NEW FULL DB (2.4M)
2 Suzanne Collins
2 Sabaa Tahir
2 Rick Riordan
*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***
1:I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, ~ W S Gilbert,
2:The just man is himself his own law. ~ Inscription on the Catacombs,
3:he looked like Gandalf Lebowski, ready for entombment in the catacombs of a bowling alley. ~ S A Hunt,
4:I see nothing but a world of ruins, where a kind of front line is possible only in the catacombs. ~ Julius Evola,
5:Our concern is not how to worship in the catacombs but how to remain human in the skyscrapers. ~ Abraham Joshua Heschel,
6:Yet one priest remaining in this country has the same significance as a single candle burning in the catacombs. ~ Sh saku End,
7:Green Chamber. That oldest area of the catacombs housed the bodies of the first rulers and heroes of Lythnia. ~ Daniel Arenson,
8:Even in name, he seems like a Victorian oddity. "Igor, fetch 'the Crouch' from the catacombs, we're going to the graveyard". ~ Russell Brand,
9: The Butterfly In Honored Dust
The Butterfly in honored Dust
Assuredly will lie
But none will pass the Catacomb
So chastened as the Fly ~ Emily Dickinson,
10:There will be so much more in between. So much uncertainty. I don't know if we'll survive the catacombs, let alone the rest of it. But it doesn't matter. For now, these steps are enough. These first few precious steps into darkness. Into the unknown. Into freedom. ~ Sabaa Tahir,
11:What do you see in me that’s so fucking fascinating?” I trembled, just holding his eyes. What did I see in him? The answer was so easy, I didn’t even have to think about it. It was the same thing he saw in me all those years ago down in the catacombs. The hunger. ~ Penelope Douglas,
12:A sliver of a man stood on a corner beside a charcoal garage door, a plume of smoke twisting from his hand. He looked more like a shadow than a person, the offspring of Marlene Dietrich and Checkpoint Charlie, born with a genetic predisposition to survive in the catacombs. ~ Orest Stelmach,
13:You do realize this means you're leaving Birch and Scoff in charge of the Catacombs.... And you aren't worried that half of the caverns will be blown apart while we're gone? Or that we'll return to find the children have purple skin and hair that looks and smells like berries? - Charlotte ~ Andrea Cremer,
14:The arenas are historic sites, preserved after the Games. Popular destinations for Capitol residents to visit, to vacation. Go for a month, rewatch the Games, tour the catacombs, visit the sites where the deaths took place. You can even take part in reenactments. They say the food is excellent ~ Suzanne Collins,
15:The arenas are historic sites, preserved after the Games. Popular destinations for Capitol residents to visit, to vacation. Go for a month, rewatch the Games, tour the catacombs, visit the sites where the deaths took place. You can even take part in reenactments.
They say the food is excellent ~ Suzanne Collins,
16:Music endures and ages far better than books. Books, made of words, are unavoidably attached to ideas, events, conflict, and history, but music has the power to transcend time. At least for a time. Palestrina sounds as fresh today as he did in 1555, but Dante, only three centuries older, already smells of the archaic, the medieval, the catacombs. ~ Edward Abbey,
17:He could hear trhe voices, the whispers, the sighs, of these souls who were unable to let go of their burdens. ... Pi understood this need to hold on. To let let go of his pain. It had become such a part of him. Who would he be without it? The thought frightened him. So he wandered the halls of the catacombs like the other souls who were half-dead and half-alive. ~ Clare Vanderpool,
18:Elliot Rawley was a drinker, Cy’s mother had been right. And he was a poor drinker. One that let the demons of the bottle into his head when he tipped it back, demons that went about unloosing all the trouble they could find stashed in the catacombs of his mind. Every tragic thing that had ever happened, every self-doubt, every delusion, freed itself from bondage and revisited him when he drank. ~ Sarah Hall,
19:We asked an old monk sitting beside us to explain. “Here, we contemplate the impermanence of the body and its attachments. This helps us to overcome the temptations of the flesh and seek refuge in the Kingdom of God.” We listened carefully. Deeper in the catacombs, a group of skeletons wearing monk robes pointed to a sign that read: “As you are now, we used to be. As we are now, you will be. ~ Radhanath Swami,
20:Under the sanctuary are the catacombs where the dead wait for resurrection. The living do not venture there. The caverns here underneath the Sanctuary are illuminated only by dim shafts of light from the sanctuary. The walls are etched with flowers of frost, but at least I am out of the wind. Dark bays line the hall in front of me, a vast rabbit warren, each hold filled to the brim with the scent of the past. ~ Ned Hayes,
