Books Are Portals Quotes

I fell in love with books. Some people find beauty in music, some in painting, some in landscape, but I find it in words. By beauty, I mean the feeling you have suddenly glimpsed another world, or looked into a portal that reveals a kind of magic or romance out of which the world has been constructed, a feeling there is something more than the mundane, and a reason for our plodding.

Buying a book is not about obtaining a possession, but about securing a portal.

The one I felt and still feel most is lack of time. I used to have time to think, to reflect, my mind and I. We would sit together of an evening and listen to the inner melodies of the spirit, which one hears only in leisure moments when the words of some loved poet touch a deep, sweet chord in the soul that until then had been silent. But in college there is no time to commune with one's thoughts. One goes to college to learn, it seems, not to think. When one enters the portals of learning, one leaves the dearest pleasures--solitude, books and imagination--outside with the whispering pines. I suppose I ought to find some comfort in the thought that I am laying up treasures for future enjoyment, but I am improvident enough to prefer present joy to hoarding riches against a rainy day.

Books are not really just books at all, but doorways. They are portals into places I've never been and people I'll never be.

Libraries may embody our notion of permanence, but their patrons are always in flux. In truth, a library is as much a portal as it is a place—it is a transit point, a passage.

I care not how humble your bookshelf may be, or how lonely the room which it adorns. Close the door of that room behind you, shut off with it all the cares of the outer world, plunge back into the soothing company of the great dead, and then you are through the magic portal into that fair land whither worry and vexation can follow you no more. You have left all that is vulgar and all that is sordid behind you. There stand your noble, silent comrades, waiting in their ranks. Pass your eye down their files. Choose your man. And then you have but to hold up your hand to him and away you go together into dreamland

I began my studies with eagerness. Before me I saw a new world opening in beauty and light, and I felt within me the capacity to know all things. In the wonderland of Mind I should be as free as another [with sight and hearing]. Its people, scenery, manners, joys, and tragedies should be living tangible interpreters of the real world. The lecture halls seemed filled with the spirit of the great and wise, and I thought the professors were the embodiment of wisdom... But I soon discovered that college was not quite the romantic lyceum I had imagined. Many of the dreams that had delighted my young inexperience became beautifully less and "faded into the light of common day." Gradually I began to find that there were disadvantages in going to college. The one I felt and still feel most is lack of time. I used to have time to think, to reflect, my mind and I. We would sit together of an evening and listen to the inner melodies of the spirit, which one hears only in leisure moments when the words of some loved poet touch a deep, sweet chord in the soul that until then had been silent. But in college there is no time to commune with one's thoughts. One goes to college to learn, it seems, not to think. When one enters the portals of learning, one leaves the dearest pleasures – solitude, books and imagination – outside with the whispering pines. I suppose I ought to find some comfort in the thought that I am laying up treasures for future enjoyment, but I am improvident enough to prefer present joy to hoarding riches against a rainy day.

Books are like Tarot decks. They provide answers and guidance but more importantly, they are doorways and portals to the otherworld and the imagination. They leave their imprint and keep whispering to us long after we close the pages or shuffle the deck.

Time machines, magic portals, transporters, worm holes, flying carpets, relocation charms—such things do exist. They're called books.

It occurred to me that I’d packed at least nine or ten books, but not a single pair of socks.

Books are portals for the imagination, whether one is reading or writing, and unless one is keeping a private journal, writing something that no one is likely to read is like trying to have a conversation when you’re all alone. Readers extend and enhance the writer’s created work, and they deepen the colors of it with their own imagination and life experiences. In a sense, there’s a revision every time one's words are read by someone else, just as surely as there is whenever the writer edits. Nothing is finished or completely dead until both sides quit and it’s no longer a part of anyone’s thoughts. So it seems almost natural that a lifelong avid reader occasionally wants to construct a mindscape from scratch after wandering happily in those constructed by others. If writing is a collaborative communication between author and reader, then surely there’s a time and a place other than writing reviews for readers to 'speak' in the human literary conversation.

A good book is a portal that will take you anywhere in the world.

Books have given me a magic portal to connect with people of the past and the present. I know I shall never feel lonely or powerless again.

When we hear the ancient bells growling on a Sunday morning we ask ourselves: Is it really possible! This, for a jew, crucified two thousand years ago, who said he was God's son? The proof of such a claim is lacking. Certainly the Christian religion is an antiquity projected into our times from remote prehistory; and the fact that the claim is believed - whereas one is otherwise so strict in examining pretensions - is perhaps the most ancient piece of this heritage. A god who begets children with a mortal woman; a sage who bids men work no more, have no more courts, but look for the signs of the impending end of the world; a justice that accepts the innocent as a vicarious sacrifice; someone who orders his disciples to drink his blood; prayers for miraculous interventions; sins perpetrated against a god, atoned for by a god; fear of a beyond to which death is the portal; the form of the cross as a symbol in a time that no longer knows the function and ignominy of the cross -- how ghoulishly all this touches us, as if from the tomb of a primeval past! Can one believe that such things are still believed?

Dreams are like doors. They’re like portals to another reality, and once they’re open, you better watch out.

He pulled out a book here and there, but what kept catching his attention were the diagonal tunnels of sunlight rolling in through the dormer windows. All around him dust motes rose and fell, shimmering, quivering in those shafts of roiling light. He found several shelves full of old editions of classical writers and began vaguely browsing, hoping to find a cheap edition of Virgil's Aeneid, which he had only ever read in a borrowed copy. It wasn't really the great poem of antiquity that Dorrigo Evans wanted though, but the aura he felt around such books--an aura that both radiated outwards and took him inwards to another world that said to him that he was not alone. And this sense, this feeling of communion, would at moments overwhelm him. At such times he had the sensation that there was only one book in the universe, and that all books were simply portals into this greater ongoing work--an inexhaustible, beautiful world that was not imaginary but the world as it truly was, a book without beginning or end.

