Brian Fellows Quotes

Because, sir, teaching young gentlemen has a dismal effect upon the soul.It exemplifies the badness of established, artificial authority. The pedagogue has almost absolute authority over pupils: he often beats them and insensibly he loses the sense of respect due to them as fellow human beings.He does them harm, but the harm they do him is far greater. He may easily become the all-knowing tyrant, always right, always virtuous; in any event he perpetually associates with his inferiors, the king of his company; and in a surprising short time alas this brands him with the mark of Cain. Have you ever known a schoolmaster fit to associate with grown men?

If God can become human, then we must reconsider how we treat our fellow humans.

I always think fondly of my years inside Detention Center LC/766B. The women and the children I met had all lost people they loved, but they never wallowed in despair. Dying is one of the few experiences we'll eventually all enjoy firsthand, and like most shit that's commonplace, it's boring to dwell on. My fellow inmates/classmates (and really, what's the difference?) showed me it was more interesting to concentrate on the living. Because death is fucking predictable... ...but life has science experiments and free time and surprise naps and who knows what comes next?

Stephen nodded. 'Tell me,' he said, in a low voice, some moments later. 'Were I under naval discipline, could that fellow have me whipped?'He nodded towards Mr Marshall. 'The master?' cried Jack, with inexpressible amazement. 'Yes,' said Stephen looking attentively at him, with his head slightly inclined to the left. 'But he is the master...' said Jack. If Stephen had called the sophies stem her stern, or her truck her keel, he would have understood the situation directly; but that Stephen should confuse the chain of command, the relative status of a captain and a master, of a commissioned officer and a warrant officer, so subverted the natural order, so undermined the sempiternal universe, that for a moment his mind could hardly encompass it. Yet Jack, though no great scholar, no judge of a hexameter, was tolerably quick, and after gasping no more than twice he said, 'My dear sir, I beleive you have been lead astray by the words master and master and commander- illogical terms, I must confess. The first is subordinate to the second. You must allow me to explain our naval ranks some time. But in any case you will never be flogged- no, no; you shall not be flogged,' he added, gazing with pure affection, and with something like awe, at so magnificent a prodigy, at an ignorance so very far beyond anything that even his wide-ranging mind had yet conceived.

One simple answer is that there has been a massive rise in the incidence of sanctimony and smugness among the successful that has nothing to do with any change in the underlying reality. Rather, it has been stimulated by politicians who have realized that it is possible to win power by recruiting the most economically successful forty per cent or so of the population in a crusade to roll back the gains made by their fellow citizens in the previous forty years. And how better to rationalize this than to tell people that they deserve the incomes that the market generates?

The animosity I felt from the colored people I encountered growing up was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to deal with. It taught me that it is easier to be an insider as an outsider than to be an outsider as an insider. If a white guy chooses to immerse himself in hip-hop culture and only hang out with black people, black people will say, “Cool, white guy. Do what you need to do.” If a black guy chooses to button up his blackness to live among white people and play lots of golf, white people will say, “Fine. I like Brian. He’s safe.” But try being a black person who immerses himself in white culture while still living in the black community. Try being a white person who adopts the trappings of black culture while still living in the white community. You will face more hate and ridicule and ostracism than you can even begin to fathom. People are willing to accept you if they see you as an outsider trying to assimilate into their world. But when they see you as a fellow tribe member attempting to disavow the tribe, that is something they will never forgive.

It is only that I dislike the whole notion of subordination. The corporal lurks in almost every bosom, and each man tends to use authority when he has it, thus destroying his natural relationship with his fellows, a disastrous state of affairs for both sides. Do away with subordination and you do away with tyranny: without subordination we should have no Neros, no Tamerlanes, no Buonapartes.’ ‘Stuff,’ said Jack. ‘Subordination is the natural order: there is subordination in Heaven – Thrones and Dominions take precedence over Powers and Principalities, Archangels and ordinary foremast angels; and so it is in the Navy. You have come to the wrong shop for anarchy, brother.

Robin’s experience is his love for his fellow man. He was in the fortunate position of having plenty of money, yet it wasn’t just money that he was willing to give away; he gave something far more important – his time and energy. There is little doubt that, were he still alive, he would be planning more ways to help those in need. Whether rich or poor, we can all do more than we do to help others.

I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again. —STEPHEN GRELLET

Surely many courageous Christians spoke out against the savagery of their so-called civilized fellow Christians? And surely many compassionate Christians spoke out for the humanity of the so-called savages? Sadly, very, very few actually did, notable among them a Dominican friar, Bartolomé de las Casas. His

Profane oaths, cursings and execrations (forbidden in any event by the second Article of War) were laid aside or modified, and it was pleasant to hear the bosun cry 'Oh you . . . unskilful fellow' when a hand called Faster Doudle, staring aft at Mrs Fielding, dropped a marline-spike from the maintop, very nearly transfixing Mr Hollar's foot. Punishment, in the sense of flogging at the gangway, was also laid aside; and though this was of no great consequence in a ship that so very rarely saw the cat, the general sense of relaxation and indulgence might have done great harm to discipline to the Surprise had she not had an exceptional ship's company. She always had been a happy ship; now she was happier still; and it occurred to Stephen that a really handsome, thoroughly good-natured but totally inaccessible young woman, changed at stated intervals, before familiarity could set in, would be a very valuable addition to any man-of-war's establishment.

how it had looked like Eden. He pondered what it was like for the Man and Woman to be in such communion with Elohim, their fellow creatures, and the world around them, full of splendor and glory. He wondered what it would be like to be in Elohim’s presence and the presence of his divine council of ten thousands of holy ones surrounding his throne and worshipping in the Garden that was his temple.

