his family!” The darkness lunged, and met resistance. “Think of the deaths they have caused! Who are you to stop me?” “He created me. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who watches the watchmen? Me. I watch him. Always. You will not force him to murder for you.” “What kind of human creates his own policeman?” “One who fears the dark.” “And so he should,” said the entity, with satisfaction. “Indeed. But I think you misunderstand. I am not here to keep the darkness out. I am here to keep it in.” There was a clink of metal as the shadowy watchman lifted a dark lantern and opened its little door. Orange light cut through the blackness. “Call me… the Guarding Dark. Imagine how strong I must be.” The Summoning Dark backed desperately into the alley, but the light followed it, burning it. “And now,” said the watchman, “get out of town. ~ Terry Pratchett

365:At last, Sturmhond straightened the lapels of his teal frock coat and said, “Well, Brekker, it’s obvious you only deal in half-truths and outright lies, so you’re clearly the man for the job.” “There’s just one thing,” said Kaz, studying the privateer’s broken nose and ruddy hair. “Before we join hands and jump off a cliff together, I want to know exactly who I’m running with.” Sturmhond lifted a brow. “We haven’t been on a road trip or exchanged clothes, but I think our introductions were civilized enough.” “Who are you really, privateer?” “Is this an existential question?” “No proper thief talks the way you do.” “How narrow-minded of you.” “I know the look of a rich man’s son, and I don’t believe a king would send an ordinary privateer to handle business this sensitive.” “Ordinary,” scoffed Sturmhond. “Are you so schooled in politics?” “I know my way around a deal. Who are you? We get the truth or my crew walks.” “Are you so sure that would be possible, Brekker? I know your plans now. I’m accompanied by two of the world’s most legendary Grisha, and I’m not too bad in a fight either.” “And I’m the canal rat who brought Kuwei Yul-Bo out of the Ice Court alive. Let me know how you like your chances.” His crew didn’t have clothes or titles to rival the Ravkans, but Kaz knew where he’d put his money if he had any left. Sturmhond clasped his hands behind his back, and Kaz saw the barest shift in his demeanor. His eyes lost their bemused gleam and took on a surprising weight. No ordinary privateer at all. “Let us say,” said Sturmhond, gaze trained on the Ketterdam street below, “hypothetically, of course, that the Ravkan king has intelligence networks that reach deep within Kerch, Fjerda, and the Shu Han, and that he knows exactly how important Kuwei Yul-Bo could be to the future of his country. Let us say that king would trust no one to negotiate such matters but himself, but that he also knows just how dangerous it is to travel under his own name when his country is in turmoil, when he has no heir and the Lantsov succession is in no way secured.” “So hypothetically,” Kaz said, “you might be addressed as Your Highness. ~ Leigh Bardugo

366:She dwelt on the hillside by edge of a maize-field, near the spring that flows in laughing rills through the solemn shadows of ancient trees. The women came there to fill their jars, and travellers would sit there to rest and talk. She worked and dreamed daily to the tune of the bubbling stream.   One evening the stranger came down from the cloud-hidden peak; his locks were tangled like drowsy snakes. We asked in wonder, "Who are you?" He answered not but sat by the garrulous stream and silently gazed at the hut where she dwelt. Our hearts quaked in fear and we came back home when it was night.   Next morning when the women came to fetch water at the spring by the deodar trees, they found the doors open in her hut, but her voice was gone and where was her smiling face? The empty jar lay on the floor and her lamp had burnt itself out in the corner. No one knew where she had fled to before it was morningand the stranger had gone.   In the month of May the sun grew strong and the snow melted, and we sat by the spring and wept. We wondered in our mind, "Is there a spring in the land where she has gone and where she can fill her vessel in these hot thirsty days?" And we asked each other in dismay, "Is there a land beyond these hills where we live?"   It was a summer night; the breeze blew from the south; and I sat in her deserted room where the lamp stood still unlit. When suddenly from before my eyes the hills vanished like curtains drawn aside. "Ah, it is she who comes. How are you, my child? Are you happy? But where can you shelter under this open sky? And, alas! our spring is not here to allay your thirst."   "Here is the same sky," she said, "only free from the fencing hills, this is the same stream grown into a river,the same earth widened into a plain." "Everything is here," I sighed, "only we are not." She smiled sadly and said, "You are in my heart." I woke up and heard the babbling of the stream and the rustling of the deodars at night. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener LXXXIII - She Dwelt On The Hillside

367:I was in the winter of my life- and the men I met along the road were my only summer. At night I fell sleep with vision of myself dancing and laughing and crying with them. Three year down the line of being on an endless world tour and memories of them were the only things that sustained me, and my only real happy times. I was a singer, not very popular one, who once has dreams of becoming a beautiful poet- but upon an unfortunate series of events saw those dreams dashed and divided like million stars in the night sky that I wished on over and over again- sparkling and broken. But I really didn’t mind because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted and then losing it to know what true freedom is. When the people I used to know found out what I had been doing, how I had been living- they asked me why. But there’s no use in talking to people who have a home, they have no idea what its like to seek safety in other people, for home to be wherever you lied you head. I was always an unusual girl, my mother told me that I had a chameleon soul. No moral compass pointing me due north, no fixed personality. Just an inner indecisiviness that was as wide as wavering as the ocean. And if I said that I didn’t plan for it to turn out this way I’d be lying- because I was born to be the other woman. I belonged to no one- who belonged to everyone, who had nothing- who wanted everything with a fire for every experience and an obssesion for freedom that terrified me to the point that I couldn’t even talk about- and pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzled and dizzied me. Every night I used to pray that I’d find my people- and finally I did- on the open road. We have nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing we desired anymore- except to make our lives into a work of art. LIVE FAST. DIE YOUNG. BE WILD. AND HAVE FUN. I believe in the country America used to be. I belive in the person I want to become, I believe in the freedom of the open road. And my motto is the same as ever- *I believe in the kindness of strangers. And when I’m at war with myself- I Ride. I Just Ride.* Who are you? Are you in touch with all your darkest fantasies? Have you created a life for yourself where you’re free to experience them? I Have. I Am Fucking Crazy. But I Am Free. ~ Lana Del Rey

368:Mein Herr? For a brief moment, those blue-white eyes regain some color, the only color in this gray world. Blue and green, like the gems on the ring about his finger. Mismatched eyes. Human eyes. The eyes of my immortal beloved. Elisabeth, he says, and his lips move painfully around a mouth full of sharpened teeth, like the fangs of some horrifying beast. Despite the fear knifing my veins, my heart grows soft with pity. With tenderness. I reach for my Goblin King, longing to touch him, to hold his face in my hands the way I had done when I was his bride. Mein Herr. My hands lift to stroke his cheek, but he shakes his head, batting my fingers away. I am not he, he says, and an ominous growl laces his words as his eyes return to that eerie blue-white. He that you love is gone. Then who are you? I ask. His nostrils flare and shadows deepen around us, giving shape to the world. He swirls a cloak about him as a dark forest comes into view, growing from the mist. I am the Lord of Mischief and the Ruler Underground. His lips stretch thin over that dangerous mouth in a leering smile. I am death and doom and Der Erlkönig. No! I cry, reading for him again. No, you are he that I love, a king with music in his soul and a prayer in his heart. You are a scholar, a philosopher, and my own austere young man. Is that so? The corrupted Goblin King runs a tongue over his gleaming teeth, those pale eyes devouring me as though I were a sumptuous treat to be savored. Then prove it. Call him by name. A jolt sings through me- guilt and fear and desire altogether. His name, a name, the only link my austere young man has to the world above, the one thing he could not give me. Der Erlkönig throws his head back in a laugh. You do not even know your beloved's name, maiden? How can you possibly call it love when you walked away, when you abandoned him and all that he fought for? I shall find it, I say fiercely. I shall call him by name and bring him home. Malice lights those otherworldly eyes, and despite the monstrous markings and horns and fangs and fur that claim the Goblin King's comely form, he turns seductive, sly. Come, brave maiden, he purrs. Come, join me and be my bride once more, for it was not your austere young man who showed you the dark delights of the Underground and the flesh. It was I. ~ S Jae Jones

369:Three cats stood in the center of the camp, their fur frosted by the dazzling white light. “Who are you?” Graywing stammered. These weren’t RiverClan warriors, and she didn’t recognize them from Gatherings. She wondered how they had managed to get all the way into the camp without being challenged. The tallest of the strangers, hard-muscled beneath his brown tabby coat, dipped his head. “Greetings, Graywing,” he meowed. “My name is Runningstorm of WindClan. This is Wolfheart”—he nodded to the elegant gray she-cat beside him—“and our leader, Smallstar.” The third cat, whose tiny frame was covered in sleek black-and-white fur, looked at Graywing. His blue eyes were friendly as he mewed, “We have traveled far to see you.” Graywing looked from one cat to the other. “I don’t understand. Has something happened to Fallowstar?” Smallstar shook his head. “Fallowstar is fine. We are the cats who would have been.” Graywing stared at them in horror. The image of three terrified bundles, falling one by one into the churning river, filled her eyes. “You are the kits who drowned,” she whispered. Wolfheart bent her head. “That is so. Come, we have something to show you.” She turned and led the way across the clearing toward the nursery. Graywing followed without having to tell her paws what to do; they seemed to be carrying her on their own. Runningstorm nosed aside the bramble that was draped across the entrance to the nursery, protecting the precious cats inside. “Look,” he urged Graywing. Oh, StarClan, let our kits be all right, Graywing prayed as she poked her head inside. Had the WindClan kits returned to punish her by hurting the youngest RiverClan cats? The den smelled warm and milky, and enough moonlight filtered through the branches for Graywing to see Hayberry curled around Wildkit and Minnowkit, who snuffled gently in their sleep. Hayberry’s flank rose and fell in time with her kits’ breathing, and although her eyelids flickered when Graywing looked at her, she didn’t stir. Graywing pulled her head out. “They’re safe,” she breathed. Smallstar looked surprised. “Of course. Did you think we’d hurt one hair on their pelts? Kits are the most special part of a Clan. They are the warriors who will defend their Clanmates in moons to come, the hunters who will find food even in the coldest leaf-bare, the cats who will have kits of their own to pass on everything they have learned. A Clan that has no kits might as well be dead. ~ Erin Hunter

370:Lights like stars whirled past me from out of the darkness, and when I opened my eyes, I was lying on a bed covered in rich tapestry and piled high with pillows. The room was lit by candles in colossal iron holders that flickered on the walls. A great fire was ablaze in the hearth. I recognized the triptych of slender, arched windows, though I was seeing them for the first time from the inside. No longer empty, they were fitted with glass through which I could make out some of the stars that hovered over Whitby on a clear night. We were inside the abbey, though apparently outside time. The room was warm and the roof intact, and he was lying beside me. 'Every moment that has ever existed in time is still here, Mina- every thought, every memory, and every experience.' Now that I saw him in the candlelight, he was more beautiful than I had imagined. Skin marble white, paler than mine and glowing, and hair like the night sea's glossy waves. His face was long and angular with a strong brow, like the artist's renderings I had of the Arthurian knights. With his midnight blue wolf eyes, he stared at me, taking me in. "Who are you?" I asked, my voice timid and feeble. 'You and I have gone by many names. It does not matter what we call each other. What matters is that you remember. Do you remember, Mina?' His lips did not move, and yet I heard every word that he said, I wanted to ask a thousand questions, but one long and slender finger reached out and touched my lips. Locking eyes with me, he slid my nightdress from my shoulder. Shock waves rippled through my body as his finger followed the curve under my neck, dusting my chin, and slowly sliding to the other ear. Surely just one finger could not create this bedlam inside me. 'Ah, so you do remember.' My heart palpitated wildly, but I was not afraid. Something familiar about him prevented me from fearing him, though I had witnessed how dangerous he could be on the banks of the Thames when he had thrashed my attacker. "Yes, yes, I remember," I said. I would have said anything to keep his hand on me, to wallow in the wild energy he brought to my body, and to stare into the infinite violet blue of his eyes. Though I said nothing else, every nerve in my body begged him to keep touching me. 'What is your desire?' I did not have the audacity to say the words aloud, but this being knew me and knew my thoughts. Our eyes were locked, and our minds were linked. I felt connected to him in a way that I had not known with another person. We were not one, but we were in harmony, as if we were both parts of the same symphony. ~ Karen Essex