While some dismiss the Bible as a dusty old book, I view its pages as portals to adventure. Not only is the book chock-full of clever plots and compelling stories, but it’s laced with historical insights and literary beauty. When I open the Scripture, I imagine myself exploring an ancient kingdom . . . With every encounter, I learn something new about their life journeys and am reminded that the Bible is more than a record of the human quest for God: it’s the revelation of God’s quest for us.” - Scouting the Divine

Stories, A Portal to Anywhere but Here.

On that day, the library was transformed from a confusing and intimidating collection of books into a thousand different portals through time and space to fantastic worlds for me to explore.*

Unless you have a portal to Hell hidden in those pants, then I’ve probably seen everything you have to offer.

Every book is a new portal to a different world

Books are door-shaped portals carrying me across oceans and centuries, helping me feel less alone.

In truth, a library contains the entire universe, and each book is a portal to a different world.

Books are our friends. Our best friends,” she said with sudden passion. “They’re a portal to other worlds. They’re full of drama and wisdom and fun and showing you how to see things differently.

The bookstore itself was cozy but not crowded, with posters of classic novels framed and hung on the walls. And it was filled with that wonderful book smell that anyone who's ever even been near a book will recognize. It's more than the smell of paper; it's the smell of the high seas and adventure and far off worlds. It's the smell of a billion billion worlds, each a portal to somewhere new.

In college, there is no time to commune with one's thoughts. One goes to college to learn, it seems, not to think. When one enters the portals of learning, one leaves the dearest pleasures–solitude, books and imagination–outside with the whispering pines. I suppose I ought to find some comfort in the thought that I am laying up treasures for future enjoyment, but I am improvident enough to prefer present joy to hoarding riches against a rainy day.

My words shall open the portal to thee. My words shall reveal for thy eyes to see. My words shall forewarn what is yet to be. To find the way you must follow your heart, Any other path shall tear us apart. From Eleventh Elementum

Books are a portal to another world, but they lead to other places too. To places deep inside you still filled with hope and a desperate need for love. Places where your loneliness doesn’t exist, because you know how it can be filled.

Books are not really just books at all, but doorways. They are portals into places I've never been and people I'll never be.” “Sometimes the universe deals us fates that make us happy, but sometimes it simply deals us fates that make us.

The boy returned at ten-thirty on a Tuesday morning. It’s official library policy to report truants to the high school, because the school board felt we were becoming 'a haven for unsupervised and illicit teenage activity.' I happen to think that’s exactly what libraries should aspire to be, and suggested we get it engraved on a plaque for the front door.

On Editors: "... The chief qualification of ninety-nine per cent of all editors is failure. They have failed as writers. Don't think they prefer the drudgery of the desk and the slavery to their circulation and to the business manager to the joy of writing. They have tried to write, and they have failed. And right there is the cursed paradox of it. Every portal to success in literature is guarded by those watch-dogs, the failures of literature. The editors, the sub-editors, associate editors, most of them, and the manuscript readers for the magazines and book-publishers, most of them, nearly all of them, are men who wanted to write and failed. And yet they, of all creatures under the sun the most unfit, are the very creatures who decide what shall and what shall not find its way into print–they, who have proved themselves not original, who have demonstrated that they lack the divine fire, sit in judgment upon originality and genius. And after them comes the reviewers, just so many more failures. Don't tell me that they have not dreamed the dream and attempted to write poetry and fiction; for they have, and they have failed. Why, the average review is more nauseating than cod-liver oil....

in college there is no time to commune with one’s thoughts. One goes to college to learn, it seems, not to think. When one enters the portals of learning, one leaves the dearest pleasures — solitude, books and imagination — outside with the whispering pines. I

At such times he had the sensation that there was only one book in the universe, and that all books were simply portals into this greater ongoing work—an inexhaustible, beautiful world that was not imaginary but the world as it truly was, a book without beginning or end.

I care not how humble your bookshelf may be, nor how lowly the room which it adorns. Close the door of that room behind you, shut off with it all the cares of the outer world, plunge back into the soothing company of the great dead, and then you are through the magic portal into that fair land whither worry and vexation can follow you no more. You have left all that is vulgar and all that is sordid behind you. There stand your noble, silent comrades, waiting in their ranks. Pass your eye down their files. Choose your man. And then you have but to hold up your hand to him and away you go together into dreamland. Surely there would be something eerie about a line of books were it not that familiarity has deadened our sense of it. Each is a mummified soul embalmed in cere-cloth and natron of leather and printer's ink. Each cover of a true book enfolds the concentrated essence of a man. The personalities of the writers have faded into the thinnest shadows, as their bodies into impalpable dust, yet here are their very spirits at your command.

Quinns always come at half price, about half the time, and half-naked, even during the colder half of winter. A Quinn is like a queen, but draggier, and cheaper to buy and use for personal gain, unless you’re suspicious that you’re poor and illiterate like Jarod Kintz, in which case Quinns could be the spirits of your dead relatives, come to haunt you until you gather a massive fortune through selling books on the internet, to send some back in time through a portal you bought from the NSA, so they would have lived better lives without having to move a finger for their fortune. Oh, yah, and since they aren’t - they’re blue, like smurfs, yet they turn purple whenever tickled on the belly, which is something they seem to rather dislike, since they start biting and scratching when it happens, for no good reason, I might add.