He was a horrid-looking fellow. Fat as a pig he was, and his face was the colour of cottage cheese. His collar was unbuttoned and his silk tie was spotted with egg stain. His stomach stuck out like a sagging pillow and his little thin legs fell away under it to end in torn felt slippers. He was all bristly blond jowls, tiny puffy hands and long blond curly hair, like some monstrous baby swelled to man size.

The classroom gradually filled up with our other roommates, but one bed remained unclaimed, heightening the air of mystery surrounding its future occupant. Then, suddenly, the door crashed open and into the room strode a human hurricane—a sturdy, confident fellow who greeted everyone with great cheer and a ferocious hug. He was almost four years older than me. He introduced himself to me as Brian Blessed. He was not yet the globally renowned actor, mountaineer, adventurer, and star of TV shows, stage musicals, and movies as disparate as Blackadder, Cats, Flash Gordon, and I, Claudius. But I could tell instantly that he was a one-off; they broke the mold when they made Brian. Like Norman and me, he, too, was of humble origin, from the South Yorkshire mining town of Mexborough. I was beginning to feel more comfortable by the minute.

It was true that a few years ago some wild enthusiast, a Whiggish civilian no doubt, had decreed that day should start at midnight; but Jack, though a scientific, forwardlooking officer, agreed with many of his fellow-captains in giving this foolish innovation no countenance whatsoever: besides, it had taken him years to persuade Stephen that nautical days really did start at noon, and he did not want his imperfect conviction to be shaken in any way at all.

A young person for Monsieur Jagiello,’ said the guard, with a grin. He stood away from the door, and there was the young person, holding a cloth-covered basket, blushing and hanging her pretty head. The others walked away to the window and talked in what they meant to be a detached, natural way; but few could help stealing glances at the maiden, and none could fail to hear Jagiello cry, ‘But my dear, dear Mademoiselle, I asked for black pudding and apples, no more. And here is foie gras, a gratin of lobster, a partridge, three kinds of cheese, two kinds of wine, a strawberry tart . . . ’ ‘I made it myself,’ said the young person. ‘I am sure it is wonderfully good: but it is much more than I can ever afford.’ ‘You must keep up your strength. You can pay for it later – or in some other way – or however you like.’ ‘But how?’ asked Jagiello, in honest amazement. ‘By a note of hand, do you mean?’ ‘Pray step into the passage,’ said she, pinker still. ‘There you are again,’ said Jack, drawing Stephen into another room. ‘Yesterday it was a thundering great patty, with truffles; and tomorrow we shall see a wedding-cake for his pudding, no doubt. What they see in him I cannot conceive. Why Jagiello, and the others ignored? Here is Fenton, for example, a fine upstanding fellow with side-whiskers that are the pride of the service – with a beard as thick as a coconut – has to shave twice a day – as strong as a horse, and a very fair seaman; but there are no patties for him.

The LXX translates the word for “satyrs” that appears in these Isaiah passages as onokentaurois or “donkey-centaurs,” from which we get our word “centaur.” The Greek-English Lexicon of the Septuagint defines this word as “donkey-centaur, mythic creature (a centaur resembling a donkey rather than a horse).”[6] In Isaiah 34:14 of the ESV we read of “the wild goat crying to his fellow,” and in 13:21, “there wild goats will dance.” But the underlying Hebrew (seirim) is not about wild goats, but satyrs, that were prevalent in Canaanite religion. Scholar Judd Burton points out that Panias or Panias at the base of Mount Hermon in Bashan was a key worship site for the Greek goat-god Pan as early as the third century B.C. and earlier connections to the goat-idol Azazel (see Azazel below).[7]

I’ve come to see that just as the Doctrine of Discovery was used to justify white Christian supremacy and the exploitation of nonwhites and non-Christians, the “doctrine of dominion” (Genesis 1:28) is still being used to justify human supremacy and the exploitation of the earth and all its creatures. Aided and abetted by harmful doctrines about the future (especially “left behind” dispensationalist eschatology), industrial-era Christians have used toxic, industrial-strength beliefs to legitimize the plundering of the earth, without concern for future generations of humans, much less our fellow creatures. After all, if Jesus is coming back soon, and if God will soon destroy the earth and take righteous souls to heaven, who cares about the earth? What’s a little human domination in comparison to divine damnation?

And I *know* I wrote in the above that I hate biographies and reviews that focus on the psychological, surface detail, especially when they pertain to women writers, because I think it’s really about the cult of the personality, which is essentially problematic, and I think simplistically psychologizing which biographies are so wont to do is really problematic, and dangerous, especially when dealing with complicated women who just by being writers at a certain time and age were labelled as nonconformist, or worse, hysterical or ill or crazy, and I think branding these women as femme fatales is all so often done. And I know in a way I’m contributing to this by posting their bad-ass photos, except hopefully I am humanizing them and thinking of them as complicated selves and intellects AND CELEBRATING THEM AS WRITERS as opposed to straight-up objectifying. One particular review long ago in Poetry that really got my goat was when Brian Phillips used Gertrude Stein’s line about Djuna Barnes having nice ankles as an opener in a review of her poetry, and to my mind it was meant to be entirely dismissive, as of course, Stein was being as well. Stein was many important revolutionary things to literature, but a champion of her fellow women writers she was not. They published my letter, but then let the guy write a reply and scurry to the library and actually read Nightwood, one of my all-time, all-times, and Francis Bacon’s too, there’s another anecdote. And it’s burned in my brain his response, which was as dismissive and bourgeois as the review. I don’t remember the exact wordage, but he concluded by summing up that Djuna Barnes was a minor writer. Well, fuck a duck, as Henry Miller would say. And that is how the canon gets made.

