Angus King Quotes

All greed leads to destruction.

Peter Marshall, the great evangelical preacher, once said that we need "faith like potatoes" - plain, simple, real faith that will sustain us in our everyday lives. Whenever I pick up a potato I remember those words. That's the kind of faith I want. When we have faith and act on it, God will come through for us, no matter what our circumstances. God is King!

I’ve been telling you that you should hire Warren.” “Nat, I’m not going to hire Warren.” “Why not?” I opened my mouth to tell her exactly why not, but as I stared at her too-bright blue eyes and the way her chin was quivering, I chickened out. “Because…because I promised Angus when he left that he could have his job back.” “Adrien, he was involved in a murder.” “But he was very good at alphabetizing.

The first time I saw him I didn’t know if he was wearing a beard or eating a muskrat.

Tell me what you know of my kinfolk. "Fee, fi, fo, fum?" Oxton muttered under his breath. Vanora raised her hand. "I've heard something about a beanstalk and a cow." The giant gave a great nod. "We've well established you know absolutely nothing of my kind.

I gave a kiss, a kiss, a kiss I gave a kiss to the King's hand No man who filled a sheepskin bag with air Ever got such a welcome save me.

Iain MacGregor,” she whispered longingly, looking up. The woods were quiet. Strips of moonlight shone through tree limbs that reached like surreal black fingertips across her vision. A single tear slid down her cheek. She touched her mouth, imagining his kiss. Taking a small pocket knife out of her cargo pants, she looked about. A mystic had once told her that if she left pieces of herself around while she lived, it would expand her haunting territory when she died. Jane wasn’t sure she believed in sideshow magic tricks—or the Old Magick as the mystic had spelled it on her sign. She had no idea what had possessed her to talk to the palm reader and ask about ghosts. Still, just in case, she was leaving her stamp all over the woods. She cut her palm and pressed it to a nearby tree under a branch. Holding the wound to the rough bark stung at first, but then it made her feel better. This forest wouldn’t be a bad eternity. The sound of running feet erupted behind her and she stiffened. No one ever came out here at night. She’d walked the woods hundreds of times. Her mind instantly went to the creepy girl ghosts chanting by the stream. “Whoohoo!” Jane whipped around, startled as a streak of naked flesh sprinted past her. The Scottish voice was met with loud cheers from those who followed him. “Water’s this way, lads, or my name isn’t Raibeart MacGregor, King of the Highlands!” Another naked man dashed through the forest after him. “It smells of freedom.” Jane stayed hidden in the branches, undetected, with her hand pressed to the bark. “Aye, freedom from your proper Cait,” Raibeart answered, his voice coming through the dark where he’d disappeared into the trees. “Murdoch, stop him before he reaches town. Cait will not teleport ya out of jail again,” a third man yelled, not running quite so fast. “Raibeart, ya are goin’ the wrong way!” “Och, Angus, my Cait canna live without me,” Murdoch, the second streaker, answered. “She’ll always come to my rescue.” “I said stop him, Murdoch, we’re new to this place.” Angus skidded to a stop and lifted his jaw, as if sensing he was being watched. He looked in her direction and instantly covered his manhood as his eyes caught Jane’s shocked face in the tree limbs. “Oh, lassie.” “Oh, naked man,” Jane teased before she could stop herself. “That I am,” Angus answered, “but there is an explanation for it.” “I don’t think some things need explained,” Jane said.

İsmi Jory Baker'dı ve daima tam vaktinde gelir, hiçbir provayı kaçırmaz ve seçmelerde tek bir hata bile yapmazdı. Göze çarpan bir yetenek, Angus Young veya Eddie Van Halen gibi iyi bir bir gitarist değildi, ama yeterince iyiydi. Barry'nin anlattığına göre Jory Baker bir zamanlar Saparx adında, çoğu kişinin o senenin en başarılı ismi olacağına inandığı bir grubun lideriydi. Creedence'ın ilk dönemlerine benzer bir tarzları vardı: sert sağlam gitar ve rock and roll. Şarkıların çoğunu Jory Baker yazıyor, kendisi seslendiriyordu. Sonra bir trafik kazası geçirmiş, kemikleri kırılmış ve hastanede tonla ilaç almıştı. Çıktığında "John Prine" adlı parçasında dediği gibi kafasında çelik bir plaka, sırtındaysa bir maymun vardı. Demerol'den eroine geçiş yapmıştı. Birkaç kez yakalanmıştı. Bir süre sonra metro istasyonlarında üç beş kuruş için gitar tıngırdatan bir müptela haline gelmişti. Ardından her nasılsa, on sekiz aylık bir dönemin ardından temizlenmeyi başarmış ve öyle kalmıştı. Kaybı büyüktü. Başarılı olması beklenen bir grup bir yana, herhangi bir grubun bile lideri değildi, ama provalara yine tam vaktinde geliyor ve hiçbir seçme sırasında hata yapmıyordu. Fazla konuşmuyordu, ama kolunun içindeki iğne izlerinin tümü yok olmuştu. Diğer tarafa ulaşmayı başardı, demişti Barry Grieg. Hepsi buydu. Bir zamanlar olunan kişiyle şu anki arasındaki geçiş döneminde neler olduğunu kimse bilemezdi. O hüzünlü yalnızlık cehennemini kimse analiz edemezdi. Değişimin haritası yoktu. Sadece... diğer tarafa ulaşılırdı. Ya da ulaşılamazdı.