She did ask where he’d been, though, and he obviously told the truth: He’d been helping Bethany, who was half-fictional, find her missing father in a superhero comic, only to be thrown into a Pick the Plot book by a fictional man named Nobody, who had then separated the fictional and nonfictional worlds and sent Owen and Bethany back to the nonfictional world through the last open portal between their worlds, the one that led to Neverland. And since that portal connected to London, that’s where they emerged.

Twitter was only the gateway, the portal into the endless city of the internet. Whole days went by on clicking, my attention snared over and over by pockets and ladders of information; an absent, ardent witness to the world, the Lady of Shalott with her back to the window, watching the shadows of the real appear in the lent blue glass of her magic mirror. I used to read like that, back in the age of paper, the finished century, to bury myself in a book, and now I gazed at the screen, my cathected silver lover.

...books were portals into worlds she yearned to know, whether they be ponderous volumes crammed with accumulated knowledge or whimsical fantasies featuring magical creatures.

. . . books can be magic - portals to other times and places. Escape routes from the real world.

a book was a portal, and when life got tough, you only needed to enter one to forget your woes for a while.

He always said that books were more than words on paper; they were portals to other places, other lives.

books were more than words on paper; they were portals to other places, other lives.

Books are a gateway to the extraordinary, a portal for the unfettered imagination and limitless creativity.

Actually, it reminded me of Tony Stark’s house in one of my favorite movies, Iron Man. I guess you could say it’s a MARVEL-ous mansion! (Heh, heh.)

OUCH! OUCH! OUCH!

Nether Portal big enough to fit the Ender Dragon into.

Don't you know, my friend, that books are dreams in written form?

What makes books more special than, say, a move, is that you can hold them. When your own world feels bleak, a book is a portal to anywhere. You can hide within the pages, linger there for comfort or protection. The best part? Whether you’re seven or sixty-seven, a favorite books is like an old friend, waiting for you with open arms, and right now, that’s what The Last Winter is for me.

What if there were a secret back-door portal to enlightenment? A shortcut, so to speak. I believe that the answer lies here, in wilderness. The shortcut is the long walk. However, you must go it alone. Once you get past the jitteriness of day one, the cravings of day two, and the loneliness of day three, meditation comes easily and naturally. Months of tension can be released in just a few days.

He always said that books were more than words on paper; they were portals to other places, other lives. I fell in love with books and the vast worlds they held inside, and I owed it all to my father.

Never go into a book. Either it's a dimensional portal, which is bad, or it's some sort of Dungeons and Dragons-style mimic-thing, which is also bad, although in a less 'we'll never find your body' sort of a way.

We read you. Talk to us son. What are you seeing?' "Ahhh. Captain I don't need a light anymore." "Repeat last transmission, you say your light is back on?" "Negative Sir. I don't need a light, I can see. Captain, you said Chado was talking to God?" "Roger that." "Well I believe God is down here right now.

Impossible. Sunk on its haunches in a predatory pose, a creature spread its long, curled fingers over the tiles on the roof, sniffing them. Its mottled, olive-grey skin winked in the uncertain March sunlight. Truly, a thing that didn’t belong here in ordinary suburbia, overlooking a garden that burst with beauty and life.

There was a school here now, in Concourse C. Like educated children everywhere, the children in the airport school memorized abstractions: the airplanes outside once flew through the air. You could use an airplane to travel to the other side of the world, but—the schoolteacher was a man who’d had frequent-flyer status on two airlines—when you were on an airplane you had to turn off your electronic devices before takeoff and landing, devices such as the tiny flat machines that played music and the larger machines that opened up like books and had screens that hadn’t always been dark, the insides brimming with circuitry, and these machines were the portals into a worldwide network. Satellites beamed information down to Earth. Goods traveled in ships and airplanes across the world. There was no place on earth that was too far away to get to. They were told about the Internet, how it was everywhere and connected everything, how it was us. They were shown maps and globes, the lines of the borders that the Internet had transcended. This is the yellow mass of land in the shape of a mitten; this pin here on the wall is Severn City. That was Chicago. That was Detroit. The children understood dots on maps—here—but even the teenagers were confused by the lines. There had been countries, and borders. It was hard to explain.

Remember what I said at the very beginning? Now, I’m giving you a choice: You can put the book down now— but you’ll just have some of the story. Look other places for more of it. Dig even deeper, and you could become part of it. The web of answers is out there. If you can find the portal. Be careful. And don’t say I didn’t warn you. Max

You know how my first few minutes in a new Minecraft world are usually spent screaming, running for my life, and hiding from scary monsters—sometimes even GIANT ones! Well, not this time! Instead of a giant monster, I was plopped down in front of a giant MANSION! (Yay, Minecraft: Peaceful Paradise floating book!) And the best part was that it wasn’t all dark and creepy like the Haunted House! It was an awesome modern mansion made of white stone and glass. Even better, it was built on a hillside overlooking an ocean! Actually, it reminded me of Tony Stark’s house in one of my favorite movies, Iron Man. I guess you could say it’s a MARVEL-ous mansion! (Heh, heh.)   Anyway,

And this sense, this feeling of communion, would at moments overwhelm him. At such times he had the sensation that there was only one book in the universe, and that all books were simply portals into this greater ongoing work—an inexhaustible, beautiful world that was not imaginary but the world as it truly was, a book without beginning or end.

But there is so much more in those words than just loving books. I love the smell of them. I love the way their bindings look pressed together on a shelf. I love the feel of pages buzzing through my fingers. I love big books and small books. I love words and how they're strung together, and most of all, I love the stories. I love how books are not really just books at all, but doorways. They are portals into places I've never been and people I'll never be, and in them I have lived a thousand lives and seen a thousand worlds. In them I can be a princess or a knight of valor or a villian - I can be coveted, I can conquer evils, I can defeat Dark Lords and destroy the One Ring and unite a Federation on the brink of collapse.