371:Juliet?" Charles whispered, his stunned brain trying to absorb what he was seeing and sort it out into something he could understand . . . trying to reason why she was still pregnant when she should've delivered the baby months and months ago . . . trying to put together the pieces of this puzzle that made absolutely no sense.  "Juliet, will you not come and greet me?" As though for approval, she glanced toward Gareth, who had also risen and now stood almost protectively beside her.  And as Charles's confused and uncomprehending gaze went from Gareth's hand, which now supported Juliet's elbow, to his fiancée's swollen belly and finally, to the high chair drawn up beside her which contained a toddler whose curling hair was as bright a gold as Charles's own, he began to understand. It felt as though God had slammed a fist into his stomach. "No," he murmured, shaking his head in denial and stepping backward, his gaze still fixed on Juliet's gently rounded abdomen.  Involuntarily, his fists clenched and he was suddenly afraid that he was going to call out Gareth, his own brother, right here in front of everyone, for what he had done to her.  "No, I . . . this cannot be —" And then Lucien was there, his hand like a vise on Charles's arm as he firmly turned him around and began dragging him out of the room.  Charles resisted, trying to twist his head around, unable to take his disbelieving stare from Juliet's belly, from her face, from her eyes, which met and held his in a silent plea for forgiveness, but Lucien only tightened his grip and pulled him away from the table.  Away from the others. Out the door, which he shut behind him. "Now you know why I did not want you to charge unannounced into this house," he said quietly, as Charles walked a little distance away and leaned his brow against his forearm, and his forearm against the cold stone wall.  There he remained, head bent, totally undone by the confusion and despair of his discovery.  "I am not angry with you, and there is nothing to forgive.  But since you were unaware of the situation, and Juliet is obviously in a delicate condition, you can be sure that I would do everything in my power to protect you both from shock and upset.  I am sorry that you had to learn of things this way." When Charles made no move to acknowledge him, he turned to Amy.  "Who are you?" Amy had stepped up beside Charles, who stood with head bent, shoulders quaking.  "My name's Amy Leighton," she answered.  "I'm a friend of your brother's." "How close a friend are you?" "Well, that's hard to say, really, because —" "She's the only person in this bloody world who hasn't betrayed me! ~ Danelle Harmon

372:You want to kiss her, right?” “What?” I have lost track of our conversation. I was thinking about how if Kit called me her friend, then I would have multiplied my number of them by a factor of two. And then I considered the word flirting, how it sounds like fluttering, which is what butterflies do. Which of course looped me back to chaos theory and my realization that I’d like to have more information to provide Kit on the topic. “Do. You. Want. To. Kiss. Her?” Miney asks again. “Yes, of course I do. Who wouldn’t want to kiss Kit?” “I don’t want to kiss Kit,” Miney says, doing that thing where she imitates me and how I answer rhetorical questions. Though her intention is to mock rather than to educate, it’s actually been a rather informative technique to demonstrate my tendency toward taking people too literally. “Mom doesn’t want to kiss Kit. I don’t know about Dad, but I doubt it.” My father doesn’t look up. His face is buried in a book about the mating patterns of migratory birds. It’s too bad our scholarly interests have never overlapped. Breakfast would be so much more interesting if we could discuss our work. “So if you want to kiss Kit, that means you want her to see you like a real guy,” Miney says, and points at me with her cup of coffee. She’s drinking it black. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with Miney. Maybe she’s just tired. “I am a real guy.” How come even my own sister sees me as something not quite human? Something other. “I have a penis.” “And just when I think we’ve made progress you go and mention your penis.” “What? Fact: I have a penis. That makes me a guy. Though technically there are some trans people who have penises but self-identify as girls.” “Please stop saying that word.” “What word? Penis?” “Yes.” “Do you prefer member? Shlong? Wang? Johnson?” I ask. “Dongle, perhaps?” “I would prefer we not discuss your man parts at all.” “Wait, should I text Kit immediately and clarify that I do in fact have man parts?” I pick up my phone and start typing. “Dear Kit. Just to be clear. I have a penis.” “Oh my God. Do not text her. Seriously, stop.” Miney puts her coffee down hard. She’ll climb over the table and tackle me if she has to. “Ha! Totally got you!” I smile, as proud as I was the other day for my that’s what she said joke. “Who are you?” Miney asks, but she’s grinning too. I’ll admit it takes a second—something about the disconnect between her confused tone and her happy face—and I almost, almost say out loud: Duh, I’m Little D. Instead I let her rhetorical question hang, just like I’m supposed to ~ Julie Buxbaum

373:Closing the distance between them, he had saved the modest allure of her walk and felt his body respond to the graceful sway of her hips as they approached the pool. He had envisioned her taking off her robe and showing him her slender nakedness, but instead, she had just stood there, as though searching for someone. It skipped through his mind that when he caught up to the girl, he would either apprehend or ravish her. He still wasn't sure which it would be as he stood before her, blocking her escape with a dark, slight smile. As she peered up at him fearfully from the shadowed folds of her hood, he found himself staring into the bluest eyes he had ever seen. He had only encountered that deep, dream-spun shade of cobalt once in his life before, in the stained glass windows of Chartres Cathedral. His awareness of the crowd them dimmed in the ocean-blue depths of her eyes. 'Who are you?' He did not say a word nor ask her permission. With the smooth self-assurance of a man who has access to every woman in the room, he captured her chin in a firm but gentle grip. She jumped when he touched her, panic flashing in her eyes. His hard stare softened slightly in amusement at that, but then his faint smile faded, for her skin was silken beneath his fingertips. With one hand, he lifted her face toward the dim torchlight, while the other softly brushed back her hood. Then Lucien faltered, faced with a beauty the likes of which he had never seen. His very soul grew hushed with reverence as he gazed at her, holding his breath for fear the vision would dissolve, a figment of his overactive brain. With her bright tresses gleaming the flame-gold of dawn and her large, frightened eyes of that shining, ethereal blue, he was so sure for a moment that she was a lost angel that he half expected to see silvery, feathered wings folded demurely beneath her coarse brown robe. She appeared somewhere between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two- a wholesome, nay, a virginal beauty of trembling purity. He instantly 'knew' that she was utterly untouched, impossible as that seemed in this place. Her face was proud and weary. Her satiny skin glowed in the candlelight, pale and fine, but her soft, luscious lips shot off an effervescent champagne-pop of desire that fizzed more sweetly in his veins than anything he'd felt since his adolescence, which had taken place, if he recalled correctly, some time during the Dark Ages. There was intelligence and valor in her delicate face, courage, and a quivering vulnerability that made him ache with anguish for the doom of all innocent things. 'A noble youth, a questing youth,' he thought, and if she had come to slay dragons, she had already pierced him in his black, fiery heart with the lance of her heaven-blue gaze. ~ Gaelen Foley

374:Closing the distance between them, he had savored the modest allure of her walk and felt his body respond to the graceful sway of her hips as they approached the pool. He had envisioned her taking off her robe and showing him her slender nakedness, but instead, she had just stood there, as though searching for someone. It skipped through his mind that when he caught up to the girl, he would either apprehend or ravish her. He still wasn't sure which it would be as he stood before her, blocking her escape with a dark, slight smile. As she peered up at him fearfully from the shadowed folds of her hood, he found himself staring into the bluest eyes he had ever seen. He had only encountered that deep, dream-spun shade of cobalt once in his life before, in the stained glass windows of Chartres Cathedral. His awareness of the crowd them dimmed in the ocean-blue depths of her eyes. 'Who are you?' He did not say a word nor ask her permission. With the smooth self-assurance of a man who has access to every woman in the room, he captured her chin in a firm but gentle grip. She jumped when he touched her, panic flashing in her eyes. His hard stare softened slightly in amusement at that, but then his faint smile faded, for her skin was silken beneath his fingertips. With one hand, he lifted her face toward the dim torchlight, while the other softly brushed back her hood. Then Lucien faltered, faced with a beauty the likes of which he had never seen. His very soul grew hushed with reverence as he gazed at her, holding his breath for fear the vision would dissolve, a figment of his overactive brain. With her bright tresses gleaming the flame-gold of dawn and her large, frightened eyes of that shining, ethereal blue, he was so sure for a moment that she was a lost angel that he half expected to see silvery, feathered wings folded demurely beneath her coarse brown robe. She appeared somewhere between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two- a wholesome, nay, a virginal beauty of trembling purity. He instantly 'knew' that she was utterly untouched, impossible as that seemed in this place. Her face was proud and weary. Her satiny skin glowed in the candlelight, pale and fine, but her soft, luscious lips shot off an effervescent champagne-pop of desire that fizzed more sweetly in his veins than anything he'd felt since his adolescence, which had taken place, if he recalled correctly, some time during the Dark Ages. There was intelligence and valor in her delicate face, courage, and a quivering vulnerability that made him ache with anguish for the doom of all innocent things. 'A noble youth, a questing youth,' he thought, and if she had come to slay dragons, she had already pierced him in his black, fiery heart with the lance of her heaven-blue gaze. ~ Gaelen Foley

375:When I pull my hand away, my fingertips are not stained red, but silver. I stare at my nails, trying to make sense of what I see when out of the formless gloom, a monster emerges. I do scream when a pair of blue-white eyes appear, a pinprick of black in their center. Slowly, a shape coalesces into being- a long, elegant face, whorls of inky shadows swirling over moon-pale skin, ram's horns curling around pointed, elfin ears. He is more terrifying and more real than the vision I experienced in the labyrinth. But worst of all are the hands, gnarled and curled and with one too many joints in each finger. With a silver ring around the base of one. A wolf's-head ring, with two gems of blue and green for eyes. My ring. His ring. The symbol of our promise I had returned to the Goblin King back in the Goblin Grove. Mein Herr? For a brief moment, those blue-white eyes regain some color, the only color in this gray world. Blue and green, like the gems on the ring about his finger. Mismatched eyes. Human eyes. The eyes of my immortal beloved. Elisabeth, he says, and his lips move painfully around a mouth full of sharpened teeth, like the fangs of some horrifying beast. Despite the fear knifing my veins, my heart grows soft with pity. With tenderness. I reach for my Goblin King, longing to touch him, to hold his face in my hands the way I had done when I was his bride. Mein Herr. My hands lift to stroke his cheek, but he shakes his head, batting my fingers away. I am not he, he says, and an ominous growl laces his words as his eyes return to that eerie blue-white. He that you love is gone. Then who are you? I ask. His nostrils flare and shadows deepen around us, giving shape to the world. He swirls a cloak about him as a dark forest comes into view, growing from the mist. I am the Lord of Mischief and the Ruler Underground. His lips stretch thin over that dangerous mouth in a leering smile. I am death and doom and Der Erlkönig. No! I cry, reading for him again. No, you are he that I love, a king with music in his soul and a prayer in his heart. You are a scholar, a philosopher, and my own austere young man. Is that so? The corrupted Goblin King runs a tongue over his gleaming teeth, those pale eyes devouring me as though I were a sumptuous treat to be savored. Then prove it. Call him by name. A jolt sings through me- guilt and fear and desire altogether. His name, a name, the only link my austere young man has to the world above, the one thing he could not give me. Der Erlkönig throws his head back in a laugh. You do not even know your beloved's name, maiden? How can you possibly call it love when you walked away, when you abandoned him and all that he fought for? I shall find it, I say fiercely. I shall call him by name and bring him home. Malice lights those otherworldly eyes, and despite the monstrous markings and horns and fangs and fur that claim the Goblin King's comely form, he turns seductive, sly. Come, brave maiden, he purrs. Come, join me and be my bride once more, for it was not your austere young man who showed you the dark delights of the Underground and the flesh. It was I. ~ S Jae Jones

