Between The Hammer And The Anvil Quotes

That there is in this world neither brains, nor goodness, nor good sense, but only brute force. Bloodshed. Starvation. Death. That there was not the slightest hope not even a glimmer of hope, of justice being done. It would never happen. No one would ever do it. The world was just one big Babi Yar. And there two great forces had come up against each other and were striking against each other like hammer and anvil, and the wretched people were in between, with no way out; each individual wanted only to live and not be maltreated, to have something to eat, and yet they howled and screamed and in their fear they were grabbing at each other’s throats, while I, little blob of watery jelly, was sitting in the midst of this dark world. Why? What for? Who had done it all? There was nothing, after all, to hope for! Winter. Night.

But if we understand anything of the unconscious, we know that it cannot be swallowed. We also know that it is dangerous to suppress it, because the unconscious is life and this life turns against us if suppressed, as happens in neurosis. Conscious and unconscious do not make a whole when one of them is suppressed and injured by the other. If they must contend, at least let it be a fair fight with equal rights on both sides. Both are aspects of life. Consciousness should defend its reason and protect itself, and the chaotic life of the unconscious should be given the chance of having its way too - as much of it as we can stand. This means open conflict and open collaboration at once. That, evidently, is the way human life should be. It is the old game of hammer and anvil: between them the patient iron is forged into an indestructible whole, an ‘individual.’ This, roughly, is what I mean by the individuation process.

if thou could’st, blacksmith, glad enough would I lay my head upon thy anvil, and feel thy heaviest hammer between my eyes

To the south, swords flashed and blood watered the trodden earth instead of rain. To the north, armies marched, the pounding of their boots the drum of death, their banners clouding the sky with the shadow of evil. In the west, the races of humanity were smitten as metal is beaten between hammer and anvil. There, in their homeland, they possessed only ruined dreams, gnawing hunger and soul-eating poverty. The east alone offered hope, and thither they fled. But hope burned to ash, and was blown back in their faces as a choking wind.

Conscious and unconscious do not make a whole when one of them is suppressed and injured by the other. If they must contend, let it at least be a fair fight with equal rights on both sides. Both are aspects of life. Consciousness should defend its reason and protect itself, and the chaotic life of the unconscious should be given the chance of having its way too—as much of it as we can stand. This means open conflict and open collaboration at once. That, evidently, is the way human life should be. It is the old game of hammer and anvil: between them the patient iron is forged into an indestructible whole, an “individual.

Arin watched the fire flare crimson. Then he went outside and surveyed the grounds, saw through leafless trees that no one was near. He could steal a few minutes. When he stepped back inside the forge, he leaned against the anvil. With one hand he pulled a book from its hiding place behind the kindling box, and in the other he held a hammer so that, if in danger of being caught, he could more quickly pretend to have been working. He began to read. It was a book he had seen in Kestrel’s possession, one on the history of the Valorian empire. He had taken it from the library after she had returned it, weeks ago. What would she say, if she saw him reading a book about his enemy, in his enemy’s tongue? What would she do? Arin knew this: her gaze would measure him, and he would sense a shift of perception within her. Her opinion of him would change as daylight changed, growing or losing shadow. Subtle. Almost indiscernible. She would see him differently, though he wouldn’t know in what way. He wouldn’t know what it meant. This had happened, again and again, since he had come here. Sometimes he wished he had never come here. Well. Kestrel couldn’t see him in the forge, or know what he read, because she couldn’t leave her rooms. She couldn’t even walk. Arin shut the book, gripped it between rigid fingers. He nearly threw it into the fire. I will have you torn limb from limb, the general had said. That wasn’t why Arin stayed away from her. Not really. He forced his thoughts from his head. He hid the book where it had been. He busied himself with quiet work, heating iron and charcoal in a crucible to produce steel. It took some time before Arin realized he was humming a dark tune. For once, he didn’t stop himself. The pressure of song was too strong, the need for distraction too great. Then he found that the music caged behind his closed teeth was the melody Kestrel had played for him months ago. He felt the sensation of it, low and alive, on his mouth. For a moment, he imagined it wasn’t the melody that touched his lips, but Kestrel. The thought stopped his breath, and the music, too.

