Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, Rhaegar fought bravely. And Rhaegar died.
That's the best line EVER. It gives me chills every time I read it.
Liza wrote:Fjafjan, your hair is so lovely that I want to go to Sweden, collect the bit you cut off in your latest haircut and keep it in my room, and smell it. And eventually use it to complete my shrine dedicated to you.
kerfuffleninja wrote: Minutes are the same length in Europe, right?
fjafjan wrote:I only ever Write in books when the Author has made a misstake, so when there is a typo, or even worse some actual miss in a calculation or such, I will correct it. Other than that I agree, I'd never write in a book
Johnny Truant wrote:For a moment I was tempted. I could read the signs well enough to know she wanted a kiss. She'd always been fluent in that language of affection but I could also see that over the years, years of the same grammar, she'd lost the chance to understand others. It surprised me to discover I cared enough about her to act now on that knowledge, especially considering how lonely I was. I gave her an almost paternal hug and kissed her on the cheek. Above us airplanes roared for the sky.
I would sit on the couch, can of beer in hand, watching survivor and thinking of an interesting variation of the game that would never make it to the network. If you simply add Dexter to the Castaways, and interpret the title a bit more literally...
123 wrote:I would sit on the couch, can of beer in hand, watching survivor and thinking of an interesting variation of the game that would never make it to the network. If you simply add Dexter to the Castaways, and interpret the title a bit more literally...
Best quote ever in any of the Dexter books.
Belial wrote:You are the coolest guy that ever cooled.
I reiterate. Coolest. Guy.
Inkdeath, by Cornelia Funke wrote:"Was there any more wretched existence than the life of a writer who had run out of words?"
Brothers and sisters, listen to me! Gather your trumpets, your cellos, your harps! Lend me your lives and prepare for demise, for tonight we end the Umbrella Academy, and tomorrow we end the world...
Sons of Gondor! Of Rohan! My brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me! A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship. But it is not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the age of Men comes crashing down! But it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good Earth, I bid you stand! Men of the West!
Belial wrote:You are the coolest guy that ever cooled.
I reiterate. Coolest. Guy.
If you die, I'll kill you!
Toni Morrison, Beloved wrote:Standing alone on the porch, Beloved is smiling. But now her hand is empty. Sethe is running away from her, running, and she feels the emptiness in the hand Sethe has been holding. Now she is running into the faces of the people out there, joining them and leaving Beloved behind. Alone. Again. Then Denver, running too. Away from her to the pile of people out there. They make a hill. A hill of black people, falling. And above them all, rising from his place with a whip in his hand, the man without skin, looking. He is looking at her.
The Mighty Thesaurus wrote:I can tell from his word choice that he is using his penis to type.
Steax wrote:I think the courts are kinda busy right now. Something about cake and due process.
Hale knew, before he had been in Brighton three hours, that they meant to murder him.
This perfect replica of an old English Manor, a notice said, like all the buildings of Whispering Glades, is constructed throughout of Grade A steel and concrete with foundations extending into solid rock. It is certified proof against fire, earthquake and . . . [nuclear fission was being painted in as Dennis read the plaque].
A copy of Dante's Purgatorio excited his especial disgust.
"French, eh?" he said. "I guessed as much, and pretty dirty too, I shouldn't wonder. Now just you wait while I look up these here books"—how he said it!—"in my list. Particularly against books the Home Secretary is. If we can't stamp out literature in the country, we can at least stop its being brought in from outside."
"The Beast stands for strong mutually antagonistic governments everywhere," he said. "Self-sufficiency at home, self-assertion abroad."
'Yes, sir,' said Jeeves in a low, cold voice, as if he had been bitten in the leg by a personal friend.
A certain critic—for such men, I regret to say, do exist—made the nasty remark about my last novel that it contained ‘all the old Wodehouse characters under different names’. He has probably now been eaten by bears, like the children who made mock of the prophet Elisha: but if he still survives he will not be able to make a similar charge against Summer Lightning. With my superior intelligence, I have outgeneralled this man by putting in all the old Wodehouse characters under the same names. Pretty silly it will make him feel, I rather fancy.