376:When I opened my eyes, we were still surrounded by darkness. A lantern, standing on the ground, showed a bubbling well. The water splashing from the well disappeared, almost at once, under the floor on which I was lying, with my head on the knee of the man in the black cloak and the black mask. He was bathing my temples and his hands smelt of death. I tried to push them away and asked, ‘Who are you? Where is the voice?’ His only answer was a sigh. Suddenly, a hot breath passed over my face and I perceived a white shape, beside the man’s black shape, in the darkness. The black shape lifted me on to the white shape, a glad neighing greeted my astounded ears and I murmured, ‘Cesar!’ The animal quivered. Raoul, I was lying half back on a saddle and I had recognized the white horse out of the PROFETA, which I had so often fed with sugar and sweets. I remembered that, one evening, there was a rumor in the theater that the horse had disappeared and that it had been stolen by the Opera ghost. I believed in the voice, but had never believed in the ghost. Now, however, I began to wonder, with a shiver, whether I was the ghost’s prisoner. I called upon the voice to help me, for I should never have imagined that the voice and the ghost were one. You have heard about the Opera ghost, have you not, Raoul?” “Yes, but tell me what happened when you were on the white horse of the Profeta?” “I made no movement and let myself go. The black shape held me up, and I made no effort to escape. A curious feeling of peacefulness came over me and I thought that I must be under the influence of some cordial. I had the full command of my senses; and my eyes became used to the darkness, which was lit, here and there, by fitful gleams. I calculated that we were in a narrow circular gallery, probably running all round the Opera, which is immense, underground. I had once been down into those cellars, but had stopped at the third floor, though there were two lower still, large enough to hold a town. But the figures of which I caught sight had made me run away. There are demons down there, quite black, standing in front of boilers, and they wield shovels and pitchforks and poke up fires and stir up flames and, if you come too near them, they frighten you by suddenly opening the red mouths of their furnaces … Well, while Cesar was quietly carrying me on his back, I saw those black demons in the distance, looking quite small, in front of the red fires of their furnaces: they came into sight, disappeared and came into sight again, as we went on our winding way. At last, they disappeared altogether. The shape was still holding me up and Cesar walked on, unled and sure-footed. I could not tell you, even approximately, how long this ride lasted; I only know that we seemed to turn and turn and often went down a spiral stair into the very heart of the earth. Even then, it may be that my head was turning, but I don’t think so: no, my mind was quite clear. At last, Cesar raised his nostrils, sniffed the air and quickened his pace a little. I felt a moistness in the air and Cesar stopped. The darkness had lifted. A sort of bluey light surrounded us. We were on the edge of a lake, whose leaden waters stretched into the distance, into the darkness; but the blue light lit up the bank and I saw a little boat fastened to an iron ring on the wharf!” - Chapter 12: Apollo’s Lyre ~ Gaston Leroux

377:She blinked up at him in confusion. “What happened?” “The horse reared and fell.” Christopher’s voice came out in a rasp. “Tell me your name.” “Why are you asking me that?” “Your name,” he insisted. “Beatrix Heloise Hathaway.” She looked at him with round blue eyes. “Now that we know who I am…who are you?” At Christopher’s expression, Beatrix snickered and wrinkled her nose impishly. “I’m teasing. Really. I know who you are. I’m perfectly all right.” Over Christopher’s shoulder, Beatrix caught sight of Leo shaking his head in warning, drawing a finger across his throat. She realized too late that it probably hadn’t been an appropriate moment for teasing. What to a Hathaway would have been a good chuckle was positively infuriating to Christopher. He glared at her with incredulous wrath. It was only then that she realized he was shaking in the aftermath of his terror for her. Definitely not the time for humor. “I’m sorry--” she began contritely. “I asked you not to train that horse,” Christopher snapped, “and you agreed.” Beatrix felt instantly defensive. She was accustomed to doing as she pleased. This was certainly not the first time she’d ever fallen from a horse, nor the last. “You didn’t ask that specifically,” she said reasonably, “you asked me not to do anything dangerous. And in my opinion, it wasn’t.” Instead of calming Christopher, that seemed to enrage him even further. “In light of the fact that you were nearly flattened like a pikelet just now, I’d say you were wrong.” Beatrix was intent on winning the argument. “Well, it doesn’t matter in any case, because the promise I made was for after we married. And we’re not married yet.” Leo covered his eyes with his hand, shook his head, and retreated from her vision. Christopher gave her an incinerating glare, opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again. Without another word, he lifted himself away from her and went to the stable in a long, ground-eating stride. Sitting up, Beatrix stared after him in perplexed annoyance. “He’s leaving.” “It would appear so.” Leo came to her, extended a hand down, and pulled her up. “Why did he leave right in the middle of a quarrel?” Beatrix demanded, dusting off her breeches with short, aggravated whacks. “One can’t just leave, one has to finish it.” “If he had stayed, sweetheart,” Leo said, “there’s every chance I would have had to pry his hands from around your neck.” Their conversation paused as they saw Christopher riding from the stables, his form straight as a blade as he spurred his horse into a swift graceful canter. Beatrix sighed. “I was trying to score points rather than consider how he was feeling,” she admitted. “He was probably frightened for me, seeing the horse topple over like that.” “Probably?” Leo repeated. “He looked like he had just seen Death. I believe it may have touched off one of his bad spells, or whatever it is you call them.” “I must go to him.” “Not dressed like that.” “For heaven’s sake, Leo, just this one time--” “No exceptions, darling. I know my sisters. Give any one of you an inch, and you’ll take a mile.” He reached out and pushed back her tumbling hair. “Also…don’t go without a chaperone.” “I don’t want a chaperone. That’s never any fun.” “Yes, Beatrix, that’s the purpose of a chaperone.” “Well, in our family, anyone who chaperoned me would probably need a chaperone more than I do.” Leo opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Rare was the occasion when her brother was unable to argue a point. Repressing a grin, Beatrix strode toward the house. ~ Lisa Kleypas

378:I hopped over a little flower border. The blooms--ghostly white in the soft glow from the lamps around the park’s circumference--ran up the brick walkway and gripped the stone lip of the fountain. I opened my mouth, leaned in, and took a deep gulp. And heard hooves. Boots. “You, there, girl! Halt!” Who in the universe ever halts when the enemy tells them to? Of course I took off in the opposite direction, as fast as I could: running across grass, leaping neatly tended flowers. But the park was a circle, which made it easy for the riders to gallop around both ways and cut me off. I stopped, looked back. No retreat. Meanwhile another group came running across the lawns, swords drawn. I backed up a step, two; looked this way and that; tried to break for it in the largest space, which of course was instantly closed. There must have been a dozen of them ringing me, all with rapiers and heavier weapons gleaming gold tipped in the light from the iron-posted glowglobes and the windows of the houses. “Report,” someone barked; and then to me, “Who are you? Don’t you know there is a sunset curfew?” “Ah, I didn’t know.” I smoothed my skirts nervously. “Been sick. No one mentioned it…” “Who are you?” came the question again. “I just wanted a drink. I was sick, I think I mentioned, and didn’t get any water…” “Who are you.” This time it wasn’t even a question. The game was up, of course, but who said I had to surrender meekly? “Just call me Ranisia.” I named my mother, using my hardest voice. “I’m a ghost, one of Galdran Merindar’s many victims.” Noises from behind caused the ring to tighten, the weapons all pointing a finger’s breadth from my throat. My empty hands were at my sides, but these folks were taking no chances. Maybe they thought I was a ghost. No one spoke, or moved, until the sound of heels striking the brick path made the soldiers withdraw silently. Baron Debegri strode up, his rain cape billowing. Under his foppish mustache his teeth gleamed in a very cruel grin. He stopped within a pace of me, and with no warning whatever, backhanded me right across the face. I went flying backward, landing flat in a flower bed. The Baron stepped onto my left knee and motioned a torch bearer over. He stared down at the half-healed marks on my ankle and laughed, then jerked his thumb in a gesture of command. Two soldiers sprang to either side of me, each grabbing an arm and pulling me to my feet. “What have you to say now, my little hero?” the Baron gloated. “That you are a fool, the son of a fool, and the servant of the biggest--“ He swung at me again, and I tried to duck, but he grabbed me by the hair and then hit me. The world seemed to explode in stars--for a long time all I could do was gasp for breath and fight against dizziness. When I came out of it, someone was binding my hands; then two more someones grabbed my arms again, and I was half carried back to the street. My vision was blurry. I realized hazily that a gem on his embroidered gloves must have cut my forehead, for a warm trickle ran nastily down the side of my face, which throbbed even worse than my ankle. I got thrown over the back of a horse, my hands and feet bound to stirrups. From somewhere I heard Debegri’s harsh voice: “Lift the curfew, but tell those smug-faced Elders that if anyone harbored this criminal, the death penalty still holds. You. Tell his lordship the Marquis that his aid is no longer necessary, and he can return to Remalna-city, or wherever he wants.” Quick footsteps ran off, and then the Baron said, “Now, to Chovilun. And don’t dawdle.” Chovilun… One of the four Merindar fortresses. I closed my eyes. ~ Sherwood Smith

379:You might have tried to stop her,” she exclaimed. As she glanced up at Christopher, a scowl flitted across her face. “Oh. It’s you.” “Miss Hathaway--” he began. “Hold this.” Something warm and wriggling was thrust into his grasp, and Beatrix dashed off to pursue the goat. Dumbfounded, Christopher glanced at the creature in his hands. A baby goat, cream colored, with a brown head. He fumbled to keep from dropping the creature as he glanced at Beatrix’s retreating form and realized she was wearing breeches and boots. Christopher had seen women in every imaginable state of dress or undress. But he had never seen one wearing the clothes of a stablehand. “I must be having a dream,” he told the squirming kid absently. “A very odd dream about Beatrix Hathaway and goats…” “I have her!” the masculine voice called out. “Beatrix, I told you the pen needed to be made taller.” “She didn’t leap over it,” came Beatrix’s protest, “she ate through it.” “Who let her into the house?” “No one. She butted one of the side doors open.” An inaudible conversation followed. As Christopher waited, a dark-haired boy of approximately four or five years of age made a breathless entrance through the front door. He was carrying a wooden sword and had tied a handkerchief around his head, which gave him the appearance of a miniature pirate. “Did they catch the goat?” he asked Christopher without preamble. “I believe so.” “Oh, thunderbolts. I missed all the fun.” The boy sighed. He looked up at Christopher. “Who are you?” “Captain Phelan. The child’s gaze sharpened with interest. “Where’s your uniform?” “I don’t wear it now that the war is over.” “Did you come to see my father?” “No, I…came to call on Miss Hathaway.” “Are you one of her suitors?” Christopher gave a decisive shake of his head. “You might be one,” the boy said wisely, “and just not know it yet.” Christopher felt a smile--his first genuine smile in a long time--pulling at his lips. “Does Miss Hathaway have many suitors?” “Oh, yes. But none of them want to marry her.” “Why is that, do you imagine?” “They don’t want to get shot,” the child said, shrugging. “Pardon?” Christopher’s brows lifted. “Before you marry, you have to get shot by an arrow and fall in love,” the boy explained. He paused thoughtfully. “But I don’t think the rest of it hurts as much as the beginning.” Christopher couldn’t prevent a grin. At that moment, Beatrix returned to the hallway, dragging the nanny goat on a rope lead. Beatrix looked at Christopher with an arrested expression. His smile faded, and he found himself staring into her blue-on-blue eyes. They were astonishingly direct and lucid…the eyes of a vagabond angel. One had the sense that no matter what she beheld of the sinful world, she would never be jaded. She reminded him that the things he had seen and done could not be polished away like tarnish from silver. Gradually her gaze lowered from his. “Rye,” she said, handing the lead to the boy. “Take Pandora to the barn, will you? And the baby goat as well.” Reaching out, she took the kid from Christopher’s arms. The touch of her hands against his shirtfront elicited an unnerving response, a pleasurable heaviness in his groin. “Yes, Auntie.” The boy left through the front door, somehow managing to retain possession of the goats and the wooden sword. Christopher stood facing Beatrix, trying not to gape. And failing utterly. She might as well have been standing there in her undergarments. In fact, that would have been preferable, because at least it wouldn’t have seemed so singularly erotic. He could see the feminine outline of her hips and thighs clad in the masculine garments. And she didn’t seem at all self-conscious. Confound her, what kind of woman was she? ~ Lisa Kleypas