For five nights in a row, again and again, at different locations and in different positions he had offered me everything. Maybe his specialty was showing not only his prick but also his testicles, hair, belly, and top of his thighs. There was a certain merciless openness in this. The relief of his stomach, thighs, and loins, his head, and his entire splendid figure eerily reminded me of the man with anvil and hammer one can see on the twenty-forint bill. On each occasion, I had stupidly run away from him. To my shame, in the light of day I would take out the twenty-forint bill to see him and be with him. I couldn’t forget him. The only difference between him and his image on the bill was that on the latter the artist had used drapery to conceal the loins.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote that we must choose between being an anvil or a hammer. We’ll either mold the world, or be molded by it. If you never go deep, you will always be the anvil. And the surest path to being the hammer is depth.

Catholic-Jewish dialogue failed because where the Catholics saw Nostra Aetate as a peace offering, the Jews saw it as a weapon in their arsenal of cultural warfare. As I pointed out in my review of Shapiro’s book: The thinly-veiled aggression behind Jewish enthusiasm for conciliar documents becomes apparent when Shapiro claims that “it was only after Oberammergau was caught between the anvil of Vatican II and the hammering criticism of Jewish groups that serious changes were grudgingly made.” The Bavarians, Shapiro seems to be telling us, were getting hammered, and they were getting hammered only because of Nostra Aetate [the document which launched Catholic-Jewish dialogue]. Without that document they could have easily deflected the Jewish blows. With it, the Jews could now play the bishop off against his flock as the best way to eviscerate the play of anything in the gospels which the Jews found repugnant.[108]

If you are stuck between a hammer and anvil, the only option you have left is to evade diligently. Repercussions and reminisce of it might seem like unscrupulous or injustice. However, let the time to speak, it has the power to reverse the entire equation.

The dwarf halls rang to the sound of hammers, although mainly for effect. Dwarves found it hard to think without the sound of hammers, which they found soothing, so well-off dwarves in the clerical professions paid goblins to hit small ceremonial anvils, just to maintain the correct dwarvish image. The broomstick lay between two trestles. Granny Weatherwax sat on a rock outcrop while a dwarf half her height, wearing an apron that was a mass of pockets, walked around the broom and occasionally poked it. Eventually he kicked the bristles and gave a long intake of breath, a sort of reverse whistle, which is the secret sign of craftsmen across the universe and means that something expensive is about to happen. “Weellll,” he said. “I could get the apprentices in to look at this, I could. It’s an education in itself. And you say it actually managed to get airborne?” “It flew like a bird,” said Granny. The dwarf lit a pipe. “I should very much like to see that bird,” he said reflectively. “I should imagine it’s quite something to watch, a bird like that.” “Yes, but can you repair it?” said Granny. “I’m in a hurry.” The dwarf sat down, slowly and deliberately. “As for repair,” he said, “well, I don’t know about repair. Rebuild, maybe. Of course, it’s hard to get the bristles these days even if you can find people to do the proper binding, and the spells need—” “I don’t want it rebuilt, I just want it to work properly,” said Granny. “It’s an early model, you see,” the dwarf plugged on. “Very tricky, those early models. You can’t get the wood—” He was picked up bodily until his eyes were level with Granny’s. Dwarves, being magical in themselves as it were, are quite resistant to magic but her expression looked as though she was trying to weld his eyeballs to the back of his skull. “Just repair it,” she hissed. “Please?” “What, make a bodge job?” said the dwarf, his pipe clattering to the floor. “Yes.” “Patch it up, you mean? Betray my training by doing half a job?” “Yes,” said Granny. Her pupils were two little black holes. “Oh,” said the dwarf. “Right, then.