For all their laughter, ghouls are a dull lot. Hunger is the fire in which they burn, and it burns hotter than the hunger for power over men or for knowledge of the gods in a crazed mortal. It vaporizes delicacy and leaves behind only a slag of anger and lust. They see their fellows as impediments to feeding, to be mauled and shrieked at when the mourners go home. They are seldom alone, not through love of one another’s company, but because a lone ghoul is suspected of concealing food. Their copulation is so hasty that distinctions of sex and identity are often ignored. Just as she had once yearned to know the secrets of the grave, Meryphillia now longed to penetrate the mysteries of friendship and love. Mostly she wanted to know about love. She believed that it must transcend her bony collisions with Arthrax, least unfeeling of all the male ghouls, whom she untypically clove to. 'Why are you crying?' he once asked while their coupling rattled the slats of a newly emptied coffin. 'It’s nothing. Dust in my eyes.' 'That happens.' His question and comment were the nearest a ghoul could come to sympathy, but it fell so far short of the standard she imagined to be human that she wept all the more. --"Meryphillia

University of Michigan psychologist Felix Warneken walks across the room, carrying a tall stack of magazines, toward the doors of a closed wooden cabinet. He bumps into the front of the cabinet, exclaims a startled “Oh!,” and backs away. Staring for a moment at the cabinet, he makes a thoughtful “Hmm,” before shuffling forward and bumping the magazines against the cabinet doors again. Again he backs away, defeated, and says, pitiably, “Hmmm . . .” It’s as if he can’t figure out where he’s gone wrong. From the corner of the room, a toddler comes to the rescue. The child walks somewhat unsteadily toward the cabinet, heaves open the doors one by one, then looks up at Warneken with a searching expression, before backing away. Warneken, making a grateful sound, puts his pile of magazines on the shelf.1 Warneken, along with his collaborator Michael Tomasello of Duke, was the first to systematically show, in 2006, that human infants as young as eighteen months old will reliably identify a fellow human facing a problem, will identify the human’s goal and the obstacle in the way, and will spontaneously help if they can—even if their help is not requested, even if the adult doesn’t so much as make eye contact with them, and even when they expect (and receive) no reward for doing so.2

Yes, I’m talking about a non-violent revolution of consciousness. A consciousness that is able to understand how we’re all inextricably connected to each other on this Earth, and to the Earth itself. And that if we violate those fundamental principles, we do so at our own peril. Yes, we can continue to live in this delusion and the denials of reality because it’s painful, it’s frightening. Sometimes, it’s terrifying. It's terrifying to face the truth. So I ask each of you to search your hearts, as to what your truth is, for being a citizen of the Earth, promoting justice as a foundation for peace. It’s not going to happen magically, it’s not going to happen by relying on these political structures and institutions. I think we’re going to have to wage peace in the most extraordinary ways whether our government wants it or not. Without a non-violent revolution of consciousness, we will not survive as a civilization or as a planet. We can choose to have peace if we want to pay the price. And what more glorious goal than peace for all people? ...To build a new society, a society that understands that we are not worth more, and they are not worth less. And that we will be willing to pay the price and take the risks to wage peace with all fellow and sister human beings.

I became expert at making myself invisible. I could linger two hours over a coffee, four over a meal, and hardly be noticed by the waitress. Though the janitors in Commons rousted me every night at closing time, I doubt they ever realized they spoke to the same boy twice. Sunday afternoons, my cloak of invisibility around my shoulders, I would sit in the infirmary for sometimes six hours at a time, placidly reading copies of Yankee magazine ('Clamming on Cuttyhunk') or Reader's Digest (Ten Ways to Help That Aching Back!'), my presence unremarked by receptionist, physician, and fellow sufferer alike. But, like the Invisible Man in H. G. Wells, I discovered that my gift had its price, which took the form of, in my case as in his, a sort of mental darkness. It seemed that people failed to meet my eye, made as if to walk through me; my superstitions began to transform themselves into something like mania. I became convinced that it was only a matter of time before one of the rickety iron steps that led to my room gave and I would fall and break my neck or, worse, a leg; I'd freeze or starve before Leo would assist me. Because one day, when I'd climbed the stairs successfully and without fear, I'd had an old Brian Eno song running through my head ('In New Delhi, 'And Hong Kong,' They all know that it won't be long...'), I now had to sing it to myself each trip up or down the stairs. And each time I crossed the footbridge over the river, twice a day, I had to stop and scoop around in the coffee-colored snow at the road's edge until I found a decent-sized rock. I would then lean over the icy railing and drop it into the rapid current that bubbled over the speckled dinosaur eggs of granite which made up its bed - a gift to the river-god, maybe, for safe crossing, or perhaps some attempt to prove to it that I, though invisible, did exist. The water ran so shallow and clear in places that sometimes I heard the dropped stone click as it hit the bed. Both hands on the icy rail, staring down at the water as it dashed white against the boulders, boiled thinly over the polished stones, I wondered what it would be like to fall and break my head open on one of those bright rocks: a wicked crack, a sudden limpness, then veins of red marbling the glassy water. If I threw myself off, I thought, who would find me in all that white silence? Might the river beat me downstream over the rocks until it spat me out in the quiet waters, down behind the dye factory, where some lady would catch me in the beam of her headlights when she pulled out of the parking lot at five in the afternoon? Or would I, like the pieces of Leo's mandolin, lodge stubbornly in some quiet place behind a boulder and wait, my clothes washing about me, for spring?