If, when he disappeared through his portal, he went to Faery, time moves differently there.” “That’s what V’lane said.” I emptied the cash drawer, counted the bills into stacks, then began punching in numbers on an adding machine. The store wasn’t computerized, which made bookkeeping a real pain in the neck. He gave me a look. “The two of you are getting downright chatty, aren’t you, Miss Lane? When did you last see him? What else did he tell you?” “I’m asking the questions tonight.” One day I was going to write a book: How to Dictate to a Dictator and Evade an Evader, subtitled How to Handle Jericho Barrons. He snorted. “If an illusion of control comforts you, Ms. Lane, by all means, cling to it.” “Jackass.” I gave him a look modeled on his own. He laughed, and I stared, then blinked and looked away. I finished rubber-banding the cash, put it in a leather pouch, and punched the final numbers in, running the day’s total. For a moment there he hadn’t looked dark, forbidding, and cold, but dark, forbidding, and . . . warm. In fact, when he’d laughed he’d looked . . . well . . . kind of hot. I grimaced. Obviously I’d eaten something bad for lunch.

The flesh of the body does not make it conscious its the unknown inside that does. The arms of the galaxy do not make it turn around its the unknown that holds it together and spin around. The mind does not create the thought it’s the unknown consciousness that is plugged to myriad’s of portals that does. A thing of beauty is not made of brick and mortar it’s made of an unknown divine spark. The world is essentially that unknown Drop the act and connect to the unknown.

The Portal Potion Success! After weeks and weeks of trying, I’ve finally discovered the correct ingredients for the potion I’d hoped to create for my son! With just a few drops, the potion turns any written work into a portal to the world it describes. Even with my ability to create portals to and from the Otherworld, I never thought it would be possible to create a substance that allowed me passage to any world I wished. My son will get to see the places and meet the characters he’s spent his whole childhood dreaming about! And best of all, I’ll get to watch his happiness soar as it happens! The ingredients are much simpler than I imagined, but difficult to obtain. Their purposes are more metaphysical than practical, so it took some imagination to get the concoction right. The first requirement is a branch from the oldest tree in the woods. To bring the pages to life, I figured the potion would need the very thing that brought the paper to life in the first place. And what else has more life than an ancient tree? The second ingredient is a feather from the finest pheasant in the sky. This will guarantee your potion has no limits, like a bird in flight. It will ensure you can travel to lands far and wide, beyond your imagination. The third component is a liquefied lock and key that belonged to a true love. Just as this person unlocked your heart to a life of love, it will open the door of the literary dimensions your heart desires to experience. The fourth ingredient is two weeks of moonlight. Just as the moon causes waves in the ocean, the moonlight will stir your potion to life. Last, but most important, give the potion a spark of magic to activate all the ingredients. Send it a beam of joy straight from your heart. The potion does not work on any biographies or history books, but purely on works that have been imagined. Now, I must warn about the dangers of entering a fictional world: 1. Time only exists as long as the story continues. Be sure to leave the book before the story ends, or you may disappear as the story concludes. 2. Each world is made of only what the author describes. Do not expect the characters to have any knowledge of our world or the Otherworld. 3. Beware of the story’s villains. Unlike people in our world or the Otherworld, most literary villains are created to be heartless and stripped of all morals, so do not expect any mercy should you cross paths with one. 4. The book you choose to enter will act as your entrance and exit. Be certain nothing happens to it; it is your only way out. The

There was a rupture in the fabric of space inside the truck, and a rift developed that connected worlds and dimensions. William Connoley, travelling book-salesman and keeper of the portal between the worlds, saw shimmers of a room with a large, dark, wooden table laden with mysterious utensils, a chair, glass-like shards on the floor, vials, small windows, shelves with jars, and many other things he had never seen before. The vision, strange as it was, only lasted seconds, but it burnt itself into his memory. Then a bright flash of light took away his eyesight momentarily, while an invisible roller-coaster-like sensation filled his stomach with the most unwelcome and sickening feeling. There was a roaring sound, and suddenly smoke filled the cabin, chasing William into the street as he coughed and gasped for air. His eyes burnt from the grey fumes.

Derrick flies through the portal first. “Look at you,” he says, stopping to study me. “Alive. Unscathed. Good. If you hadn’t been, I would have lopped his fingers off.” Kiaran moves to stand beside me. “I would have pulled off your wings.” “Ignore him, pixie.” Aithinne strides into the room, her long coat billowing behind her. “I should have figured he’d be sullen and moody.” Kiaran’s emotionless gaze flickers to her. “Phiuthair.” “Bhràthair.” She stops and studies him. “You look like hell. I suppose you haven’t fed in a few days, if the lack of gifts is any indication.” “Don’t.” Kiaran’s voice dips in warning. “I’m wonderful, by the way,” she continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Do you like my coat? Don’t I look lovely? Aren’t I the best sister for standing here, still willing to talk to you after you’ve ignored me for months, you stubborn bastard?” “Well, this is fun,” Derrick says. “I’m really feeling the love in this room. It’s beautiful. Aileana, isn’t it beautiful?” “You’re here because Kam wanted your help. Not because I did.” “Damn it, MacKay—” “You might not have wanted me,” Aithinne says, ignoring my attempts to stand between them, “but look how quickly I came. Because I still care about you. Though god only knows why, since you’re such an obstinate pain in my arse.” “I love it when Aithinne curses at people.” Derrick says to me. “I say we let them fight it out. A round of fisticuffs. No killing. I’ll go and find refreshments.” “Oh, for god’s sake,” Sorcha says from behind us. “If you’re all going to squabble, I’d prefer to be back in my prison. That wasn’t torture. This is torture.” Derrick peeks through my hair. “What’s that murderous arsehole doing here?” Sorcha blinks at him. “What did you just call me?” “You heard me, pointy-toothed hag.” “Sorcha can find the Book,” I interrupt. “And we need her blood to get there. It was her or Lonnrach.” “So given a choice between murderous arseholes you chose the one who killed you.” Derrick’s laugh is dry. “That’s interesting.” “I chose the one who was conveniently chained up, rather than the one in hiding.” Derrick doesn’t look convinced. “And we’re just supposed to believe she’s helping out of the goodness of that black hunk of rock in her chest that she calls a heart?” “I’m standing right here,” Sorcha says sharply. “Wish you weren’t,” Derrick sings. Then, to me: “Let me give you some advice, friend. If you’re going to take her along, make her go first. That way you don’t have to worry about her shoving a blade into your back.” “Sweet little pixie,” Sorcha says. “If there’s one thing you should have learned, it’s that I’m perfectly willing to stab her in the front.” She turns on her heel and heads toward the great hall, the fabric of her brocade dress sweeping across the ground like a cloak. “If you’re coming, the door is this way