21:Now I ride with the mocking and friendly ghouls on the night-wind, and play by day amongst the catacombs of Nephren-Ka in the sealed and unknown valley of Hadoth by the Nile. I know that light is not for me, save that of the moon over the rock tombs of Neb, nor any gaiety save the unnamed feasts of Nitokris beneath the Great Pyramid; yet in my new wildness and freedom I almost welcome the bitterness of alienage. ~ Anonymous,
22:I want a room decorated with bones!" Dan said. "Where'd they come from?" "Cemeteries," Amy said. "Back in the 1700s, the cemeteries were getting overcrowded, so they decided to dig up tons of old bodies–all their bones–and move them into the Catacombs. The thing is...look at the dates. See when they started moving bones into the Catacombs?" Dan squinted at the screen. He didn't see what she was talking about. "Is it my birthday? ~ Rick Riordan,
23:I want a room decorated with bones!" Dan said. "Where'd they come from?"
"Cemeteries," Amy said. "Back in the 1700s, the cemeteries were getting overcrowded, so they decided to dig up tons of old bodies–all their bones–and move them into the Catacombs. The thing is...look at the dates. See when they started moving bones into the Catacombs?"
Dan squinted at the screen. He didn't see what she was talking about. "Is it my birthday? ~ Rick Riordan,
24:The shades, those sombre hatchers of primitive Christianity, only awaited an opportunity to bring about an explosion under the Caesars and to inundate the human race with light. For in the sacred shadows there lies latent light. Volcanoes are full of a shadow that is capable of flashing forth. Every form begins by being night. The catacombs, in which the first mass was said, were not alone the cellar of Rome, they were the vaults of the world. ~ Victor Hugo,
25:As for the orchestra,' Quinsonnas continued, 'it has fallen very low since his instrument no longer suffices to feed the instrumentalist! Talk about a trade that's not practical. Ah, if we could use the power wasted on the pedals of a piano for pumping water out of coal mines! If the air escaping from ophicleides could also be used to turn the Catacomb Company's windmills! If the trombone's alternating action could be applied to a mechanical sawmill - oh, then the executants would be rich and many! ~ Jules Verne,
26:I’m with you, Laia.” I reach out and take her hand. She squeezes it. I take a step, Laia close beside me. Then another. My mind ranges out, planning our next moves: Escape Serra. Survive the road north. Break into Kauf. Save Laia’s brother. There will be so much more in between. So much uncertainty. I don’t know if we’ll survive the catacombs, let alone the rest of it. But it doesn’t matter. For now, these steps are enough. These first few precious steps into darkness. Into the unknown. Into freedom. ~ Sabaa Tahir,
27:No doubt Carlyle has a propensity to exaggerate the heroic in history, that is, he creates you an ideal hero rather than another thing.... Yet what were history if he did not exaggerate it? How comes it that history never has to wait for facts, but for a man to write it? The ages may go on forgetting the facts never so long, he can remember two for every one forgotten. The musty records of history, like the catacombs, contain the perishable remains, but only in the breast of genius are embalmed the souls of heroes. ~ Henry David Thoreau,
28:Archaeologists who have explored the catacombs have found a common inscription scattered throughout them. The inscription was the Greek word ichthus, which was used as an acrostic for “Jesus Christ, God’s Son, the Savior.” You might recognize this sign because now these fish symbols are scattered across the backs of cars belonging to Christians. How far we have come when we paste this symbol identified with martyred brothers and sisters in the first century onto the backs of our SUVs and luxury sedans in the twenty-first century. ~ David Platt,
29:I am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast, for the tones in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their cadences from syllable to syllable fell duskly upon our ears in the well-remembered and familiar accents of many thousand departed friends. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
30:The stretch of the Appian Way past the Catacombs of San Sebastiano is the least interesting and most crowded (even dangerous). Avoid it by taking the pedestrian and bike path (open daily except Wed), which begins just past the Catacombs of San Sebastiano, at the intersection with Via delle Sette Chiese. To reach the path, go through the arch at #126. The quiet path parallels the Appian Way and takes you directly to the Catacombs of San Callisto. On Wednesdays, when the gate is closed, you’ll have to stay straight on Via Appia Antica, being careful of traffic. ~ Rick Steves,
31:The battle of Iwo Jima would quickly turn into a primitive contest of gladiators: Japanese gladiators fighting from caves and tunnels like the catacombs of the Colosseum, and American gladiators aboveground, exposed on all sides, using liquid gasoline to burn their opponents out of their lethal hiding places.