For the last part of the trial in heaven, Yahweh Elohim allowed the litigators to engage in cross examination and rebuttal. The Accuser stood next to Enoch before the throne. Yahweh Elohim announced the beginning of the next exchange, “Accuser, you may speak.” The Accuser began with his first complaint, “On this fourth aspect of the covenant, the ‘blessings and curses,’ we find another series of immoral maneuvers by Elohim, the first of which is the injustice of his capital punishment.” The Accuser delivered his lines with theatrical exaggeration. It would have annoyed Enoch had they not been so self-incriminating. “What kind of a loving god would punish a simple act of disobedience in the Garden with death and exile? In the interest of wisdom, the primeval couple eat a piece of fruit and what reward do they receive for their mature act of decision-making? Pain in childbirth, male domination, cursed ground, miserable labor, perpetual war, and worst of all, exile and death! I ask the court, does that sound like the judicious behavior of a beneficent king or an infantile temper tantrum of a juvenile divinity who did not get his way?” The Accuser bowed with a mocking tone in his voice, “Your majestic majesticness, I turn over to the illustrative, master counselor of extensive experience, Enoch ben Jared.” The Accuser’s mockery no longer fazed Enoch. His ad-hominem attacks on a lowly servant of Yahweh Elohim was so much child’s play. It was the accuser’s impious sacrilege against the Most High that offended Enoch — and the Most High’s forbearing mercy that astounded him. He spoke with a renewed awe of the Almighty, “If I may point out to the prosecutor, the seriousness of the punishment is not determined by the magnitude of the offense, but the magnitude of the one offended. Transgression of a fellow finite temporal creature requires finite earthly consequences, transgression against the infinite eternal God requires infinite eternal consequences.

No, no. It has quite healed over again. I am very well. It is only that I don’t sleep. Toss, turn, can’t get off, then ill dreams and I wake up some time in the middle watch – never get off again, and I am stupid all the rest of the day. And damned ill-tempered, Stephen; I sway away on all top-ropes for a nothing, and then I am sorry afterwards. Is it my liver, do you think? Not yesterday, but the day before I had a damned unpleasant surprise: I was shaving, and thinking of something else; and Killick had hung the glass aft the scuttle instead of its usual place. So just for a moment I caught sight of my face as though it was a stranger looking in. When I understood it was me, I said, “Where did I get that damned forbidding ship’s corporal’s face?” and determined not to look like that again – it reminded me of that unhappy fellow Pigot, of the Hermione. And this morning there it was again, glaring back at me out of the glass. That is another reason why I am so glad to see you: you will give me one of your treble-shotted slime-draughts to get me to sleep. It’s the devil, you know, not sleeping: no wonder a man looks like a ship’s corporal. And these dreams – do you dream, Stephen?’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘I thought not. You have a head-piece . . . however, I had one some nights ago, about your narwhal; and Sophie was mixed up with it in some way. It sounds nonsense, but it was so full of unhappiness that I woke blubbering like a child. Here it is, by the way.’ He reached behind him and passed the long tapering spiral of ivory. Stephen’s eyes gleamed as he took it and turned it slowly round and round in his hands. ‘Oh thank you, thank you, Jack,’ he cried. ‘It is perfect – the very apotheosis of a tooth.’ ‘There were some longer ones, well over a fathom, but they had lost their tips, and I thought you would like to get the point, ha, ha, ha.’ It was a flash of his old idiot self, and he wheezed and chuckled for some time, his blue eyes as clear and delighted as they had been long ago: wild glee over an infinitesimal grain of merriment.

...there are stories of hunters who are famous for whatever reason. We tend not to like fellows who shoot a lot of bears, though that sort of fellow thinks he ought to be famous, but being famous for causing a lot of death isn't much to be famous for.

They were not much to look at, he reflected, as the whip from the yardarm hoisted up their meagre belongings: three or four were decidedly simple, and two others had that indefinable air of men of some parts whose cleverness sets them apart from their fellows, but not nearly so far as they imagine.

Vince is the Asian fellow?” Brian asked, and I nodded. “Yes, you had mentioned him before.” He drove us up the ramp and onto the Palmetto Expressway, headed east.

earth. If you thought that the earth was not created to be a servant to humanity, but humanity was created to be a servant to the earth, then treating humans as servants and slaves would not be outrageous at all. Killing them might even be a good thing in this view. Perhaps this was also why the satyrs went to great lengths to protect the births of animals in the flocks but regularly caused miscarriages in her fellow nymphs, killing any infants that accidently survived.