When I was a child, my father forbade me to read science fiction or fantasy. Trash of the highest order, he said. He didn't want me muddying up my young, impressionable mind with crap. If it wasn't worthy of being reviewed in the Times, it did not make it onto our bookshelves. So while my classmates gleefully dove into The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, A Wrinkle in Time, and The Borrowers, I was stuck reading Old Yeller. My saving grace- I was the most popular girl in my class. That's not saying much; it was easy to be popular at that age. All you had to do was wear your hair in French braids, tell your friends your parents let you drink grape soda every night at dinner, and take any dare. I stood in a bucket of hot water for five minutes without having to pee. I ate four New York System wieners (with onions) in one sitting. I cut my own bangs and- bam!- I was queen of the class. As a result I was invited on sleepovers practically every weekend, and it was there that I cheated. I skipped the séances and the Ouija board. I crept into my sleeping bag with a flashlight, zipped it up tight, and pored through those contraband books. I fell into Narnia. I tessered with Meg and Charles Wallace; I lived under the floorboards with Arrietty and Pod. I think it was precisely because those books were forbidden that they lived on in me long past the time that they should have. For whatever reason, I didn't outgrow them. I was constantly on the lookout for the secret portal, the unmarked door that would lead me to another world. I never thought I would actually find it.

Origin of Justice.—Justice (reasonableness) has its origin among approximate equals in power, as Thucydides (in the dreadful conferences of the Athenian and Melian envoys) has[112] rightly conceived. Thus, where there exists no demonstrable supremacy and a struggle leads but to mutual, useless damage, the reflection arises that an understanding would best be arrived at and some compromise entered into. The reciprocal nature is hence the first nature of justice. Each party makes the other content inasmuch as each receives what it prizes more highly than the other. Each surrenders to the other what the other wants and receives in return its own desire. Justice is therefore reprisal and exchange upon the basis of an approximate equality of power. Thus revenge pertains originally to the domain of justice as it is a sort of reciprocity. Equally so, gratitude.—Justice reverts naturally to the standpoint of self preservation, therefore to the egoism of this consideration: "why should I injure myself to no purpose and perhaps never attain my end?"—So much for the origin of justice. Only because men, through mental habits, have forgotten the original motive of so called just and rational acts, and also because for thousands of years children have been brought to admire and imitate such acts, have they gradually assumed the appearance of being unegotistical. Upon this appearance is founded the high estimate of them, which, moreover, like all estimates, is continually developing, for whatever is highly esteemed is striven for, imitated,[113] made the object of self sacrifice, while the merit of the pain and emulation thus expended is, by each individual, ascribed to the thing esteemed.—How slightly moral would the world appear without forgetfulness! A poet could say that God had posted forgetfulness as a sentinel at the portal of the temple of human merit!

The rose is a symbol of the inner mysteries of Witchcraft. A red rose symbolizes the mysteries as they reside in Nature, within the living things. The white rose symbolizes the Otherworld and the mysteries hidden in secret places. When a single rose appears with white petals in the center of red petals, this represents the mysteries joined together within one reality. Thorns appearing with the rose represent challenges and the dedication required to fully grasp the enlightenment of the rose. One of the symbolisms associated with the rose reveals the covenant between the Witch and the Faery. In this, we find that both are stewards of the portal that opens to the inner mysteries. The Faery holds the celestial key, and the Witch bears the terrestrial key. When the two are joined together, they form an X—the sign of the crossroads. In this formation, where the keys cross we find a third point, the in-between place at the center. This is where the portal exists, and this is where it opens between the worlds. Look at the shape of the X and you can see four pointed tip markers (the V shapes). The upper half of the X points down, and the lower half points up. On the sides of the X, you can see that the left and right halves point to the center. This shows us that when the celestial and terrestrial realms join, they pull together the left ways and the right ways. These are occult terms for esoteric and exoteric modes of consciousness. In the fusion, everything briefly loses its distinction, its ability to mask the opposite reality, and in doing so, the secret third reality emerges in the center of it all. If this sounds confusing or nonsensical, then the guardian of that portal is doing its job well. The material in this book will connect you with an entity connected to the rose and its mystery. This is the previously mentioned She of the Thorn-Blooded Rose. With her guidance, you can be directed to the portal, and through it you can meet a variety of beings and entities. However, her primary task is to connect you with the Greenwood Realm and the plant spirits within it. In your journey to encounter these spirits, you will pass through the organic memory of the earth. You'll walk upon roads of mystical concepts and be accompanied by the Old Ones of

ceremonial tools that archaeologists found hidden in the niches of these ancient kivas had been used by medicine men to open the portals this book is studying, in order to contact parallel realities.