380:The New England wilderness March 1, 1704 Temperature 10 degrees She had no choice but to go to him. She set Daniel down. Perhaps they would spare Daniel. Perhaps only she was to be burned. She forced herself to keep her chin up, her eyes steady and her steps even. How could she be afraid of going where her five-year-old brother had gone first? O Tommy, she thought, rest in the Lord. Perhaps you are with Mother now. Perhaps I will see you in a moment. She did not want to die. Her footsteps crunched on the snow. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The Indian handed Mercy a slab of cornmeal bread, and then beckoned to Daniel, who cried, “Oh, good, I’m so hungry!” and came running, his happy little face tilted in a smile at the Indian who fed him. “Mercy said we’d eat later,” Daniel confided in the Indian. The English trembled in their relief and the French laughed. The Indian knelt beside Daniel, tossing aside Tommy’s jacket and dressing Daniel in warm clean clothing from another child. Nobody in Deerfield owned many clothes, and if she permitted herself to think about it, Mercy would know whose trousers and shirt these were, but she did not want to think about what dead child did not need clothes, so she said to the Indian, “Who are you? What’s your name?” He understood. Putting the palm of his hand against his chest, he said, “Tannhahorens.” She could just barely separate the syllables. It sounded more like a duck quacking than a real word. “Tannhahorens,” he said again, and she repeated it after him. She wondered what it meant. Indian names had to make a picture. She smiled carefully at the man she had thought was going to burn her alive as an example and said, “I’ll be right back, Tannhahorens.” She took a few steps away, and when he did nothing, she ran to her family. Her uncle swept her into his arms. How wonderful his scratchy beard felt! How strong and comforting his hug! “My brave girl,” he whispered, kissing her hair. “Mercy, they won’t let me help you.” In a voice as childish and puzzled as Daniel’s, he added, “They won’t let me help your aunt Mary, or Will and Little Mary either. I tried to help your brothers and got whipped for it.” He stammered: Uncle Nathaniel, whose reading choices from the Bible were always about war, and whose voice made every battle exciting. He needed her comfort as much as she needed his. “Uncle Nathaniel,” she said, “if I had done better, Tommy and Marah--” “Hush,” said her uncle. “The Lord set a task before you and you obeyed. Daniel is your task. Say your prayers as you march.” In a tight little pack behind Uncle Nathaniel stood her three living brothers. How small and cold they looked. Sam lifted his chin to encourage his sister and said, “At least we’re together. Do the best you can, Mercy. So will we.” They stared at each other, the two closest in age, and Mercy thought how proud their mother would be of Sam. “Mercy,” cried her brother John, panicking, “you have to go! Go fast,” he said urgently. “Your Indian is pointing at you.” Tannhahorens was watching her but not signaling. He isn’t angry, thought Mercy. I don’t have to be afraid, but I do have to return. “Find out your Indian’s name,” she said to her brothers. “It helps. Call him by name.” She took the time to hug and kiss each brother. How narrow their little shoulders; how thin the cloth that must keep them from freezing. She had to go before she wept. Indians did not care for crying. “Be strong, Uncle Nathaniel,” she said, touching the strange collar around his neck. “Don’t tug it,” he said wryly. “It’s lined with porcupine quill tips. If I don’t move at the right speed, the Indians give my leash a twitch and the needles jab my throat.” The boys laughed, pantomiming a hard jerk on the cord, and Mercy said, “You’re all just as mean as you ever were!” “And alive,” said Sam. When they hugged once more, she felt a tremor in him, deep and horrified, but under control. ~ Caroline B Cooney

381:AT NOON And Zarathustra ran and ran and did not find anybody any more, and he was alone and found himself again and again, and he enjoyed and quaffed his solitude and thought of good things for hours. But around the hour of noon, when the sun stood straight over Zarathustra's head, he came to an old crooked and knotty tree that was embraced, and hidden from itself, by the rich love of a grapevine; and yellow 276 grapes hung from it in abundance, inviting the wanderer. Then he felt the desire to quench a slight thirst and to break off a grape; but even as he was stretching out his arm to do so, he felt a still greater desire for something else: namely, to lie down beside the tree at the perfect noon hour, and to sleep. This Zarathustra did; and as soon as he lay on the ground in the stillness and secrecy of the many-hued grass, he forgot his slight thirst and fell asleep. For, as Zarathustra's proverb says, one thing is more necessary than another. Only his eyes remained open: for they did not tire of seeing and praising the tree and the love of the grapevine. Falling asleep, however, Zarathustra spoke thus to his heart: Still! Still! Did not the world become perfect just now? What is happening to me? As a delicate wind dances unseen on an inlaid sea, light, feather-light, thus sleep dances on me. My eyes he does not close, my soul he leaves awake. Light he is, verily, featherlight. He persuades me, I know not how. He touches me inwardly with caressing hands, he conquers me. Yes, he conquers me and makes my soul stretch out: how she is becoming long and tired, my strange soul! Did the eve of a seventh day come to her at noon? Has she already roamed happily among good and ripe things too long? She stretches out long, long-longer. She lies still, my strange soul. Too much that is good has she tasted; this golden sadness oppresses her, she makes a wry mouth. Like a ship that has sailed into its stillest cove-now it leans against the earth, tired of the long voyages and the uncertain seas. Is not the earth more faithful? The way such a ship lies close to, and nestles to, the land-it is enough if a spider spins its thread to it from the land: no stronger ropes are needed now. Like such 277 a tired ship in the stillest cove, I too rest now near the earth, faithful, trusting, waiting, tied to it with the softest threads. 0 happiness! 0 happiness! Would you sing, 0 my soul? You are lying in the grass. But this is the secret solemn hour when no shepherd plays his pipe. Refrain! Hot noon sleeps on the meadows. Do not single Stilll The world is perfect. Do not sing, you winged one in the grass, 0 my soul-do not even whisper Behold- still!-the old noon sleeps, his mouth moves: is he not just now drinking a drop of happiness, an old brown drop of golden happiness, golden wine? It slips over him, his happiness laughs. Thus laughs a god. Still! "O happiness, how little is sufficient for happiness!" Thus I spoke once and seemed clever to myself. But it was a blasphemy: that I have learned now. Clever fools speak better. Precisely the least, the softest, lightest, a lizard's rustling, a breath, a breeze, a moment's glance-it is little that makes the best happiness. Still! What happened to me? Listen Did time perhaps fly away? Do I not fall? Did I not fall-listen!-into the well of eternity? What is happening to me? Still! I have been stung, alas-in the heart? In the heart! Oh break, break, heart, after such happiness, after such a sting. How? Did not the world become perfect just now? Round and ripe? Oh, the golden round ringwhere may it fly? Shall I run after it? Quick! Still! (And here Zarathustra stretched and felt that he was asleep.) "Upl" he said to himself; "you sleeper You noon napperl Well, get up, old legsl It is time and overtime; many a good stretch of road still lies ahead of you. Now you have slept out-how long? Half an eternity! Well! Up with you now, my old heart! After such a sleep, how long will it take you to-wake it off?" (But then he 278 fell asleep again, and his soul spoke against him and resisted and lay down again.) "Leave me alone Stilll Did not the world become perfect just now? Oh, the golden round ball" "Get upl" said Zarathustra, "you little thief, you lazy little thief of time What? Still stretching, yawning, sighing, falling into deep wells? Who are you? 0 my soul!" (At this point he was startled, for a sunbeam fell from the sky onto his face.) "O heaven over mel" he said, sighing, and sat up. "You are looking on? You are listening to my strange soul? When will you drink this drop of dew which has fallen upon all earthly things? When will you drink this strange soul? When, well of eternity? Cheerful, dreadful abyss of noonl When will you drink my soul back into yourself?" Thus spoke Zarathustra, and he got up from his resting place at the tree as from a strange drunkenness; and behold, the sun still stood straight over his head. But from this one might justly conclude that Zarathustra had not slept long. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, AT NOON