The winner of that particular honor is an algorithm called Comparison Counting Sort. In this algorithm, each item is compared to all the others, generating a tally of how many items it is bigger than. This number can then be used directly as the item’s rank. Since it compares all pairs, Comparison Counting Sort is a quadratic-time algorithm, like Bubble Sort. Thus it’s not a popular choice in traditional computer science applications, but it’s exceptionally fault-tolerant. This algorithm’s workings should sound familiar. Comparison Counting Sort operates exactly like a Round-Robin tournament. In other words, it strongly resembles a sports team’s regular season—playing every other team in the division and building up a win-loss record by which they are ranked. That Comparison Counting Sort is the single most robust sorting algorithm known, quadratic or better, should offer something very specific to sports fans: if your team doesn’t make the playoffs, don’t whine. The Mergesort postseason is chancy, but the Comparison Counting regular season is not; championship rings aren’t robust, but divisional standings are literally as robust as it gets. Put differently, if your team is eliminated early in the postseason, it’s tough luck. But if your team fails to get to the postseason, it’s tough truth. You may get sports-bar sympathy from your fellow disappointed fans, but you won’t get any from a computer scientist.

On what to keep, Martha Stewart says to ask yourself a few questions: “How long have I had it? Does it still function? Is it a duplicate of something I already own? When was the last time I wore it or used it?” On how to organize what you keep, she recommends “grouping like things together,” and her fellow experts agree.

it occurs to me, that our race must have a natural propensity to ugliness. You are not an ill-looking fellow, and were almost handsome before you were so pierced, blown up and banged by the enemy and so exposed to the elements; and you are to marry a truly beautiful young woman; yet I make no doubt you will between you produce little common babies, that mewl, pewl and roar all in that same tedious, deeply vulgar, self-centred monotone, drool, cut their teeth, and grow up into plain blockheads. Generation after generation, and no increase in beauty; none in intelligence. On the analogy of dogs, or even of horses, the rich should stand nine foot high and the poor run about under the table. This does not occur: yet the absence of improvement never stops men desiring the company of beautiful women.

Risk diminishes as our belief in fellow human beings rises. —XAVIER HARKONNEN, military address

Think of the fellow in that play that calls out “My kingdom for a horse” – it would not have been poetry at all, had he said sheep.

I have no relish for puritans either in religion or politics, who are pushing for principles to an extreme, and overturning everything that stands in the way of their own zealous career…. I always distrust the soundness of political councils that are accompanied by acrimonious and disparaging attacks upon any great class of our fellow citizens.

Peter stepped over to him and whispered, “But rabbi, she is the Ob priestess. She is no doubt full of demons.” Jesus whispered to him, “Seven. She actually had seven demons. I already cast them out.” Peter said, “But, women? What business can we have with them?” Jesus said, “We are about to find out.” He leaned in. “Peter, I think you had better reevaluate your low opinion of women in the kingdom of God. They are your fellow heirs of eternal life. You had better get used to their valuable contributions. They may be subordinate to you in their roles, but they are going to share equally with you in your inheritance.” Peter stood dumbfounded and chastised. Jesus looked at Mary, who was staring wide-eyed at Simon. Jesus leaned over to Simon. “And you had better change your monkish views as well, Simon. I think she has an interest in you.

The gods were on the cusp of completing their ritual when the archangels hit them. They had swum across the wharf area and slipped up the rocks to assault the gods from behind. All seven burst in through the pillared open-air sanctuary, swords flashing. The gods drew their weapons. Dagon stuck his sword into his lower fishy half and cut it off with a swipe. He would not be hampered in battle. Everyone paused for a moment. The four gods stood facing off against the seven archangels, each waiting for the other to make a move. The mightiest of Yahweh’s heavenly host were here to bind the Watcher gods who would be fighting for their eternities. This was going to be brutal. An earthquake rattled the foundation of the temple. Everyone had to catch their balance. Dust and debris fell from the cracks in the stone above their heads. Asherah and the gods smiled. The archangels realized it had been no earthquake. That was an announcement of the arrival of something. Something very huge. Something from the depths of the sea. The water behind the gods suddenly exploded upward with the form of the seven headed sea dragon of chaos: Leviathan. It burst out of the water and leapt over the manmade jetty that housed the temple. Mikael, now healed, joined his fellow archangels for the fight. He saw the huge four hundred foot long serpentine body fly past them through the air. It landed on the wharf side with a huge splash that drenched everyone in the temple. Its double tail followed, with a swipe at the architecture. It smashed half the structure, wiping it into the water with the force. Gods and angels fell beneath the debris of the other half collapsing on top of them.

Simon had been sent by Barabbas to find out if the Nazarene was a fellow revolutionary, a self-proclaimed messiah, or something else. Simon’s heart had been strangely moved by this stranger and he was still trying to figure him out. But the Rabbi remained a mystery to him. The centurion had asked him to heal his servant and Jesus replied that he had not seen such great faith in all of Israel. That was shocking enough, to attribute such goodness to a filthy, unclean stranger to the covenant. But then he said that many such people would come to the feast of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven, while the sons of the kingdom—in other words, Israelites—would be thrown into the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. As an Essene scribe at Qumran, Simon had spent his whole life in rituals of cleanness and separation.

Asherah, Ba’alzebul, Dagon, Molech, Resheph, and Qeteb had journeyed from Sidon to the mount of assembly. Marduk and Ishtar of Babylonia, Asshur of Assyria, Kumarbi of the Hittites, even Osiris and Horus from Egypt travelled their long distances to answer the urgent call for a council of the seventy gods over the seventy nations. When Yahweh had sent the Great Flood and bound the Watcher gods into the earth and Tartarus, he left seventy of them to rule over the nations with their minions of fellow mal’akim. The lands were allotted at the Division of Tongues at Babel. This dispersion was supposed to keep mankind from ever again uniting in evil over the entire earth as they had under Nimrod the Mighty Hunter.