Satan with his fierce temptations wrung the heart of Jesus. The Saviour could not see through the portals of the tomb. Hope did not present to Him His coming forth from the grave a conqueror, or tell Him of the Father’s acceptance of the sacrifice. He feared that sin was so offensive to God that Their separation was to be eternal. Christ felt the anguish which the sinner will feel when mercy shall no longer plead for the guilty race. It was the sense of sin, bringing the Father’s wrath upon Him as man’s substitute, that made the cup He drank so bitter, and broke the heart of the Son of God.

Nether Portal

OH, THAT YOU WOULD REND THE HEAVENS! THAT YOU WOULD COME DOWN! THE HEAVENS OPEN! The momentum of these meetings continued to build. In desperation, I positioned my heart to encounter God. I continued to see the open heaven swirling in the sanctuary of Living Waters Ministries. I was still seeing feathers and bolts of lightning, and hearing dozens of angels singing along with the worship team. On Saturday evening, the open heaven had grown to about a 25-foot circumference. I was well able to see it with my natural eyes and continued to watch it spin over the church. I was praying and observing everything. I was lying prostrate on the floor unable to move my body. I could see, and I could hear, but was totally unable to move. It was as if I was glued to the floor. However, I kept my eyes focused on the open heaven that was swirling in the church. I found myself in the same position on Sunday morning when a young man named Dean stood up to give his testimony about seeing Jesus in the Saturday evening service. When he began to share, I noticed that there was a flurry of activity around the edge of the open heaven that I was monitoring from my horizontal position on the floor. Dean became totally undone and was unable to speak about his experience. Several angels scurried to the edge and began to excitedly talk among themselves and point down at Dean. At first there were about six angels, and they were very keen to hear and see what was transpiring in the sanctuary. Soon a plethora of angels began to fill the circumference of the portal. There appeared to be angels of all ages, shapes, and sizes. I saw several small angels that appeared to be young children. (Jesus Himself referred to these; see Matthew 18:10.) I also witnessed angels

I stared at the hypnotic blur of the wall. “How do you open the portal to send the demon back?” “You twit,” Matthias scoffed. “Nobody can open a portal. We kill the demon as usual and it disappears back to hell. As usual.” He rolled his eyes. “Open a friggin’ portal. You’re such a moron.”  A & E Kirk (2014-05-26). Drop Dead Demons: The Divinicus Nex Chronicles: Book 2 (Divinicus Nex Chronicles series) (p. 139). A&E Kirk. Kindle Edition.

A hand came out of the portal. On a surprising note — because everything else so far had been completely mundane — it wasn’t decomposing. A & E Kirk (2014-05-26). Drop Dead Demons: The Divinicus Nex Chronicles: Book 2 (Divinicus Nex Chronicles series) (p. 526). A&E Kirk. Kindle Edition.

A crack of thunder resounded overhead. The funnel cloud swirled above the shrine. Below, in the huge courtyard of Etemenanki, the entire army of ten thousand Stone Ones assembled and stood to attention at the command of Terah. Nimrod, with bandaged throat, stood beside Terah. The king oversaw the complete entourage of every magician, every sorcerer, every astrologer and omen diviner in Babylon surround the ziggurat with ritual incantations. The temple towered over them, standing three hundred feet high. It was a small mountain, a cosmic mountain. Soon it would be the new home of the gods, and an occultic portal through which they might storm heaven. It was time.

But instead of the portal opening up for more Watchers to come down, the assembly of the gods felt the horrifying pull of the whirlwind upward. This was not the plan.   Abram saw all the gods in the shrine sucked up into the whirlwind. He looked at Mikael, who laughed heartily. It was the opposite of what the gods had expected. Before Abram could grasp what he had seen, the earth rumbled beneath their feet. The land before them rose up like a rug being shaken. The ripple of earth traveled speedily toward Babylon.

This huge tower would become the new cosmic mountain of the gods. They would engage in an occultic ceremony that would transform the ziggurat into a portal, a literal stairway to heaven that would enable the pantheon to recruit from the myriads of Elohim’s heavenly host to join their revolution. The original two hundred had accomplished much since the days of Noah. They eagerly imagined what they could do with thousands or even millions.

went to this house of worship on Rosh Hashannah, the Jewish New Year. It was a most moving experience. Since few Czech Jews had survived, the crowd was made up of remnants from the survivors of different Jewish communities. The books, the torahs, the cemetery - everything, at that time, was in complete disarray. It was the most moving experience that I ever had in a synagogue. I also saw and admired the square where Huss was burnt on the stake. He was the Czech reformer, who wanted to translate the Bible into the national language and was burnt to death by the prevailing Catholics, who judged him as a heretic. The old, historic town fascinated me no end. The medieval houses, with fortresslike portals, the waterwell in the courtyards, the crossover walks from one side of the street to the other, at the third or fourth floor level for escape, in case of attack; the walls around the area. It all brought the history of the city alive; it brought the Middle Ages alive.

Distinctiveness of This Book The book claims to be distinctive in several ways. First, it presents the breadth of case study research and its scholarly heritage, but also at a detailed and practical level. Other works do not offer as comprehensive a combination. Thus, the earlier versions of this book have been used as a complete portal to the world of case study research. Among its most distinctive features, the book provides a workable technical definition of the case study as a research method and its differentiation from other social science research methods (Chapter 1), an extensive discussion of case study designs (Chapter 2), and a continually expanding presentation of case study analysis techniques (Chapter 5

This was a great book! It follows how Jason Walker is transported back to earth after spending months in Lyrian. He knows that he has things that he still must do in Lyrian. He decides to try and find a way back. The problem is that if he doesn't travel through the portal correctly, he will die. What happens next? You'll have to read the book to find out.