All right. Let's start with the basics, and see where we can go from there. This book is called Dead Romance. That's what O'm going to put on the cover, anyway, although it wasn't the first name I thought of. I was going to call it Living Space, but then it'd have "space" in the title, and you might expect it to be all about little bubble-headed rocket men, like you used to see on the covers of those old SF magazines before everyone started dropping acid and seeing Starchilds everywhere.
Imagine the quintessential Hollywood movie. Imagine that the wolrd, or the country (probably America), or just the characters, are under threat from an outside force: aliens if possible, foreigners otherwise, a virus if you get desperate. Now imagine that at the climax o the story, at that most dramatically crucial moment when the future hangs in the balance and the enemy's about to destroy everything that's good and right and civilised, the day is ultimately saved. Not by a weapon, and not by a brilliant strategy. No, ultimately the day is saved by... wait for it... the power of love.
You'd think it was the most devastating cliché imaginable.
Now name three films which actually end that way. To Hell with it, try to think of even one.
The opening line of Blood Rites, Book Six of Jim Butcher's Dresden Files. Harry Dresden is speaking.The building was on fire, and it wasn't my fault.
The Great Hippo wrote:The internet's chief exports are cute kittens, porn, and Reasons Why You Are Completely Fucking Wrong.
addams wrote:How human of him. "If, they can do it, then, I can do it." Humans. Pfft. Poor us.
I bought Brighton Rock, along with 5 other Greene novels, at Goodwill a while back for 50¢ a piece. I'm planning on a marathon reading session next week.Sir Novelty Fashion wrote:- The opening sentence of Brighton Rock, by Graham Greene.Hale knew, before he had been in Brighton three hours, that they meant to murder him.
-From Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. Five words; the everything2 writeup is 766 (spoiler warning). Reading Faulkner is like sweet torture for me—he's so damn good... and it constantly reminds me that I will never accomplish anything close.My mother is a fish.
LE4dGOLEM wrote:Now you know the difference between funny and sad.
Ubik wrote:But I'm too fond of the penis to let it go.
gmalivuk wrote:If you didn't want people to 'mis'understand you, then you probably should have tried saying something less stupid.
'What are you doing here?' I asked.
'Flying,' he replied stupidly.
But I was up to the challenge, and I asked an even more idiotic question.
smw543 wrote:I bought Brighton Rock, along with 5 other Greene novels, at Goodwill a while back for 50¢ a piece. I'm planning on a marathon reading session next week.Sir Novelty Fashion wrote:- The opening sentence of Brighton Rock, by Graham Greene.Hale knew, before he had been in Brighton three hours, that they meant to murder him.
Starship Troopers by Robert Heinlein wrote:I have never learned the co-ordinates of Sanctuary, nor the name or catalogue number of the star it orbits...But I can tell you what sort of a planet it is. Like Earth, but retarded.
Science of Discworld wrote:May contain nuts
The Fourth Bear, by Jasper Fforde wrote:[He] accepted the explanation without questioning it, and you should too.
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, by Jean-Dominique Bauby wrote:She didn't push me away. She pulled her fingers through my hair and said quietly "There, there, my child, you must be very patient." [...]
And then, one afternoon when I was confiding my sorrows to her, an unknown character came and stood between the portrait bust and myself. In the glass case there was the mirror image of a man who looked as if he had been lying in a dioxin barrel. The mouth was contorted, the nose damaged, the hair on end, the eyes filled with dread. One eye was sewn shut, and the other wide open like the eye of Cain. I glared at the dilated pupil for a while before I understood that it was actually me.