All of this on an island five and a half miles long and two miles wide. An area smaller than Doc Bradley's hometown of Antigo, but bearing ten times the humanity. A car driving sixty miles an hour could cover its length in five and a half minutes. For the slogging, dying Marines, it would take more than a month. ~ James D Bradley,
32:Look at me.” He leaned forward into the light. Slowly. The downlighter beam rode up his chest. Up his neck. Onto his face. It was an incredible face. It had started out ugly and it had gotten much worse. He had straight razor scars all over it. They crisscrossed it like a lattice. They were deep and white and old. His nose had been busted and badly reset and busted again and badly reset again, many times over. He had brows thick with scar tissue. Two small eyes were staring out at me from under them. He was maybe forty. Maybe five-ten, maybe three hundred pounds. He looked like a gladiator who had survived twenty years, deep inside the catacombs. ~ Lee Child,
33:Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places. For them are the catacombs of Ptolemais, and the carven mausolea of the nightmare countries. They climb to the moonlit towers of ruined Rhine castles, and falter down black cobwebbed steps beneath the scattered stones of forgotten cities in Asia. The haunted wood and the desolate mountain are their shrines, and they linger around the sinister monoliths on uninhabited islands. But the true epicure in the terrible, to whom a new thrill of unutterable ghastliness is the chief end and justification of existence, esteems most of all the ancient, lonely farmhouses of backwoods New England; for there the dark elements of strength, solitude, grotesqueness, and ignorance combine to form the perfection of the hideous. ~ H P Lovecraft,
34:A ROW OF SKULLS glared from atop a wall of intricately stacked femurs and tibias. Though it was June, and she knew the sun was shining on the streets of Paris sixty feet above her, Dr. Maura Isles felt chilled as she walked down the dim passageway, its walls lined almost to the ceiling with human remains. She was familiar, even intimate, with death, and had confronted its face countless times on her autopsy table, but she was stunned by the scale of this display, by the sheer number of bones stored in this network of tunnels beneath the City of Light. The one-kilometer tour took her through only a small section of the catacombs. Off-limits to tourists were numerous side tunnels and bone-filled chambers, their dark mouths gaping seductively behind locked gates. ~ Tess Gerritsen,
35: Words For A Trumpet Chorale Celebrating The
"The trumpet is a brilliant instrument." - Dietrich Buxtehude
Come and come forth and come up from the cup of
Your dumbness, stunned and numb, come with
The statues and believed in,
Thinking this is nothing, deceived.
Come to the summer and sun,
Come see upon that height, and that sum
In the seedtime of the winter's absolute,
How yearly the phoenix inhabits the fruit.
Behold, above all, how the tall ball
Called the body is but a drum, but a bell
Summoning the soul
To rise from the catacomb of sleep and fear
To the blaze and death of summer,
Rising from the lithe forms of the pure
Furs of the rising flames, slender and supple,
Which are the consummation of the blaze of fall and of all.