Canaan was a tall lanky man. As part of the slave force of Nimrod’s growing kingdom, he did not receive any more rations than his fellow slaves, and thus he suffered, for the need of his larger frame which rose a head above the others exceeded that of the others. He entered Ishtar’s tent behind Sinleqi, moving slowly and unresponsively. His malnourished body looked skeletal, with his eyes sunken in their sockets. The voice of Ishtar boomed across the space, “Welcome, Canaan!

In the thirty-third year of the reign of Augustus, a Jewish rebel named Judas the Galilean rose up and led a revolt against Rome. The Roman governor had ordered a census of Judea in order to increase their taxes. Judas and a fellow Pharisee, Zadok, were driven by a holy zeal for the Law of God and used as their model of inspiration the Maccabean revolt of a hundred and seventy years earlier. Jews had a particular animosity toward censuses because they felt it was an encroachment upon Yahweh’s right to number his people and upon his ownership of the land. Judas considered armed rebellion the only option for faithful Jews and even started a slogan, “No king but God.” “Caesar” was Latin for emperor or universal king. Such slogans were therefore a denial of the emperor’s universal rule. And for Romans, such insurrection would not be tolerated. Judas gained two thousand followers, but was ultimately defeated in Sepphoris when the Romans sacked the city. They crucified all the rebels on poles along the thoroughfares of Galilee as a warning sign for the disobedient. The Imperial legions were not known for respecting innocent civilians and killed too many of them as collateral damage in their frenzied retribution. Demas’s parents were among the victims of this barbarous atrocity.

If a man could convince himself that morality was not a matter of humanity being created in Elohim’s image, but rather was a construct of society, in order to maintain arbitrary control over the masses, then there would be no end to the genocides and holocausts that could be unleashed when man would take that belief to its logical end. Even more devastation than that accomplished by the religions she and her fellow gods “revealed” to these pathetic mud-pies of Elohim. That was an idea whose time would come. But now was not that time. Inanna grinned with self-satisfaction. I will indeed craft that secular myth for when ancient religion will have run its useful course.

The Accuser was not impressed by any of this. A transformed seraph himself, his plaintiffs were all Sons of God as well. His opposition did not intimidate him at all. He and Semjaza, along with almost two hundred Watchers, presented themselves across from the array they despised. They considered the throne-circling adversaries to be a mob of sycophants, yes-men and sell-outs, puppets and tools. The Accuser, Semjaza, and their fellow Watchers were just as divine, and maybe even more powerful than their enemies because at least they exercised free will — real free will — iron will. That will did have to bend to the sovereignty of the Judge, however, to the use of their original heavenly names of Semjaza, Baraqel, and Zaqiel instead of their Shinarian deity names of Anu, Enlil, and Nanna.

Longinus detested this despicable monkey, not in spite of Caiaphas’ intimate relationship with Pilate, but because of it. The fat and luxury-loving sycophant was an ally of Rome, due to informing on his fellow Jews and keeping them in line. But Longinus still detested anyone who betrayed their own people. He had more respect for the Zealot lunatics and their fanaticism than for subtle serpentine traitors like Caiaphas. It was Caiaphas who led the current heated debate about some theological difference that seemed quite unimportant to Longinus. It seemed to be one that had a long history to it. Ridiculous, he thought. Caiaphas said, “Order! Order! You will please refrain from interruption!” The noisiness calmed down. “Now, Annas, you were trying to say?

the English translations make it look like they are just more natural animals. Not so in the Hebrew. Let’s take a closer look at the Hebrew words behind two more of these strange creatures, “wild animals” and “hyenas.”   Isaiah 13:21–22 21 But wild animals (siyyim) will lie down there, and their houses will be full of howling creatures; there ostriches will dwell, and there wild goats will dance. 22 Hyenas (iyyim) will cry in its towers, and jackals in the pleasant palaces; its time is close at hand and its days will not be prolonged.   Isaiah 34:14 14 And wild animals (siyyim) shall meet with hyenas; (iyyim) the wild goat shall cry to his fellow; indeed, there the night bird settles and finds for herself a resting place.

The bridge crossing the river to the Processional Way had collapsed into the river. Some survivors swam across the water to get away from the cursed city. Abram and Mikael ran down from the ridge. They helped the dozen or so fleeing refugees to safety on land. Abram noticed something strange. One of the refugees spoke to him, but it was meaningless babbling. Abram thought the poor fellow was in shock and speaking nonsense. Then he heard another refugee cry out and yell more nonsense into the air. This one sounded different from the first. As they walked, helping calm the refugees, he noticed that they all spoke in strange words he had never heard before.

Seasickness will dehydrate a fellow. Make your mouth feel as dry as a fat man’s titty.” Jenko

If we (selfishly to outward appearances) pray for removal of our selfish tendencies and ask instead for replacement with selflessness – care and sincere concern for our fellow man – we’re on solid spiritual ground. If we desire greater physical well-being, fitness and strength, we, by necessary association, are requesting greater self-control over our eating habits, enhanced dedication and persistence regarding physical exercise, and a greater ability to tolerate pain and recognize suffering as something to be accepted and welcomed as a positive and necessary component of actualization.