Then I was filled with a strange rush of joy. Not only was I lame, mute, half deaf, bereft of every pleasure and forced to a Medusa existence, I also looked appalling. I started laughing hysterically, a laugh triggered by all too many catastrophes gathering up, and after a last twist of fate you finally decide to meet the whole thing like it's a joke. My happy wheezes at first perplexed Eugenie, but then she gave in to my contagious cheerfulness. We laughed so hard that we cried.
When the storm had passed I still had the feeling I was not alone in the house. My only explanation is that just as real events are forgotten, some that never were can be in our memories as if they had happened. For if I evoked the emergency of the rainstorm, I did not see myself alone in the house but always accompanied by Delgadina. I had felt her so close during the night that I detected the sound of her breath in the bedroom and the throbbing of her cheek on my pillow. It was the only way I could understand how we could have done so much in such short a time. I remembered standing in the library footstool and I remembered her awake in her little flowered dress taking the books from me to put them in a safe place. I saw her run from one end of the house to the other battling the storm, drenched in rain and in water up to her ankles. I remembered how the next day she prepared a breakfast that never was and set the table while I dried the floors and set order upon the shipwreck of a house...
From then on I had her in my memory with so much clarity I could do what I wanted with her. I changed the color of her eyes according to my state of mind: the color of water when she woke, the color of syrup when she laughed, the color of light when she was annoyed. I dressed her according to the age and condition that suited my changes of mood: a novice in love at twenty, a parlor whore at forty, the queen of Babylon at seventy, a saint at one hundred.
Everything that could have happened but did not is carried away with the wind and leaves no trace. Life is made of our attitudes. And there are certain things that the gods oblige us to live through. Their reason for this does not matter, and there is no action we can take to make them pass us by.
'I recall no arrangement, Mau, no bargain, covenant, agreement or promise. There is what happens, and what does not happen. There is no 'should'.'
No. Humans need fantasy to be human. To be the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape.
WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT THE CARE OF THE REAPER MAN
Susanna Clarke, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell wrote:"Can a magician kill a man by magic?" Lord Wellington asked Strange.
Strange frowned. He seemed to dislike the question. "I suppose a magician might," he admitted, "but a gentleman never could."
"Such nonsense!" declared Dr Greysteel. "Whoever heard of cats doing anything useful!"
"Except for staring at one in a supercilious manner," said Strange. "That has a sort of moral usefulness, I suppose, in making one feel uncomfortable and encouraging sober reflection upon one's imperfections."
In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried, by Amy Hempel wrote:I think of the chimp, the one with the talking hands.
In the course of the experiment, that chimp had a baby.
Imagine how her trainers must have thrilled when the
mother, without prompting, began to sign to her newborn.
Baby, drink milk.
Baby, play ball.
And when the baby died, the mother stood over the body,
her wrinkled hands moving with animal grace, forming again
and again the words: Baby, come hug, Baby, come hug, fluent
now in the language of grief.
In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried, by Amy Hempel wrote:What do I remember?
I remember only the useless things I hear -- that Bob
Dylan's mother invented Wite Out, that twenty-three
people must be in a room before there is a fifty-fifty chance two will
have the same birthday. Who cares whether or not it's true?
In my head there are bath towels swaddling this stuff.
Nothing else seeps through.
I review those things that will figure in the retelling: a kiss
through surgical guaze, the pale hand correcting the position
of the wig. I noted these gestures as they happened, not in
any retrospect -- though I don't know why looking back
should show us more than looking at.
It is just possible I will say I stayed the night.
And who is there that can say that I did not?
Isaac Asimov wrote:Sleep eluded Seldon. He tossed and turned in the dark, thinking.
Natasha threw off the shawl from her shoulders, ran forward to face 'Uncle,' and setting her arms akimbo, also made a motion with her shoulders and struck an attitude.
Where, how, and when had this young countess, educated by an emigree French governess, imbibed from the Russian air she breathed that spirit, and obtained that manner which the pas de chale would, one would have supposed, long ago have effaced? But the spirit and the movements were those inimitable and unteachable Russian ones that 'Uncle' had expected of her. As soon as she had struck her pose and smiled triumphantly, proudly, and with sly merriment, the fear that had at first seized Nicholas and the others that she might not do the right thing was at an end, and they were already admiring her.