~ Delmore Schwartz,
36:The first sorrow of autumn is the slow good-bye of the garden that stands so long in the evening—a brown poppy head, the stalk of a lily, and still cannot go.
The second sorrow is the empty feet of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers. The woodland of gold is folded in feathers with its head in a bag.
And the third sorrow is the slow good-bye of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers the minutes of evening, the golden and holy ground of the picture.
The fourth sorrow is the pond gone black, ruined, and sunken the city of water—the beetle's palace, the catacombs of the dragonfly.
And the fifth sorrow is the slow good-bye of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp. One day it's gone. It has only left litter—firewood, tent poles.
And the sixth sorrow is the fox's sorrow, the joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds, the hooves that pound; till earth closes her ear to the fox's prayer.
And the seventh sorrow is the slow good-bye of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window as the year packs up like a tatty fairground that came for the children. ~ Ted Hughes,
37:(from chapter 20, "Bezalel")
"We were getting it: worship was not so much what we did, but what we let God do in and for us. These months of worship in our catacombs sanctuary had made their mark on us. We were a people of God gathered to worship God. The single word, "worship," defined what we were about.
The congregational consensus emerged not so much by talking about it, but by simply doing it: worship was our signature activity, the distinctive act that set us apart from all other social structures - schools, businesses, athletic teams, political parties, government agencies. It was not achieved through a Bible study or a discussion that pooled our various expectations and came up with something we could all live with. We simply met every Sunday and worshipped God. We sang together, prayed together, listened to scripture together, received the Sacrament together, baptized our children and converts, and went back to our homes ready to enter a week of work with the blessing of God on us.
...The ordinariness of our lives and the circumstances of the catacombs cleared our minds of romantic and utopian illusions regarding church. ~ Eugene H Peterson,
38: Salvador Dali
The face of the precipice is black with lovers;
The sun above them is a bag of nails; the spring's
First rivers hide among their hair.
Goliath plunges his hand into the poisoned well
And bows his head and feels my feet walk through his brain.
The children chasing butterflies turn round and see him there
With his hand in the well and my body growing from his head,
And are afraid. They drop their nets and walk into the wall like smoke.
The smooth plain with its mirrors listens to the cliff
Like a basilisk eating flowers.
And the children, lost in the shadows of the catacombs,
Call to the mirrors for help:
'Strong-bow of salt, cutlass of memory,
Write on my map the name of every river.'
A flock of banners fight their way through the telescoped forest
And fly away like birds towards the sound of roasting meat.
Sand falls into the boiling rivers through the telescopes' mouths
And forms clear drops of acid with petals of whirling flame.
Heraldic animals wade through the asphyxia of planets,
Butterflies burst from their skins and grow long tongues like plants,
The plants play games with a suit of mail like a cloud.
Mirrors write Goliath's name upon my forehead,
While the children are killed in the smoke of the catacombs
And lovers float down from the cliffs like rain.
~ David Gascoyne,
Goya drew a pig on a wall.
The five-year-old hairdresser’s son
Saw, graved on a silver tray,
The lion; and sunsets were begun.
Goya smelt the bull-fight blood.
The pupil of the Carmelite
Gave his hands to a goldsmith, learned
To gild an aureole aright.
Goya saw the Puzzel’s eyes:
Sang in the street (with a guitar)
And climbed the balcony; but Keats
(Under the halyards) wrote ‘Bright star.’
Goya saw the Great Slut pick
The chirping human puppets up,
And laugh, with pendulous mountain lip,
And drown them in a coffee cup;
Or squeeze their little juices out
In arid hands, insensitive,
To make them gibber . . . Goya went
Among the catacombs to live.
He saw gross Ronyons of the air,
Harelipped and goitered, raped in flight
By hairless pimps, umbrella-winged:
Tumult above Madrid at night.