Isaac Asimov once wrote, ‘It isn't just a library, it is a space ship that will take you to the farthest reaches of the Universe, a time machine that will take you to the far past and the far future, a teacher that knows more than any human being, a friend that will amuse you and console you -- and most of all, a gateway, to a better, happier, and more useful life.’ But you know what?” “Tell me,” Chelle said, as if waiting for a great secret. “During all my years in this grand building, I’ve come to the realization that Asimov actually understated it. In truth, a library contains the entire universe, and each book is a portal to a different world.

Charsoc glared at Jether with undisguised loathing. “A message from my master concerning the forthcoming evacuation of the Nazarene’s subjects,” he said. “They are more than an irritant, Jether. They greatly obstruct our progress in the realm of Men.” Charsoc removed a parchment missive from his carpetbag. “You know I have always been a stickler for legal protocol. I hold Yehovah’s guarantee—the Rubied Seal.” Charsoc held out a parchment missive with a glimmering Rubied Seal to Jether. “My master demands its immediate implementation.” Jether slowly took the missive from Charsoc’s outstretched hand. “The Rapture,” Charsoc hissed. “As it is called in the world of the Race of Men.” “It is imminent,” Jether said, his voice very soft. “Imminent is not soon enough. They plague us with their confounded supplications. The incursions of the angelic hosts through the Portals to assist them must stop.” Charsoc swung around. “The Nazarene,” he spat. “Visitations to this wretched planet. Nightly.” “They are His subjects. He is their King. He comes in answer to their supplications.” “Precisely. Their removal ensures His removal. And it ensures our victory. From the hour the Ishtar Treaty was signed, we had seven years until the Final Battle. Forty-two months are all but gone. We are running late.” “But we are right on time, Charsoc.” Jether’s voice was very soft. He looked down at the missive in his palm. “We demand their removal,” Charsoc snarled. “According to the precepts of Eternal Law.” “You can make no demands. You abide by Yehovah’s jurisdictions only.

The Perfect Seed Minecraft 1.7.9 Seed: 686298914     This has got to be the perfect seed with Villages, Desert Temples, Dungeons, Desert Villages and Strongholds. What more do you need!   Village with Diamonds & Tools: x: (-151) y: (72) z: (236)   NPC Village with Iron Armor & Tools: x: (-323) y: (75) z: (1039)   Desert temple: x: (-184) y: (73) z: (648)   Desert temple: x: (-500) y: (74) z: (329)   Desert temple: x: (-197) y: (67) z: (650)   Desert village (large): x: (-328) y: (82) z: (560)   Desert village (small): x: (-1254) y: (71) z: (743)   Desert temple (buried): x: (-804) y: (74) z: (1050)   Desert village: x: (-804) y: (74) z: (1050)   Desert village (tiny): x: (88) y: (77) z: (139)   Stronghold: x: (-973) y: (93) z: (127)   Dungeon -- Zombie Spawner (Contains Golden Apple): x: (-149) y: (68) z: (343)   Dungeon -- Spider Spawner (Lots of Name Tags): x: (-446) y: (59) z: (386) Best Seed Ever! Minecraft 1.7.9 Seed: 2138374464889032671     This is probably the best seed you will ever find simply because it has everything you coukld ever want  including Villages, Dungeon Spawners, Abandoned Mineshafts and even a stronghold. Take this seed for a spin for a great minecraft experience.     1st NPC Village w/Blacksmith: x: (-346) y: (67) z: (320)   2nd NPC Village (3 Dungeons underneath): x: (-850) y: (64) z: (250)   1st Dungeon spawner (contains enchanted book): x: (-852) y: (57) z: (252)   2nd Dungeon spawner (contains enchanted book): x: (-856) y: (56) z: (265)   3rd Dugneon spawner: x: (-861) y: (56) z: (270)   4th Dugneon spawner: x (-773) y: (23) z: (183)   5th Dungeon spawner: x: (-733) y: (19) z: (321)   6th Dungeon spawner: x: (-711) y: (41) z: (201)   Abandoned Mineshaft w/Diamonds: x: (-839) y: (42) z: (633)   Stronghold w/End Portal: x: (-80) y: (42) z: (795)

Best Desert Seed Minecraft 1.8 Seed: 1660196624     This seed has everything you could want in a dert biome including a village, desert temple and even a stronghold with an End Portal. Have fun.     NPC Village at Spawn: x: (116) y: (68) z: (157)   Desert Temple at Spawn: x: (90) y: (53) z: (42)   Desert Temple w/Diamonds & Enchanted Book: x: (-133) y: (53) z: (-325)   Stronghold w/End Portal: x: (-372) y: (33) z: (-611)

Once they’d eaten, Dave built a nether portal on the grass out of obsidian. “Make sure you use the right blocks!” Carl yelled at him. Dave smiled, remembering the time when he, Porkins and Carl had been escaping from Trotter, a giant zombie pigman, and Dave had been panicking so much that he’d built a portal out of nether brick.

I don’t know what a Nether Star is, but since the day I heard of it till today I had felt a longing to hold it, to have it under my power. On some level I felt like I did know what the Nether Star was. The name sounded vaguely familiar; like a distant memory struggling to resurface.