She did the right thing with such precision, such complete precision, that Anisya Fedorovna, who had at once handed her the handkerchief she needed for the dance, had tears in her eyes, though she laughed as she watched this slim, graceful countess, reared in silks and velvets and so different from herself, who yet was able to understand all that was in Anisya and Anisya's father and mother and aunt, and in every Russian man and woman.
Felstaff wrote:"A battered book, ironically, is a well-loved book" ~~Now there's a good quote. And it's by me.
Xavier Harkonnen, Dune: The Butlerian Jihad wrote:Even the expected can be a terrible shock when we have been holding on to threads of hope.
And frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly,
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,
For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe.
Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine;
Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine!
Lo! thy dread empire Chaos! is restored:
Light dies before thy uncreating word;
Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall,
And universal darkness buries all.
‘You and Julia…’ she said. And then, as we moved on towards the house, ‘When you met me last night did you think, “Poor Cordelia, such an engaging child, grown up a plain and pious spinster, full of good works”? Did you think “thwarted”?’
It was no time for prevarication. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I did; I don’t now, so much.’
‘It’s funny,’ she said, ‘that’s exactly the word I thought of for you and Julia. When we were up in the nursery with nanny. “Thwarted passion,” I thought.’
“I need hardly say there was a collision. The pessimists all round me looked anxiously from one Professor to the other Professor to see which was really the more feeble. But I won. An old man in poor health, like my rival, could not be expected to be so impressively feeble as a young actor in the prime of life. You see, he really had paralysis, and working within this definite limitation, he couldn’t be so jolly paralytic as I was. Then he tried to blast my claims intellectually. I countered that by a very simple dodge. Whenever he said something that nobody but he could understand, I replied with something which I could not even understand myself. ‘I don’t fancy,’ he said, ‘that you could have worked out the principle that evolution is only negation, since there inheres in it the introduction of lacuna, which are an essential of differentiation.’ I replied quite scornfully, ‘You read all that up in Pinckwerts; the notion that involution functioned eugenically was exposed long ago by Glumpe.’ It is unnecessary for me to say that there never were such people as Pinckwerts and Glumpe. But the people all round (rather to my surprise) seemed to remember them quite well, and the Professor, finding that the learned and mysterious method left him rather at the mercy of an enemy slightly deficient in scruples, fell back upon a more popular form of wit. ‘I see,’ he sneered, ‘you prevail like the false pig in Æsop.’ ‘And you fail,’ I answered, smiling, ‘like the hedgehog in Montaigne.’ Need I say that there is no hedgehog in Montaigne? ‘Your claptrap comes off,’ he said; ‘so would your beard.’ I had no intelligent answer to this, which was quite true and rather witty. But I laughed heartily, answered, ‘Like the Pantheist’s boots,’ at random, and turned on my heel with all the honours of victory. The real Professor was thrown out, but not with violence, though one man tried very patiently to pull off his nose. He is now, I believe, received everywhere in Europe as a delightful impostor. His apparent earnestness and anger, you see, make him all the more entertaining.”
"No sense in bein' bashful about goin' bald. Anyway, you know what they say about bald men, Dean."
"Yes, they say, 'Look at him, he's got no hair.'"
There was an old horseskull in the brush and he squatted and picked it up and turned it in his hands. Frail and brittle. Bleached paper white. He squatted in the long light holding it, the comicbook teeth loose in their sockets. The joints in the cranium like a ragged welding of the bone plates. The muted run of sand in the brainbox when he turned it.
What he loved in horses was what he loved in men, the blood and the heat of the blood that ran them. All his reverence and all his fondness and all the leanings of his life were for the ardenthearted and they would always be so and never be otherwise.
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 6 guests