This was the first time in my life that I had witnessed the awful scene of a battle, when man was engaged to destroy his fellow-man,

Tallmadge wrote more than fifty years later. “I well remember my sensations on the occasion, for they were solemn beyond description, and very hardly could I bring my mind to be willing to attempt the life of a fellow-creature.

He landed on his stomach with a thud that shook the Portal Mage’s house. Hardman’s eyes raised speculatively. “I think I’ll let you take the next go at it, lass. I need another example before I attempt that. I’ll barricade the door and make sure this fellow stays quiet for a couple of hours . . . or so.

Then a small vessel in the lower left-hand corner caught his eye, something in the nature of a pink; she was beating up for the harbour, but it was obvious from the direction of the lady’s clothes that the pink would be taken aback the moment she rounded the headland. ‘As soon as she catches the land-breeze she will be in trouble,’ he said. ‘She will never stay, not with those unhandy lateens, and there is no room to wear; so there she is on a lee-shore. Poor fellows. I am afraid there is no hope for them.’ ‘That

Crow had few peers in the years before…before his transition. But of that latter—change—sufficient has already been recorded elsewhere. A one-time writer of macabre short stories, he occasionally chronicled his own adventures; at other times such work was undertaken by his lifelong friend Henri-Laurent de Marigny (son of Etienne, the world-famous New Orleans mystic), while others of his adventures were reported by mere acquaintances. All of the Titus Crow adventures, in short story or novelette form, are here collected in one volume. They are presented chronologically, as best as may be determined, and along with The Burrowers Beneath and the “post-transition” novels, they complete the Crow canon. In addition to the tales in which Titus Crow is a primary actor, there are three other closely related stories: The Mirror of Nitocris, the one and only personal chronicle of Crow’s apprentice and fellow traveller, de Marigny; Inception, in which Crow plays only a cameo role; and lastly The Black Recalled, in which nothing of Crow appears at all! …Or does it? Only one thing remains to be said. In the light of Titus Crow’s fascination and lifelong affair with matters of dark concern, much of this volume is naturally taken up with narratives of relentless horror. Therefore—it is not a book for the squeamish. You have been warned!

Fellow veterans, you served; you deserve. You earned your VA disability benefits by serving our country.

Surround yourself with fellow veterans. The patriots and the heroes. Those who raised their right hand and took an oath to defend freedom. But most of all surround yourselves with brothers and sisters who feel your pain, who know your struggles, and who would do anything for you and you for them.

She looks around. Her fellow students seem bored, looking at their phones, a few quietly napping. “How strange that this is just another class for them,” she thinks, “but for me, this dark classroom is a spiritual battleground, and I feel I have to choose between opening my mind and saving my soul.

a call went out over the radio that a fellow officer had collapsed. That officer was Brian Sicknick. EMTs administered CPR on the floor of the Capitol building, but the hospital listed him in critical condition upon his arrival. He suffered two strokes in succession in the aftermath of fighting to save the Capitol. Officer Sicknick died the following day, January 7, 2021. He was 42 years old.

If you have the inner fire to stay in the struggle, may you know that you are walking a path that reformers, prophets, mystics, and sages have walked before you, including a fellow who grew up in Nazareth of Galilee and died just outside Jerusalem. APPENDIX V ADDITIONAL RESOURCES 1.

What a fellow you are, Stephen. Any sailor can tell a great deal from the way another sailor sets his jib, or goes about, or flashes out his stuns’ls, just as you could tell a great deal about a doctor from the way he whipped off a leg.’ ‘Always this whipping off of a leg. It is my belief that for you people the whole noble art of medicine is summed up in the whipping off of a leg.

The dormouse polished an apple on his jerkin. “D’you like my stories, Burrem?” The little fellow smiled. “Burr aye, oi serpintly do, zurr!” His friend settled down comfortably on the grass, propping his back against the log. “Right then, it’s a good long one. We’ll have to break off for lunch and tea, supper, too, maybe. Ah well, here goes. Once upon a time . . .

The dormouse was a jolly plump old fellow, clad in a rust-colored jerkin, his white beard curled and trimmed neatly. An infant mole, who could not sleep because of the onset of spring, sat beside him on a mossy beechlog in the orchard. Together they shared an early breakfast of oatcakes, hot from the kitchens, and two of last autumn’s russet apples. Dawn was touching the earth with its rosy paws, promising sunny spring days as a compensation for the long winter Redwall Abbey had endured. Soft white clouds with golden underbellies hung on the still air, dewdrops glistened on new green grass, budding narcissus and snowdrop awaited the coming of the sun-warmed day. The dormouse nodded sagely. “Soon be pickin’ a Nameday for this good season, aye, soon.” The small mole chewed slowly at his oatcake, wrinkling a black button snout as he gazed up at the elder. “You’m said you’m tell oi a story, zurr.

Certainly he had heard of Homer, and had indeed looked into Mr Pope’s version of his tale; but for aught he could make out, the fellow was no seaman. Admittedly Ulysses had no chronometer, and probably no sextant neither; but with no more than log, lead and lookout an officer-like commander would have found his way home from Troy a d—d sight quicker than that. Hanging about in port and philandering, that was what it amounted to, the vice of navies from the time of Noah to that of Nelson. And as for that tale of all his foremast-hands being turned into swine, so that he could not win his anchor or make sail, why, he might tell that to the Marines. Besides, he behaved like a very mere scrub to Queen Dido.