He found himself thinking of something Barry Grieg had once said to him about a rhythm guitar player from L.A., a guy named Jory Baker who was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. Not the kind of guitar player that caught your eye, no showboat like Angus Young or Eddie Van Halen, but competent. Once, Barry had said, Jory Baker had been the driving wheel of a group called Sparx, a group everybody seemed to think that year's Most Likely to Succeed. They had a sound something like early Creedence: hard solid guitar rock and roll. Jory Baker had done most of the writing and all of the vocals. Then a car accident, broken bones, lots of dope in the hospital. He had come out, as the John Prine song says, with a steel plate in his head and a monkey on his back. He progressed from Demerol to heroin. Got busted a couple of times. After a while he was just another street-druggie with fumble fingers, spare-changing down at the Greyhound station and hanging out on the strip. Then, somehow, over a period of eighteen months, he had gotten clean, and stayed clean. A lot of him was gone. He was no longer the driving wheel of any group, Most Likely to Succeed or otherwise, but he was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. He didn't talk much, but the needle highway on his left arm had disappeared. And Barry Grieg had said: 'He's come out the other side.' That was all. No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just . . . come out the other side. Or you don't.

He found himself thinking of something Barry Grieg had once said to him about a rhythm guitar player from L.A., a guy named Jory Baker who was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. Not the kind of guitar player that caught your eye, no showboat like Angus Young or Eddie Van Halen, but competent. Once, Barry had said, Jory Baker had been the driving wheel of a group called Sparx, a group everybody seemed to think that year's Most Likely to Succeed. They had a sound something like early Creedence: hard solid guitar rock and roll. Jory Baker had done most of the writing and all of the vocals. Then a car accident, broken bones, lots of dope in the hospital. He had come out, as the John Prine song says, with a steel plate in his head and a monkey on his back. He progressed from Demerol to heroin. Got busted a couple of times. After a while he was just another street-druggie with fumble fingers, spare-changing down at the Greyhound station and hanging out on the strip. Then, somehow, over a period of eighteen months, he had gotten clean, and stayed clean. A lot of him was gone. He was no longer the driving wheel of any group, Most Likely to Succeed or otherwise, but he was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. He didn't talk much, but the needle highway on his left arm had disappeared. And Barry Grieg had said: 'He's come out the other side.' That was all. No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just . . . come out the other side. Or you don't.

He found himself thinking of something Barry Grieg had once said to him about a rhythm guitar player from L.A., a guy named Jory Baker who was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. Not the kind of guitar player that caught your eye, no showboat like Angus Young or Eddie Van Halen, but competent. Once, Barry had said, Jory Baker had been the driving wheel of a group called Sparx, a group everybody seemed to think that year's Most Likely to Succeed. They had a sound something like early Creedence: hard solid guitar rock and roll. Jory Baker had done most of the writing and all of the vocals. Then a car accident, broken bones, lots of dope in the hospital. He had come out, as the John Prine song says, with a steel plate in his head and a monkey on his back. He progressed from Demerol to heroin. Got busted a couple of times. After a while he was just another street-druggie with fumble fingers, spare-changing down at the Greyhound station and hanging out on the strip. Then, somehow, over a period of eighteen months, he had gotten clean, and stayed clean. A lot of him was gone. He was no longer the driving wheel of any group, Most Likely to Succeed or otherwise, but he was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. He didn't talk much, but the needle highway on his left arm had disappeared. And Barry Grieg had said: 'He's come out the other side.' That was all. No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just . . . come out the other side. Or you don't.

And, while a leshy and a waldgeist were both known to carry clubs, a djinni didn’t bleed.  But if it wasn’t a djinni altogether, but a dragon… Holy Mother, but her head was beginning to hurt. Squinting through the wriggling tendrils of glass fogging the edges of her vision, Imelda glanced over her shoulder at the place where Angus Ross had claimed to see a flash of ‘blackness so deep it ate the light.’  Her spine was still tingling from hearing that bit of information.  The last documented case of a void-walk had been in over three centuries ago, by a wounded bastet. 

Anything easy isn’t hardly worthwhile, Angus. You’ll look back on this journey when you’re older and remember this lesson. Nothing is as meaningful as something you’ve worked hard for and won. This lesson will repeat itself over and over in your life-time.

evil king tells his people that his evil deeds are for their own good. And they’ll lie to themselves that he’s right because that’s the easiest thing to do. But soon the evil king will run out of enemies, and the people who helped him will become his victims. Then they’ll regret it, but it’s too late!” Ragnall

Why would a scribe have shackles?" "In the olden times, they were used to keep dark and evil creatures captive for the MacBain kings. In more recent times, it's for those who can't keep quiet in the library.

strange looking ribs with a long hairy tailbone lay in the center of the table

Vikings traveled to new lands they often left their runic inscriptions behind, as warnings and messages to others.

they have left a great number of clues for us carved into stone, wood, and metal, enigmatic symbols known as rune stones.

The floor.” Angus swallowed hard. “It’s made from headstones.

like travelers attacked at crossroads; those that stay in the middle of the road come to no harm.

Great, just what I always wanted—a bipolar dog.

Anything easy isn’t hardly worthwhile,

I thought he just wanted an extra shin-bone to find furniture with in the dark.

For a hundred feet, majestic Celtic crosses and flat stones jutted from the emerald green earth.

Did you know the thistle was used by the early kings of Scotland as their personal heraldic crest?

Think of yourself as a warrior on a great adventure,