One thing that Herobrine asked us to do was to look for end portals. He was desperate to find one, and all four of us ordered our subjects to dig underground everywhere to try and find one. I’ve no idea what Herobrine wanted with the End, but I assume there’s something there that could help him destroy the world. I’ve no idea what, though. So Spidroth, my brothers and I all ruled over our empires for years, fighting wars to protect our borders and putting down rebellions. Then one day Herobrine summoned all four of us to his castle in the mountains.

We’re making sure it connects you right with the king. There won’t be any issues. You just simply walk through the portal and tell them you’re from the End City.” The leader of our city, Marketh, said to me as I was led towards the portal. “Walk through

He had probably not distinguished himself in battle enough yet to warrant a full set of armor. In his right hand, he held a golden sword that sparkled in the light of the portals, its edge keen and razor-sharp. “Zombie, come forward,” Xa-Tul bellowed as he pointed at the monster. The zombie appeared shocked and afraid. It was never a good idea to be noticed by the zombie king. It either meant that you’d done something wrong or that there was an incredibly dangerous task that needed doing. The monster sighed and slowly approached. “What is the name of this zombie?” Xa-Tul asked. “Ki-Lor,” the warrior answered. “Excellent. There is a task for Ki-Lor,” the zombie king explained. “Go through the yellow portal to the other server and bring the other zombies here. Tell the zombies that Xa-Tul demands their presence.” “How many should be brought?” the zombie warrior inquired timidly. Xa-Tul turned his head and glared at the subordinate. “All of them!” he snapped. “All of them?” Ki-Lor asked in disbelief. The king of the zombies nodded his big head, the light from the sparkling gateways

While journeying through a swamp biome a short while later, Dave and his friends were captured by a witch named Dotty. She put them to sleep by sneaking poison into their food, and then they woke up in cages in a bedrock castle in the mountains. Herobrine was there, surrounded by witches. Herobrine wanted Dave to tell him the secret to finding end portals, and threatened to kill him and his friends. Dave was going to tell Herobrine what he wanted to know, but then he heard the voice of his grandmother in his head, telling him not to tell Herobrine anything. Dave was very confused, having not seen his grandmother since he was a child. He knew she was a witch, though,

Those Minecraftians and their junk… At least, I figured it was Minecraftian junk. I had never personally met one of the creatures before. From what I’d heard in my training and tales from other Endermen, the Minecraftians were small and weak, but were intelligent, and were able to transform the Overworld into tools, armor, and other technology that made them stronger. The older Endermen told me stories about the famous Steve, as well as other Minecraftians that came and went frequently on the Overworld. We even saw a Minecraftian or two appear every once and a while on the dragon’s island, stuck on our world because of dabbling with portal technology they didn’t understand.

What makes books more special than, say, a movie, is that you can hold them. When your own world feels bleak, a book is a portal to anywhere. You can hide within the pages, linger there for comfort or protection.

DEMETER FOLLOWED ARES, watching until the pug had squeezed through the dog-size portal to the airy northern land where Ares, Athena, and the other large animals went to stretch their legs. “Attaboy, Ares,” said a tall redheaded woman who stepped into view in

Books on the shelves were portals waiting to transport me somewhere and with one turn of the first page I could be pulled into another realm where I could make new friends and have adventures.

There was no other world,” the Bone Carver pushed. “If there was or is, I did not see it.” “No light, no portal?” Where is it that you want to go? The question almost leaped off my tongue. “It was only peace and darkness.

Every life contains many millions of decisions. Some big, some small. But every time one decision is taken over another, the outcomes differ. An irreversible variation occurs, which in turn leads to further variations. These books are portals to all the lives you could be living.

adult piglin pointed at Kate. “You need to get that thing out of here right this instant! If one of us goes through, we’ll get zombified!” Kate opened her arms wide, then pulled out her diamond pickaxe. “I know, I’m so sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” She mined the obsidian, breaking the nether portal then gave out the chocolate chip cookies she had been saving to the kids. “Sorry about that!”  She ran out of the apartment, Bruce following her. Mom saw her from the nether village square and waved, a big smiled on her face. When Kate got there before she could even talk Mom swooped her up in a huge hug. “Ack! Mom! We just saw each other like a few hours ago.”  “I’m allowed to hug my kids,” Mom said, winking at her. She set her down. “How’d it go?”  “Well besides scaring the piglins half to death, pretty good. I found the perfect spot and got a small mine started. Is everyone ready here?”  Mom nodded. “Yep. Lots of potions and launchers are made. We didn’t have enough slime blocks, so you’ll have to use water.”  “Rats,” Kate said. “Oh well, it’ll have to work. Let’s get everyone ready.”  They spent a while rounding up everyone who was going to be on the team and gathered in the portal room of the castle. Ethan and Elijah were both there, along with a whole team of miners. Also Alex, who had been in charge of making all the launchers, and Delilah with several other evokers.  “We thought some vexes would be useful against the creature,” Delilah said.  “Oh good idea.” Kate smiled. “I’m starting to wonder if we could just take care of it before Dad and Jack even get back. Wouldn’t that be something?

Buying a book is not about obtaining a possession but securing a portal.

A wither skeleton took a step in front of the portal. Funny how it is okay for them to drag you into the portal but they don’t want you to go in on your own. Invite only, apparently.

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You have barred the doors caged the windows every portal sealed to the outside world, and now you find what you feared most - there are killers and they are in the House.

Whew, we made it.” Dad said, standing up and dusting himself off. Then a ball of fire shot out of the portal, crashing right into Dad's butt again.  “AAAAAAHHHH! Not again!” Mom equipped a bucket full of water and threw it on some sparks that landed on a tree branch next to Dad. “Please tell me you just missed.” Dad raised an eyebrow at Mom. “Dear, you know how dangerous forest fires can be.” “But... but... MY BUTT IS ON FIRE!