382:THE LEECH And thoughtfully Zarathustra went farther and deeper, through woods and past swampy valleys; but as happens to everybody who reflects on grave matters, he stepped on a man unwittingly. And behold, all at once a cry of pain and two curses and twenty bad insults splashed into his face and startled him so that he raised his stick and beat the man on whom he had stepped. A moment later, however, he recovered his senses, and his heart laughed at the folly he had just committed. "Forgive me," he said to the man he had stepped on, who had angrily risen and sat down; "forgive me and, above all, listen to a parable first. As a wanderer who dreams of distant matters will unwittingly stumble over a sleeping dog on a lonely road-a dog lying in the sun-and both start and let fly at each other like mortal enemies, because both are mortally frightened: thus it happened to us. And yet-and yet, how little was lacking, and they might have caressed each other, 249 this dog and this lonely man. For after all they were both lonely." "Whoever you may be," said the man he had stepped on, still angry, "your parable too offends me, and not only your foot. After all, am I a dog?" And at that the seated man got up and pulled his bare arm out of the swamp. For at first he had been lying stretched out on the ground, concealed and unrecognizable, as one lying in wait for some swamp animal. "But what are you doing?" cried Zarathustra, startled, for he saw that much blood was flowing down the bare arm. 'What has happened to you? Did a bad animal bite you, you poor wretch?" The bleeding man laughed, still angry. 'What is that to you?" he said and wanted to go on. "Here I am at home and in my realm. Let whoever wants to, ask me; but I certainly won't answer a bumpkin." "You are wrong," said Zarathustra, full of pity, and he held him back. "You are wrong. This is not your realm but mine, and here nobody shall come to grief. Call me whatever you like; I am who I must be. I call myself Zarathustra. Well! Up there runs the path to Zarathustra's cave, which is not far. Do you not want to look after your wounds in my place? Things have gone badly for you in this life, you poor wretch; first the beast bit you and then man stepped on you." When the man who had been stepped on heard Zarathustra's name he changed completely. "What is happening to me?" he cried out. "Who else matters to me any more in this life but this one man, Zarathustra, and that one beast which lives on blood, the leech? For the leech's sake I lay here beside this swamp like a fisherman, and my arm, which I had cast, had already been bitten ten times when a still more beautiful leech 250 bit, seeking my blood, Zarathustra himself. 0 happiness! o miracle Praised be this day that lured me into this swamp! Praised be the best, the most alive cupper living today, praised be the great leech of the conscience, Zarathustral" Thus spoke the man who had been stepped on; and Zarathustra enjoyed his words and their fine, respectful manner. "Who are you?" he asked and offered him his hand. "There is much between us that remains to be cleared up and cheered up; but even now, it seems to me, the day dawns pure and bright." "I am the conscientious in spirit," replied the man; "and in matters of the spirit there may well be none stricter, narrower, and harder than I, except he from whom I have learned it, Zarathustra himself. "Rather know nothing than half-know much Rather be a fool on one's own than a sage according to the opinion of others I go to the ground-what does it matter whether it be great or small? whether it be called swamp or sky? A hand's breadth of ground suffices me, provided it is really ground and foundation. A hand's breadth of ground-on that one can stand. In the conscience of science there is nothing great and nothing small." "Then perhaps you are the man who knows the leech?" Zarathustra asked. "And do you pursue the leech to its ultimate grounds, my conscientious friend?" "O Zarathustra," replied the man who had been stepped on, "that would be an immensity; how could I presume so much That of which I am the master and expert is the brain of the leech: that is my world. And it really is a world too. Forgive me that here my pride speaks up, for I have no equal here. That is why I said, 'Here is my home.' How long have I been pursuing this one thing, the brain of the leech, lest the slippery truth 251 slip away from me here again Here is my realm. For its sake I have thrown away everything else; for its sake everything else has become indifferent to me; and close to my knowledge lies my black ignorance. "The conscience of my spirit demands of me that I know one thing and nothing else: I loa the all the half in spirit, all the vaporous that hover and rave. "Where my honesty ceases, I am blind and I also want to be blind. But where I want to know, I also want to be honest-that is, hard, strict, narrow, cruel, and inexorable. "That you, 0 Zarathustra, once said, 'Spirit is the life that itself cuts into life,' that introduced and seduced me to your doctrine. And verily, with my own blood I increased my own knowledge." "As is quite apparent," Zarathustra interrupted, for the blood still flowed down the bare arm of the conscientious man, ten leeches having bitten deep into it. "O you strange fellow, how much I learn from what is apparent here, namely from you. And perhaps I had better not pour all of it into your strict ears. Well! Here we part. But I should like to find you again. Up there goes the path to my cave: tonight you shall be my dear guest there. To your body too, I should like to make up for Zarathustra's having stepped on you with his feet: I shall reflect on that. Now, however, a cry of distress urgently calls me away from you." Thus spoke Zarathustra. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, THE LEECH

383:The Old Bark Hut In an old bark hut on a mountainside In a spot that was lone and drear A woman whose heart was aching sat Watching from year to year. A small boy, Jim, her only child, Helped her to watch and wait, But the time never came when they could go free, Free from the bond of hate. For McConnel was out on the mountainside Living without a hope And seeing nothing before him now But death by a hangman’s rope. Hated and chased by his fellow men, To take him alive or dead, An outlaw banned by the world was he With five hundred pounds on his head. A message had come that evening which said “Now, Jim, you mustn’t wait, If you want to save your father, or By heaven, you’ll be too late. “He’s out at Mackinnon’s Crossing, they say, The track is rough, old man, But if any here can do it—why It’s you and old Darky can.” And Jim knew well what the message meant, As he brought his horse to the door! While away through the gathering darkness came The sound of the river’s roar. But the brave little heart never faltered as He stooped to kiss her good-bye And said, “God bless you, Mother dear, I’ll save Dad tonight or I’ll die.” The old horse answered the touch of his hand And galloped away from the door; He seemed to know ‘twas a journey for life— Well, he’d done such journey’s before. Out from the firelight, and through the rails, Out through the ghastly trees, While all the time the warning roar 42 Of the river came back on the breeze; Steadily down the mountainside He rode, for his course was plain, Though his heart was heavy, though not with fear, But because of that brand of Cain. The boy thinks over his mother’s last words: “I’ll love him as long as I live! He must have time for repentance on earth But surely God will forgive.” As he glanced back over his shoulder there She stood by the light of the door Trying to pierce the darkness in vain, Thinking she’d see him no more. Then as he looked she bowed her head And slowly turned away, And the boy knew that the noble wife Had knelt by the bed to pray. Mile after mile, hour after hour, And then just ahead, shining and white, Was the foam of Mackinnon’s Crossing— What a jump for old Darky tonight! And then Jim thinks of the long, lone years And the hopes that are crushed and dead; And a woman whose heart is as true as steel, As rue as the day she was wed. As she loved him then in the years gone by When the future held promise in store, So she loved him today when the future held Naught but death by his country’s law. Jim pressed his knees to the saddle flap And tightened his hold on the rein; They had jumped the river last summertime, How he hoped they would do it again! Then a voice rang out through the darkness there, “Hold, now hold, stand still! We know you, lad, it’s too late to run; Hands up or we’ll shoot to kill!” Then he knew that the police were around him, In the darkness they moved to and fro; For an instant he pulled on the bridle-rein, But he’d promised his mother he’d go. And he thought of the poor, sad woman alone, 43 Kneeling in prayer by the bed; So he loosened the reins on old Darky’s neck And rushed at the river ahead. Then a volley rang out through the forest dark— A fall in the roaring flood; And the darkness hid from all human eyes The form that was stained with blood. The horse struggled hard, the waters rushed on; He sank to rise no more. But the boy fought the flood in silence, inch By inch to the other shore. Slowly and sadly, but bravely on, Brushing away the tears; He was leaving behind in the river’s flood His friend and companion for years. And all the time the blood trickled down, O God! what a hot burning pain! And he knew he was doing is duty clean He would never come back again. Staggering in through the yielding door Into the cold dark room Where his father lay, and the faint firelight Showed through the ghostly gloom. The bushranger sprang to his feet in alarm And levelled the gun at his head And his loud voice demanded, “Who are you? Speak quick, or you are dead.” And then a weak little voice made answer, “It’s me; Mother sends you her love; The police are back at the crossing now, So clear out and meet Mother above.” Then McConnel placed his gun by the wall And knelt on the cold hard floor; And somehow the tears came rushing down As they never had before. His arms went around the brave little lad, He nursed his head on his breast; He seemed to know that the end was nigh And Jim would soon be at rest. And the boy was speaking feebly at last, “They shot me back at the creek, And old Darky is dead and gone, Dad, 44 And oh, I’m so tired and weak.” Then his voice fell away in a whisper soft, So faint it could scarce be heard, “Oh Dad,, clear out, they are coming fast; Tell Mother, I kept my word.” Quickly in silence the police gathered around, They had captured the beast in his lair; The outlaw sat with his boy in his arms, He semed not to heed nor to care. He was thinking now of the seed he had sown, He was tasting its bitter fruit, When the sergeant stepped to the door and said, “McConnel, bail up or I’ll shoot.” Then the sergeant placed a lamp by the door, The rifles gleamed out in the light; But the outlaw said, “Sergeant O’Drady, Let’s have no more shooting tonight. “You can take me now to the judgement seat As God has taken this lad; You’d die to take my life, you men— He died to save his dad. “I want you to help me dig his grave, And perhaps you will say a prayer; Then you can take me and hang me dead— It’s my wife, or I wouldn’t care. “Carefully now. . . Oh thank you, men, Lay him as best you can; The policeman is shown by his coat, of course; But the tears—well, they show the man.” Then the party went back to the old bark hut As the sun was mounting the hill; No smoke arose from the chimney cold And all was silent and still. The sergeant opened the creaky door, And lifted his cap with a start, …Ah, McConnel had broken the country’s laws And broken a woman’s heart. ~ Anonymous Oceania