He heard the seconds in his clock
Crack like seeds, divulge, and pour
Abysmal filth of Nothingness
Between the pendulum and the floor:
Torrents of dead veins, rotted cells,
Tonsils decayed, and fingernails:
Dead hair, dead fur, dead claws, dead skin:
Nostrils and lids; and cauls and veils;
And eyes that still, in death, remained
(Unlidded and unlashed) aware
Of the foul core, and, fouler yet,
The region worm that ravins there.
Stench flowed out of the second’s tick.
And Goya swam with it through Space,
Sweating the fetor from his limbs,
And stared upon the unfeatured face
That did not see, and sheltered naught,
But was, and is. The second gone,
Goya returned, and drew the face;
And scrawled beneath it, ‘This I have known’ . . .
And drew four slatterns, in an attic,
Heavy, with heads on arms, asleep:
And underscribed it, ‘Let them slumber,
Who, if they woke, could only weep’ . . .
~ Conrad Potter Aiken,
for Agha Shahid Ali (1949-2001)
There’s no sugar in the Promised Land.
Swear by the olive in the God-kissed land.
I heard your laughter in the jackal’s howl
When the monks chanted in the Psalmist’s land.
They knelt on the mountain top, pilgrims of the Book,
Until the viper in the rod hissed, “Stand!”
Prophets, oracles, and bards agree:
The tyrant always plays the dumbest hand.
The way you danced along the crowded bar—
The saffron harvest in a star-crossed land.
Our teacher, moon-tanned, slept with one eye open.
He was the absence of field, the sodless strand.
The faithful praying in the catacombs—
Do they measure what they must withstand?
These orders from Iberia remain
In effect: Like unto like. All others banned.
They set sail without charts or compass, searching
For the lost tribes, and never missed land.
Lava and salt spray and your final couplet:
New worlds inscribed in parchment, pumice, sand.
The cemeteries above Sarajevo
Extend the boundaries of a lost land.
Your favorite show: General Hospital.
Shall we go for a walk? No! I’ll get tanned.
In Beirut, Baghdad, and Jerusalem
The war photographers are in command.
The heart turned terrorist when the poet died.
Now all the world’s a revolutionist land.
If Paradise is full of stationary, write
To me in your most lavish, embossed hand.
Eat seven olives, my grandmother said,
And you will never live in a famished land.
Another war in the imperium?
The poet’s warnings can be read, glossed, scanned.
Unwitnessed in the night, the empty mosques
And temples burn in the Belovéd’s land.
The new exhibit in the war museum—
Portraits commissioned in a possessed land.
Ragas at daybreak, Motown at midnight:
You sang for everyone, a wind-tossed band.
Will this Christ-bearer find his only friend
In the Promised Land—in blesséd Shahid’s land?
~ Christopher Merrill,
BOOK_II._--_PART_II._THE_ARCHAIC_SYMBOLISM_OF_THE_WORLD-RELIGIONS, #The Secret Doctrine, #H P Blavatsky, #Theosophy
old city). One finds it with the old Peruvians, the Assyrians, Chaldeans, as well as on the walls of the
old-world cyclopean buildings; in the Catacombs of the New world, and in those of the Old (?), at
Rome, where, because the first Christians are supposed to have concealed themselves and their
cross employed with an occult signification, which shows the secret was not that of the
Christian cross. One Swastica cross in the Catacombs is the sign of an inscription which
reads [['ZOTIKO ZOTIKE]],' 'Vitalis Vitalia,' or 'life of life.' "*
from the time when Jesus Christ was crucified. And yet in the 'Christian' Iconography of
the Catacombs no figure of a man appears upon the Cross during the first six or seven
centuries. There are all forms of the cross except that -- the alleged starting-point of the
Theodolinde of Lombardy, now in the Church of St. John at Monza, whilst no image of
the Crucified is found in the Catacombs at Rome earlier than that of San Giulio,
belonging to the seventh or eighth century. . . . There is no Christ and no Crucified; the
the_Eternal_Wisdom, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
3) The just man is himself his own law. ~ Inscription on the Catacombs