384:THE MAGICIAN 1 But when Zarathustra came around a rock he beheld, not far below on the same path, a man who threw his limbs around like a maniac and finally flopped down 252 on his belly. "Waitl" Zarathustra said to his heart; "that must indeed be the higher man; from him came that terrible cry of distress; let me see if he can still be helped." But when he ran to the spot where the man lay on the ground he found a trembling old man with vacant eyes; and however Zarathustra exerted himself to help the man to get up on his feet again, it was all in vain. Nor did the unfortunate man seem to notice that anybody was with him; rather he kept looking around with piteous gestures, like one abandoned and forsaken by all the world. At last, however, after many shudders, convulsions, and contortions, he began to moan thus: "Who warms me, who loves me still? Give hot hands Give a heart as glowing coalsl Stretched out, shuddering, Like something half dead whose feet one warmsShaken, alas, by unknown fevers, Shivering with piercing icy frost-arrows, Hunted by thee, 0 thought Unnamable, shrouded, terrible onel Thou hunter behind clouds Struck down by thy lightning bolt, Thou mocking eye that stares at me from the dark: Thus I lie Writhing, twisting, tormented With all eternal tortures, Hit By thee, cruelest hunter, Thou unknown god! Hit deeper Hit once more yetl Drive a stake through and break this heart! 253 Why this torture With blunt-toothed arrows? Why dost thou stare again, Not yet weary of human agony, With gods' lightning eyes that delight in suffering? Thou wouldst not kill, Only torture, torture? Why torture me, Delighted by suffering, thou unknown god? Hahl hah! Thou art crawling close? In such midnightWhat dost thou want? Speakl Thou art crowding, pressing meHah! Far too closely Awayl Awayl Thou art listening to me breathe, Thou art listening to my heart, Thou jealous one Jealous of what? Awayl Awayl Why the ladder? Wouldst thou enter The heart, Climb in, deep into my Most secret thoughts? Shameless onel Unknown thief What wouldst thou steal? What wouldst thou gain by listening? What wouldst thou gain by torture, Thou torturer! Thou hangman-godl Or should I, doglike, Roll before thee? Devotedly, frantic, beside myself, Wag love to thee? 254 In vain! Pierce on, Cruelest thorn! No, No dog-only thy game am I, Cruelest hunter! Thy proudest prisoner, Thou robber behind clouds! Speak at last! What wouldst thou, waylayer, from me? Thou lightning-shrouded onel Unknown one! Speak, What wilt thou, unknown-god? What? Ransom? Why wilt thou ransom? Demand much Thus my pride advises. And make thy speech short! That my other pride advises. Hah, hahl Me thou wilt have? Me? Me-entirely? Hah, hahl And art torturing me, fool that thou art, Torturing my pride? Give love to me-who warms me still? Who loves me still?-Give hot hands, Give a heart as glowing coals, Give me, the loneliest Whom ice, alas, sevenfold ice Teaches to languish for enemies, Even for enemies, Give, yes, give wholly, Cruelest enemy, Give me-thyself! 255 Awayl He himself fled, My last, only companion, My great enemy, My unknown, My hangman-god. Nol Do come back With all thy tortures! To the last of all that are lonely, Oh, come back! All my tear-streams run Their course to thee; And my heart's final flameFlares up for theel Oh, come back, My unknown godl My pain! My last-happiness!" At this point, however, Zarathustra could not restrain himself any longer, raised his stick, and started to beat the moaning man with all his might. "Stop itl" he shouted at him furiously. "Stop it, you actor You counterfeiter! You liar from the bottom! I recognize you well! I'll warm your legs for you, you wicked magician. I know well how to make things hot for such as you." "Leave offl" the old man said and leaped up from the ground. "Don't strike any more, Zarathustral I did all this only as a game. Such things belong to my art; it was you that I wanted to try when I treated you to this tryout. And verily, you have seen through me very well. But you too have given me no small sample of yourself to try out: you are hard, wise Zarathustra. Hard do you hit with your 'truths'; your stick forces this truth out of me." "Don't flatter!" replied Zarathustra, still excited and angry, "you actor from the bottom! You are false; why do you talk of truth? You peacock of peacocks, you sea of vanity, what were you playing before me, you wicked magician? In whom was I to believe when you were moaning in this way?" "The ascetic of the spirit," said the old man, "I played him-you yourself once coined this word-the poet and magician who at last turns his spirit against himself, the changed man who freezes to death from his evil science and conscience. And you may as well confess it: it took a long time, 0 Zarathustra, before you saw through my art and lie. You believed in my distress when you held my head with both your hands; I heard you moan, 'He has been loved too little, loved too little.' That I deceived you to that extent made my malice jubilate inside me." "You may have deceived people subtler than I," Zarathustra said harshly. "I do not guard against deceivers; I have to be without caution; thus my lot wants it. You, however, have to deceive: that far I know you. You always have to be equivocal-tri-, quadri-, quinquevocal. And what you have now confessed, that too was not nearly true enough or false enough to suit me. You wicked counterfeiter, how could you do otherwise? You would rouge even your disease when you show yourself naked to your doctor. In the same way you have just now rouged your lie when you said to me, 'I did all this only as a game.' There was seriousness in it too: you are something of an ascetic of the spirit. I solve your riddle: your magic has enchanted everybody, but no lie or cunning is left to you to use against yourself: you are disenchanted for yourself. You have harvested nausea as your one truth. Not a word of yours is genuine any more, except your 257 mouth-namely, the nausea that sticks to your mouth." "Who are you?" cried the old magician at this point, his voice defiant. "Who may speak thus to me, the greatest man alive today?" And a green lightning bolt flashed from his eye toward Zarathustra. But immediately afterward he changed and said sadly, "O Zarathustra, I am weary of it; my art nauseates me; I am not great-why do I dissemble? But you know it too: I sought greatness. I wanted to represent a great human being and I persuaded many; but this lie went beyond my strength. It is breaking me. 0 Zarathustra, everything about me is a lie; but that I am breaking-this, my breaking, is genuine." "It does you credit," said Zarathustra gloomily, looking aside to the ground, "it does you credit that you sought greatness, but it also betrays you. You are not great. You wicked old magician, this is what is best and most honest about you, and this I honor: that you wearied of yourself and said it outright: 'I am not great.' In this I honor you as an ascetic of the spirit; and even if it was only a wink and a twinkling, in this one moment you were genuine. "But speak, what are you seeking here in my woods and rocks? And lying down on my path, how did you want to try me? In what way were you seeking to test me?' Thus spoke Zarathustra, and his eyes flashed. The old magician remained silent for a while, then said, "Did I seek to test you? I-merely seek. 0 Zarathustra, I seek one who is genuine, right, simple, unequivocal, a man of all honesty, a vessel of wisdom, a saint of knowledge, a great human being. Do you not know it, Zarathustra? I seek Zarathustra." And at this point there began a long silence between the two. But Zarathustra became deeply absorbed and 258 closed his eyes. Then, however, returning to his partner in the conversation, he seized the hand of the magician and said, full of kindness and cunning, "Well! Up there goes the path; there lies Zarathustra's cave. There you may seek him whom you would find. And ask my animals for advice, my eagle and my serpent: they shall help you seek. But my cave is large. I myself, to be sure-I have not yet seen a great human being. For what is great, even the eyes of the subtlest today are too coarse. It is the realm of the mob. Many have I seen, swollen and straining, and the people cried, 'Behold a great manly' But what good are all bellows? In the end, the wind comes out. In the end, a frog which has puffed itself up too long will burst: the wind comes out. To stab a swollen man in the belly, I call that a fine pastime. Hear it well, little boys "Today belongs to the mob: who could still know what is great and what small? Who could still successfully seek greatness? Only a fool: fools succeed. You seek great human beings, you queer fool? Who taught you that? Is today the time for that? 0 you wicked seeker, why did you seek to test me?" Thus spoke Zarathustra, his heart comforted, and he continued on his way, laughing. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, THE MAGICIAN

385:A SATYRIC DRAMA TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF EURIPIDES. SILENUS. ULYSSES. CHORUS OF SATYRS. THE CYCLOPS. SILENUS: O Bacchus, what a world of toil, both now And ere these limbs were overworn with age, Have I endured for thee! First, when thou fledst The mountain-nymphs who nursed thee, driven afar By the strange madness Juno sent upon thee; Then in the battle of the Sons of Earth, When I stood foot by foot close to thy side, No unpropitious fellow-combatant, And, driving through his shield my winged spear, Slew vast Enceladus. Consider now, Is it a dream of which I speak to thee? By Jove it is not, for you have the trophies! And now I suffer more than all before. For when I heard that Juno had devised A tedious voyage for you, I put to sea With all my children quaint in search of you, And I myself stood on the beaked prow And fixed the naked mast; and all my boys Leaning upon their oars, with splash and strain Made white with foam the green and purple sea,-- And so we sought you, king. We were sailing Near Malea, when an eastern wind arose, And drove us to this waste Aetnean rock; The one-eyed children of the Ocean God, The man-destroying Cyclopses, inhabit, On this wild shore, their solitary caves, And one of these, named Polypheme. has caught us To be his slaves; and so, for all delight Of Bacchic sports, sweet dance and melody, We keep this lawless giants wandering flocks. My sons indeed on far declivities, Young things themselves, tend on the youngling sheep, But I remain to fill the water-casks, Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering Some impious and abominable meal To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it! And now I must scrape up the littered floor With this great iron rake, so to receive My absent master and his evening sheep In a cave neat and clean. Even now I see My children tending the flocks hitherward. Ha! what is this? are your Sicinnian measures Even now the same, as when with dance and song You brought young Bacchus to Althaeas halls? CHORUS OF SATYRS: STROPHE: Where has he of race divine Wandered in the winding rocks? Here the air is calm and fine For the father of the flocks;-- Here the grass is soft and sweet, And the river-eddies meet In the trough beside the cave, Bright as in their fountain wave.-- Neither here, nor on the dew Of the lawny uplands feeding? Oh, you come!a stone at you Will I throw to mend your breeding;-- Get along, you horned thing, Wild, seditious, rambling! EPODE: An Iacchic melody To the golden Aphrodite Will I lift, as erst did I Seeking her and her delight With the Maenads, whose white feet To the music glance and fleet. Bacchus, O beloved, where, Shaking wide thy yellow hair, Wanderest thou alone, afar? To the one-eyed Cyclops, we, Who by right thy servants are, Minister in misery, In these wretched goat-skins clad, Far from thy delights and thee. SILENUS: Be silent, sons; command the slaves to drive The gathered flocks into the rock-roofed cave. CHORUS: Go! But what needs this serious haste, O father? SILENUS: I see a Grecian vessel on the coast, And thence the rowers with some general Approaching to this cave.About their necks Hang empty vessels, as they wanted food, And water-flasks.Oh, miserable strangers! Whence come they, that they know not what and who My master is, approaching in ill hour The inhospitable roof of Polypheme, And the Cyclopian jaw-bone, man-destroying? Be silent, Satyrs, while I ask and hear 85 Whence coming, they arrive the Aetnean hill. ULYSSES: Friends, can you show me some clear water-spring, The remedy of our thirst? Will any one Furnish with food seamen in want of it? Ha! what is this? We seem to be arrived At the blithe court of Bacchus. I observe This sportive band of Satyrs near the caves. First let me greet the elder.--Hail! SILENUS: Hail thou, O Stranger! tell thy country and thy race. ULYSSES: The Ithacan Ulysses and the king Of Cephalonia. SILENUS: Oh! I know the man, Wordy and shrewd, the son of Sisyphus. ULYSSES: I am the same, but do not rail upon me.-- SILENUS: Whence sailing do you come to Sicily? ULYSSES: From Ilion, and from the Trojan toils. SILENUS: How, touched you not at your paternal shore? ULYSSES: The strength of tempests bore me here by force. SILENUS: The self-same accident occurred to me. ULYSSES: Were you then driven here by stress of weather? SILENUS: Following the Pirates who had kidnapped Bacchus. ULYSSES: What land is this, and who inhabit it?-- SILENUS: Aetna, the loftiest peak in Sicily. ULYSSES: And are there walls, and tower-surrounded towns? SILENUS: There are not.--These lone rocks are bare of men. ULYSSES: And who possess the land? the race of beasts? SILENUS: Cyclops, who live in caverns, not in houses. ULYSSES: Obeying whom? Or is the state popular? SILENUS: Shepherds: no one obeys any in aught. ULYSSES: How live they? do they sow the corn of Ceres? SILENUS: On milk and cheese, and on the flesh of sheep. ULYSSES: Have they the Bromian drink from the vines stream? SILENUS: Ah! no; they live in an ungracious land. ULYSSES: And are they just to strangers?hospitable? SILENUS: They think the sweetest thing a stranger brings Is his own flesh. ULYSSES: What! do they eat mans flesh? SILENUS: No one comes here who is not eaten up. ULYSSES: The Cyclops now--where is he? Not at home? SILENUS: Absent on Aetna, hunting with his dogs. ULYSSES: Knowst thou what thou must do to aid us hence? SILENUS: I know not: we will help you all we can. ULYSSES: Provide us food, of which we are in want. SILENUS: Here is not anything, as I said, but meat. ULYSSES: But meat is a sweet remedy for hunger. SILENUS: Cows milk there is, and store of curdled cheese. ULYSSES: Bring out:--I would see all before I bargain. SILENUS: But how much gold will you engage to give? ULYSSES: I bring no gold, but Bacchic juice. SILENUS: Oh, joy! Tis long since these dry lips were wet with wine. ULYSSES: Maron, the son of the God, gave it me. SILENUS: Whom I have nursed a baby in my arms. ULYSSES: The son of Bacchus, for your clearer knowledge. SILENUS: Have you it now?or is it in the ship? ULYSSES: Old man, this skin contains it, which you see. SILENUS: Why, this would hardly be a mouthful for me. ULYSSES: Nay, twice as much as you can draw from thence. SILENUS: You speak of a fair fountain, sweet to me. ULYSSES: Would you first taste of the unmingled wine? SILENUS: Tis justtasting invites the purchaser. ULYSSES: Here is the cup, together with the skin. SILENUS: Pour: that the draught may fillip my remembrance. ULYSSES: See! SILENUS: Papaiapax! what a sweet smell it has! ULYSSES: You see it then?-- SILENUS: By Jove, no! but I smell it. ULYSSES: Taste, that you may not praise it in words only. SILENUS: Babai! Great Bacchus calls me forth to dance! Joy! joy! ULYSSES: Did it flow sweetly down your throat? SILENUS: So that it tingled to my very nails. ULYSSES: And in addition I will give you gold. SILENUS: Let gold alone! only unlock the cask. ULYSSES: Bring out some cheeses now, or a young goat. SILENUS: That will I do, despising any master. Yes, let me drink one cup, and I will give All that the Cyclops feed upon their mountains. ... CHORUS: Ye have taken Troy and laid your hands on Helen? ULYSSES: And utterly destroyed the race of Priam. ... SILENUS: The wanton wretch! she was bewitched to see The many-coloured anklets and the chain Of woven gold which girt the neck of Paris, And so she left that good man Menelaus. There should be no more women in the world But such as are reserved for me alone.-- See, here are sheep, and here are goats, Ulysses, Here are unsparing cheeses of pressed milk; Take them; depart with what good speed ye may; First leaving my reward, the Bacchic dew Of joy-inspiring grapes. ULYSSES: Ah me! Alas! What shall we do? the Cyclops is at hand! Old man, we perish! whither can we fly? SILENUS: Hide yourselves quick within that hollow rock. ULYSSES: Twere perilous to fly into the net. SILENUS: The cavern has recesses numberless; Hide yourselves quick. ULYSSES: That will I never do! The mighty Troy would be indeed disgraced If I should fly one man. How many times Have I withstood, with shield immovable. Ten thousand Phrygians!if I needs must die, Yet will I die with glory;--if I live, The praise which I have gained will yet remain. SILENUS: What, ho! assistance, comrades, haste, assistance! [THE CYCLOPS, SILENUS, ULYSSES; CHORUS.] CYCLOPS: What is this tumult? Bacchus is not here, Nor tympanies nor brazen castanets. How are my young lambs in the cavern? Milking Their dams or playing by their sides? And is The new cheese pressed into the bulrush baskets? Speak! Ill beat some of you till you rain tears-- Look up, not downwards when I speak to you. SILENUS: See! I now gape at Jupiter himself; I stare upon Orion and the stars. CYCLOPS: Well, is the dinner fitly cooked and laid? SILENUS: All ready, if your throat is ready too. CYCLOPS: Are the bowls full of milk besides? SILENUS: Oer-brimming; So you may drink a tunful if you will. CYCLOPS: Is it ewes milk or cows milk, or both mixed?-- SILENUS: Both, either; only pray dont swallow me. CYCLOPS: By no means.-- ... What is this crowd I see beside the stalls? Outlaws or thieves? for near my cavern-home I see my young lambs coupled two by two With willow bands; mixed with my cheeses lie Their implements; and this old fellow here Has his bald head broken with stripes. SILENUS: Ah me! I have been beaten till I burn with fever. CYCLOPS: By whom? Who laid his fist upon your head? SILENUS: Those men, because I would not suffer them To steal your goods. CYCLOPS: Did not the rascals know I am a God, sprung from the race of Heaven? SILENUS: I told them so, but they bore off your things, And ate the cheese in spite of all I said, And carried out the lambsand said, moreover, Theyd pin you down with a three-cubit collar, And pull your vitals out through your one eye, Furrow your back with stripes, then, binding you, Throw you as ballast into the ships hold, And then deliver you, a slave, to move Enormous rocks, or found a vestibule. CYCLOPS: In truth? Nay, haste, and place in order quickly The cooking-knives, and heap upon the hearth, And kindle it, a great **** of wood.-- As soon as they are slaughtered, they shall fill My belly, broiling warm from the live coals, Or boiled and seethed within the bubbling caldron. I am quite sick of the wild mountain game; Of stags and lions I have gorged enough, And I grow hungry for the flesh of men. SILENUS: Nay, master, something new is very pleasant After one thing forever, and of late Very few strangers have approached our cave. ULYSSES: Hear, Cyclops, a plain tale on the other side. We, wanting to buy food, came from our ship Into the neighbourhood of your cave, and here This old Silenus gave us in exchange These lambs for wine, the which he took and drank, And all by mutual compact, without force. There is no word of truth in what he says, For slyly he was selling all your store. SILENUS: I? May you perish, wretch-- ULYSSES: If I speak false! SILENUS: Cyclops, I swear by Neptune who begot thee, By mighty Triton and by Nereus old, Calypso and the glaucous Ocean Nymphs, The sacred waves and all the race of fishes-- Be these the witnesses, my dear sweet master, My darling little Cyclops, that I never Gave any of your stores to these false strangers;-- If I speak false may those whom most I love, My children, perish wretchedly! CHORUS: There stop! I saw him giving these things to the strangers. If I speak false, then may my father perish, But do not thou wrong hospitality. CYCLOPS: You lie! I swear that he is juster far Than Rhadamanthus--I trust more in him. But let me ask, whence have ye sailed, O strangers? Who are you? And what city nourished ye? ULYSSES: Our race is Ithacan--having destroyed The town of Troy, the tempests of the sea Have driven us on thy land, O Polypheme. CYCLOPS: What, have ye shared in the unenvied spoil Of the false Helen, near Scamanders stream? ULYSSES: The same, having endured a woful toil. CYCLOPS: Oh, basest expedition! sailed ye not From Greece to Phrygia for one womans sake? ULYSSES: Twas the Gods workno mortal was in fault. But, O great Offspring of the Ocean-King, We pray thee and admonish thee with freedom, That thou dost spare thy friends who visit thee, And place no impious food within thy jaws. For in the depths of Greece we have upreared Temples to thy great Father, which are all His homes. The sacred bay of Taenarus Remains inviolate, and each dim recess Scooped high on the Malean promontory, And aery Suniums silver-veined crag, Which divine Pallas keeps unprofaned ever, The Gerastian asylums, and whateer Within wide Greece our enterprise has kept From Phrygian contumely; and in which You have a common care, for you inhabit The skirts of Grecian land, under the roots Of Aetna and its crags, spotted with fire. Turn then to converse under human laws, Receive us shipwrecked suppliants, and provide Food, clothes, and fire, and hospitable gifts; Nor fixing upon oxen-piercing spits Our limbs, so fill your belly and your jaws. Priams wide land has widowed Greece enough; And weapon-winged murder leaped together Enough of dead, and wives are husbandless, And ancient women and gray fathers wail Their childless age;if you should roast the rest-- And tis a bitter feast that you prepare-- Where then would any turn? Yet be persuaded; Forgo the lust of your jaw-bone; prefer Pious humanity to wicked will: Many have bought too dear their evil joys. SILENUS: Let me advise you, do not spare a morsel Of all his flesh. If you should eat his tongue You would become most eloquent, O Cyclops. CYCLOPS: Wealth, my good fellow, is the wise mans God, All other things are a pretence and boast. What are my fathers ocean promontories, The sacred rocks whereon he dwells, to me? Stranger, I laugh to scorn Joves thunderbolt, I know not that his strength is more than mine. As to the rest I care not.When he pours Rain from above, I have a close pavilion Under this rock, in which I lie supine, Feasting on a roast calf or some wild beast, And drinking pans of milk, and gloriously Emulating the thunder of high Heaven. And when the Thracian wind pours down the snow, I wrap my body in the skins of beasts, Kindle a fire, and bid the snow whirl on. The earth, by force, whether it will or no, Bringing forth grass, fattens my flocks and herds, Which, to what other God but to myself And this great belly, first of deities, Should I be bound to sacrifice? I well know The wise mans only Jupiter is this, To eat and drink during his little day, And give himself no care. And as for those Who complicate with laws the life of man, I freely give them tears for their reward. I will not cheat my soul of its delight, Or hesitate in dining upon you:-- And that I may be quit of all demands, These are my hospitable gifts;fierce fire And yon ancestral caldron, which oer-bubbling Shall finely cook your miserable flesh. Creep in!-- ... ULYSSES: Ai! ai! I have escaped the Trojan toils, I have escaped the sea, and now I fall Under the cruel grasp of one impious man. O Pallas, Mistress, Goddess, sprung from Jove, Now, now, assist me! Mightier toils than Troy Are these;I totter on the chasms of peril;-- And thou who inhabitest the thrones Of the bright stars, look, hospitable Jove, Upon this outrage of thy deity, Otherwise be considered as no God! CHORUS (ALONE): For your gaping gulf and your gullet wide, The ravin is ready on every side, The limbs of the strangers are cooked and done; There is boiled meat, and roast meat, and meat from the coal, You may chop it, and tear it, and gnash it for fun, An hairy goats-skin contains the whole. Let me but escape, and ferry me oer The stream of your wrath to a safer shore. The Cyclops Aetnean is cruel and bold, He murders the strangers That sit on his hearth, And dreads no avengers To rise from the earth. He roasts the men before they are cold, He snatches them broiling from the coal, And from the caldron pulls them whole, And minces their flesh and gnaws their bone With his cursed teeth, till all be gone. Farewell, foul pavilion: Farewell, rites of dread! The Cyclops vermilion, With slaughter uncloying, Now feasts on the dead, In the flesh of strangers joying! ULYSSES: O Jupiter! I saw within the cave Horrible things; deeds to be feigned in words, But not to be believed as being done. CHORUS: What! sawest thou the impious Polypheme Feasting upon your loved companions now? ULYSSES: Selecting two, the plumpest of the crowd, He grasped them in his hands.-- CHORUS: Unhappy man! ... ULYSSES: Soon as we came into this craggy place, Kindling a fire, he cast on the broad hearth The knotty limbs of an enormous oak, Three waggon-loads at least, and then he strewed Upon the ground, beside the red firelight, His couch of pine-leaves; and he milked the cows, And pouring forth the white milk, filled a bowl Three cubits wide and four in depth, as much As would contain ten amphorae, and bound it With ivy wreaths; then placed upon the fire A brazen pot to boil, and made red hot The points of spits, not sharpened with the sickle But with a fruit tree bough, and with the jaws Of axes for Aetnean slaughterings. And when this God-abandoned Cook of Hell Had made all ready, he seized two of us And killed them in a kind of measured manner; For he flung one against the brazen rivets Of the huge caldron, and seized the other By the foots tendon, and knocked out his brains Upon the sharp edge of the craggy stone: Then peeled his flesh with a great cooking-knife And put him down to roast. The others limbs He chopped into the caldron to be boiled. And I, with the tears raining from my eyes, Stood near the Cyclops, ministering to him; The rest, in the recesses of the cave, Clung to the rock like bats, bloodless with fear. When he was filled with my companions flesh, He threw himself upon the ground and sent A loathsome exhalation from his maw. Then a divine thought came to me. I filled The cup of Maron, and I offered him To taste, and said:Child of the Ocean God, Behold what drink the vines of Greece produce, The exultation and the joy of Bacchus. He, satiated with his unnatural food, Received it, and at one draught drank it off, And taking my hand, praised me:Thou hast given A sweet draught after a sweet meal, dear guest. And I, perceiving that it pleased him, filled Another cup, well knowing that the wine Would wound him soon and take a sure revenge. And the charm fascinated him, and I Plied him cup after cup, until the drink Had warmed his entrails, and he sang aloud In concert with my wailing fellow-seamen A hideous discordand the cavern rung. I have stolen out, so that if you will You may achieve my safety and your own. But say, do you desire, or not, to fly This uncompanionable man, and dwell As was your wont among the Grecian Nymphs Within the fanes of your beloved God? Your father there within agrees to it, But he is weak and overcome with wine, And caught as if with bird-lime by the cup, He claps his wings and crows in doting joy. You who are young escape with me, and find Bacchus your ancient friend; unsuited he To this rude Cyclops. CHORUS: Oh my dearest friend, That I could see that day, and leave for ever The impious Cyclops. ... ULYSSES: Listen then what a punishment I have For this fell monster, how secure a flight From your hard servitude. CHORUS: O sweeter far Than is the music of an Asian lyre Would be the news of Polypheme destroyed. ULYSSES: Delighted with the Bacchic drink he goes To call his brother Cyclops--who inhabit A village upon Aetna not far off. CHORUS: I understand, catching him when alone You think by some measure to dispatch him, Or thrust him from the precipice. ULYSSES: Oh no; Nothing of that kind; my device is subtle. CHORUS: How then? I heard of old that thou wert wise. ULYSSES: I will dissuade him from this plan, by saying It were unwise to give the Cyclopses This precious drink, which if enjoyed alone Would make life sweeter for a longer time. When, vanquished by the Bacchic power, he sleeps, There is a trunk of olive wood within, Whose point having made sharp with this good sword I will conceal in fire, and when I see It is alight, will fix it, burning yet, Within the socket of the Cyclops eye And melt it out with fireas when a man Turns by its handle a great auger round, Fitting the framework of a ship with beams, So will I, in the Cyclops fiery eye Turn round the brand and dry the pupil up. CHORUS: Joy! I am mad with joy at your device. ULYSSES: And then with you, my friends, and the old man, Well load the hollow depth of our black ship, And row with double strokes from this dread shore. CHORUS: May I, as in libations to a God, Share in the blinding him with the red brand? I would have some communion in his death. ULYSSES: Doubtless: the brand is a great brand to hold. CHORUS: Oh! I would lift an hundred waggon-loads, If like a wasps nest I could scoop the eye out Of the detested Cyclops. ULYSSES: Silence now! Ye know the close deviceand when I call, Look ye obey the masters of the craft. I will not save myself and leave behind My comrades in the cave: I might escape, Having got clear from that obscure recess, But twere unjust to leave in jeopardy The dear companions who sailed here with me. CHORUS: Come! who is first, that with his hand Will urge down the burning brand Through the lids, and quench and pierce The Cyclops eye so fiery fierce? SEMICHORUS 1 [SONG WITHIN]: Listen! listen! he is coming, A most hideous discord humming. Drunken, museless, awkward, yelling, Far along his rocky dwelling; Let us with some comic spell Teach the yet unteachable. By all means he must be blinded, If my counsel be but minded. SEMICHORUS 2: Happy thou made odorous With the dew which sweet grapes weep, To the village hastening thus, Seek the vines that soothe to sleep; Having first embraced thy friend, Thou in luxury without end, With the strings of yellow hair, Of thy voluptuous leman fair, Shalt sit playing on a bed!-- Speak! what door is opened? CYCLOPS: Ha! ha! ha! Im full of wine, Heavy with the joy divine, With the young feast oversated; Like a merchants vessel freighted To the waters edge, my crop Is laden to the gullets top. The fresh meadow grass of spring Tempts me forth thus wandering To my brothers on the mountains, Who shall share the wines sweet fountains. Bring the cask, O stranger, bring! CHORUS: One with eyes the fairest Cometh from his dwelling; Some one loves thee, rarest Bright beyond my telling. In thy grace thou shinest Like some nymph divinest In her caverns dewy:-- All delights pursue thee, Soon pied flowers, sweet-breathing, Shall thy head be wreathing. ULYSSES: Listen, O Cyclops, for I am well skilled In Bacchus, whom I gave thee of to drink. CYCLOPS: What sort of God is Bacchus then accounted? ULYSSES: The greatest among men for joy of life. CYCLOPS: I gulped him down with very great delight. ULYSSES: This is a God who never injures men. CYCLOPS: How does the God like living in a skin? ULYSSES: He is content wherever he is put. CYCLOPS: Gods should not have their body in a skin. ULYSSES: If he gives joy, what is his skin to you? CYCLOPS: I hate the skin, but love the wine within. ULYSSES: Stay here now: drink, and make your spirit glad. CYCLOPS: Should I not share this liquor with my brothers? ULYSSES: Keep it yourself, and be more honoured so. CYCLOPS: I were more useful, giving to my friends. ULYSSES: But village mirth breeds contests, broils, and blows. CYCLOPS: When I am drunk none shall lay hands on me.-- ULYSSES: A drunken man is better within doors. CYCLOPS: He is a fool, who drinking, loves not mirth. ULYSSES: But he is wise, who drunk, remains at home. CYCLOPS: What shall I do, Silenus? Shall I stay? SILENUS: Stayfor what need have you of pot companions? CYCLOPS: Indeed this place is closely carpeted With flowers and grass. SILENUS: And in the sun-warm noon Tis sweet to drink. Lie down beside me now, Placing your mighty sides upon the ground. CYCLOPS: What do you put the cup behind me for? SILENUS: That no one here may touch it. CYCLOPS: Thievish One! You want to drink;--here place it in the midst. And thou, O stranger, tell how art thou called? ULYSSES: My name is Nobody. What favour now Shall I receive to praise you at your hands? CYCLOPS: Ill feast on you the last of your companions. ULYSSES: You grant your guest a fair reward, O Cyclops. CYCLOPS: Ha! what is this? Stealing the wine, you rogue! SILENUS: It was this stranger kissing me because I looked so beautiful. CYCLOPS: You shall repent For kissing the coy wine that loves you not. SILENUS: By Jupiter! you said that I am fair. CYCLOPS: Pour out, and only give me the cup full. SILENUS: How is it mixed? let me observe. CYCLOPS: Curse you! Give it me so. SILENUS: Not till I see you wear That coronal, and taste the cup to you. CYCLOPS: Thou wily traitor! SILENUS: But the wine is sweet. Ay, you will roar if you are caught in drinking. CYCLOPS: See now, my lip is clean and all my beard. SILENUS: Now put your elbow right and drink again. As you see me drink--... CYCLOPS: How now? SILENUS: Ye Gods, what a delicious gulp! CYCLOPS: Guest, take it;--you pour out the wine for me. ULYSSES: The wine is well accustomed to my hand. CYCLOPS: Pour out the wine! ULYSSES: I pour; only be silent. CYCLOPS: Silence is a hard task to him who drinks. ULYSSES: Take it and drink it off; leave not a dreg. Oh that the drinker died with his own draught! CYCLOPS: Papai! the vine must be a sapient plant. ULYSSES: If you drink much after a mighty feast, Moistening your thirsty maw, you will sleep well; If you leave aught, Bacchus will dry you up. CYCLOPS: Ho! ho! I can scarce rise. What pure delight! The heavens and earth appear to whirl about Confusedly. I see the throne of Jove And the clear congregation of the Gods. Now if the Graces tempted me to kiss I would notfor the loveliest of them all I would not leave this Ganymede. SILENUS: Polypheme, I am the Ganymede of Jupiter. CYCLOPS: By Jove, you are; I bore you off from Dardanus. ... [ULYSSES AND THE CHORUS.] ULYSSES: Come, boys of Bacchus, children of high race, This man within is folded up in sleep, And soon will vomit flesh from his fell maw; The brand under the shed thrusts out its smoke, No preparation needs, but to burn out The monsters eye;but bear yourselves like men. CHORUS: We will have courage like the adamant rock, All things are ready for you here; go in, Before our father shall perceive the noise. ULYSSES: Vulcan, Aetnean king! burn out with fire The shining eye of this thy neighbouring monster! And thou, O Sleep, nursling of gloomy Night, Descend unmixed on this God-hated beast, And suffer not Ulysses and his comrades, Returning from their famous Trojan toils, To perish by this man, who cares not either For God or mortal; or I needs must think That Chance is a supreme divinity, And things divine are subject to her power. CHORUS: Soon a crab the throat will seize Of him who feeds upon his guest, Fire will burn his lamp-like eyes In revenge of such a feast! A great oak stump now is lying In the ashes yet undying. Come, Maron, come! Raging let him fix the doom, Let him tear the eyelid up Of the Cyclopsthat his cup May be evil! Oh! I long to dance and revel With sweet Bromian, long desired, In loved ivy wreaths attired; Leaving this abandoned home-- Will the moment ever come? ULYSSES: Be silent, ye wild things! Nay, hold your peace, And keep your lips quite close; dare not to breathe, Or spit, or een wink, lest ye wake the monster, Until his eye be tortured out with fire. CHORUS: Nay, we are silent, and we chaw the air. ULYSSES: Come now, and lend a hand to the great stake Withinit is delightfully red hot. CHORUS: You then command who first should seize the stake To burn the Cyclops eye, that all may share In the great enterprise. SEMICHORUS 1: We are too far; We cannot at this distance from the door Thrust fire into his eye. SEMICHORUS 2: And we just now Have become lame! cannot move hand or foot. CHORUS: The same thing has occurred to us,--our ankles Are sprained with standing here, I know not how. ULYSSES: What, sprained with standing still? CHORUS: And there is dust Or ashes in our eyes, I know not whence. ULYSSES: Cowardly dogs! ye will not aid me then? CHORUS: With pitying my own back and my back-bone, And with not wishing all my teeth knocked out, This cowardice comes of itselfbut stay, I know a famous Orphic incantation To make the brand stick of its own accord Into the skull of this one-eyed son of Earth. ULYSSES: Of old I knew ye thus by nature; now I know ye better.I will use the aid Of my own comrades. Yet though weak of hand Speak cheerfully, that so ye may awaken The courage of my friends with your blithe words. CHORUS: This I will do with peril of my life, And blind you with my exhortations, Cyclops. Hasten and thrust, And parch up to dust, The eye of the beast Who feeds on his guest. Burn and blind The Aetnean hind! Scoop and draw, But beware lest he claw Your limbs near his maw. CYCLOPS: Ah me! my eyesight is parched up to cinders. CHORUS: What a sweet paean! sing me that again! CYCLOPS: Ah me! indeed, what woe has fallen upon me! But, wretched nothings, think ye not to flee Out of this rock; I, standing at the outlet, Will bar the way and catch you as you pass. CHORUS: What are you roaring out, Cyclops? CYCLOPS: I perish! CHORUS: For you are wicked. CYCLOPS: And besides miserable. CHORUS: What, did you fall into the fire when drunk? CYCLOPS: Twas Nobody destroyed me. CHORUS: Why then no one Can be to blame. CYCLOPS: I say twas Nobody Who blinded me. CHORUS: Why then you are not blind. CYCLOPS: I wish you were as blind as I am. CHORUS: Nay, It cannot be that no one made you blind. CYCLOPS: You jeer me; where, I ask, is Nobody? CHORUS: Nowhere, O Cyclops. CYCLOPS: It was that stranger ruined me:--the wretch First gave me wine and then burned out my eye, For wine is strong and hard to struggle with. Have they escaped, or are they yet within? CHORUS: They stand under the darkness of the rock And cling to it. CYCLOPS: At my right hand or left? CHORUS: Close on your right. CYCLOPS: Where? CHORUS: Near the rock itself. You have them. CYCLOPS: Oh, misfortune on misfortune! Ive cracked my skull. CHORUS: Now they escape you--there. CYCLOPS: Not there, although you say so. CHORUS: Not on that side. CYCLOPS: Where then? CHORUS: They creep about you on your left. CYCLOPS: Ah! I am mocked! They jeer me in my ills. CHORUS: Not there! he is a little there beyond you. CYCLOPS: Detested wretch! where are you? ULYSSES: Far from you I keep with care this body of Ulysses. CYCLOPS: What do you say? You proffer a new name. ULYSSES: My father named me so; and I have taken A full revenge for your unnatural feast; I should have done ill to have burned down Troy And not revenged the murder of my comrades. CYCLOPS: Ai! ai! the ancient oracle is accomplished; It said that I should have my eyesight blinded By your coming from Troy, yet it foretold That you should pay the penalty for this By wandering long over the homeless sea. ULYSSES: I bid thee weepconsider what I say; I go towards the shore to drive my ship To mine own land, oer the Sicilian wave. CYCLOPS: Not so, if, whelming you with this huge stone, I can crush you and all your men together; I will descend upon the shore, though blind, Groping my way adown the steep ravine. CHORUS: And we, the shipmates of Ulysses now, Will serve our Bacchus all our happy lives. Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824; dated 1819. Amongst the Shelley manuscripts at the Bodleian there is a copy, 'practically complete,' which has been collated by Mr. C.D. Locock. See Examination, etc., 1903, pages 64-70. 'Though legible throughout, and comparatively free from corrections, it has the appearance of being a first draft' (Locock). ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cyclops

--- IN CHAPTERS (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

0

   5 Poetry
   4 Integral Yoga
   2 Philosophy
   2 Integral Theory
   2 Fiction


   2 The Mother
   2 Nolini Kanta Gupta
   2 H P Lovecraft


   2 The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna
   2 Talks