The only outlet that dedicates itself to keeping track is Media Matters for America, a progressive group founded by David Brock to monitor and confront conservative media. In 2019 the group’s senior fellow Matt Gertz counted every single time Trump tweeted in direct response to a Fox News or Fox Business program and found at least 657

The only outlet that dedicates itself to keeping track is Media Matters for America, a progressive group founded by David Brock to monitor and confront conservative media. In 2019 the group’s senior fellow Matt Gertz counted every single time Trump tweeted in direct response to a Fox News or Fox Business program and found at least 657 instances in a single year.

The man whose name I forget, the money-man, was an eminently curious study,’ said Stephen. ‘Oh, him,’ said Jack, with an utter want of interest. ‘What do you expect, when a fellow sits thinking about money all day long? And they can never hold their wine, those sorts of people. Harte must be very much in his debt to have him in the house.’ ‘Oh, he was a dull ignorant superficial darting foolish prating creature in himself, to be sure, but I found him truly fascinating. The pure bourgeois in a state of social ferment. There was that typical costive, haemorrhoidal facies, the knock-knees, the drooping shoulders, the flat feet splayed out, the ill breath, the large staring eyes, the meek complacency; and, of course, you noticed that womanly insistence upon authority and beating once he was thoroughly drunk? I would wager that he is very nearly impotent: that would account for the woman’s restless garrulity, her desire for predominance, absurdly combined with those girlish ways, and her thinning hair – she will be bald in a year or so.’ ‘It might be just as well if everybody were impotent,’ said Jack sombrely. ‘It would save a world of trouble.

Patricia Marks joined the Religious Sisters Filippini novitiate (Morristown, New Jersey) in 1959, only to discover – and she refused to believe it at first – that one of the professed nuns was having “a very, very intense sexual relationship” with one of her fellow novices. The nun and novice left shortly afterwards.137 When Joanne Howe

At the rendezvous, Alexander requested the top assignment: to take over Athabasca, the company’s most important and productive department, and, while Roderic ran the business in his absence, to find a path through the continent. His fellow bourgeois signed off. Alexander was on his way to find the Northwest Passage.

Men,’ said Jack, ‘I know damned well what’s going on. I know damned well what’s going on; and I won’t have it. What simple fellows you are, to listen to a parcel of makee-clever sea-lawyers and politicians, glib, quick-talking coves. Some of you have put your necks into the noose. I say your necks into the noose. You see the Ville de Paris over there?’ Every head turned to the line-of-battle ship on the horizon. ‘I have only to signal her, or half a dozen other cruisers, and run you up to the yardarm with the Rogue’s March playing. Damned fools, to listen to such talk. But I am not going to signal to the Ville de Paris nor to any other king’s ship. Why not? Because the Polychrest is going into action this very night, that’s why. I am not going to have it said in the fleet that any Polychrest is afraid of hard knocks.

The Gospel adoption of Gentile nations into the new covenant kingdom of God through Christ. Ephesians 3:6 This mystery is that the Gentiles are fellow heirs, members of the same body, and partakers of the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel. Remember how those Gentile nations were originally the allotted inheritance of the rebellious Sons of God? Remember how Messiah was promised to one day inherit the nations from those powers? Well, the unity of Gentiles with Jews in the Body of Christ, the Church, is the fulfillment of that messianic inheritance of the nations. Ephesians 3:10 10 so that through the church the manifold wisdom of God might now be made known to the rulers and authorities in the heavenly places. Exactly when did Jesus take back the territorial rights of the nations from the heavenly powers? At his death, resurrection and ascension into heaven. Remember when Jesus told his disciples, after he had risen that “all authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me” (Matt 28:18)? He had all authority, not some authority. If Watchers still had authority over the nations, then Jesus would not have all authority, and he could not be the Messiah.

Stephen's intense irritation lasted all the time he was climbing into the maintop, and this so took away from his dread and his habitual caution that Jack said, 'What a fellow you are, Stephen. When you choose you can go aloft like' - he was about to say 'a human being' but changed this before it quite left his gullet to 'like an able seaman.

Battle is an apt metaphor for what we scientists do. There is a fierce competition that begins the day you declare yourself a physics major. First, among your fellow undergraduates, you spar for top ranking in your class. This leads to the next battle: becoming a graduate student at a top school. Then, you toil for six to eight years to earn a postdoc job at another top school. And finally, you hope, comes a coveted faculty job, which can become permanent if you are privileged enough to get tenure. Along the way, the number of peers in your group diminishes by a factor of ten at each stage, from hundreds of undergraduates to just one faculty job becoming available every few years in your field.

Battle is an apt metaphor for what we scientists do. There is a fierce competition that begins the day you declare yourself a physics major. First, among your fellow undergraduates, you spar for top ranking in your class. This leads to the next battle: becoming a graduate student at a top school. Then, you toil for six to eight years to earn a postdoc job at another top school. And finally, you hope, comes a coveted faculty job, which can become permanent if you are privileged enough to get tenure. Along the way, the number of peers in your group diminishes by a factor of ten at each stage, from hundreds of undergraduates to just one faculty job becoming available every few years in your field. Then the competition really begins, for you compete against fellow gladiators honed in battle just as you are. You compete for the scarcest resource in science: money.

It was curious to see this burly fellow – a hard-faced, formidable man – moved by a feeling that called for a gentle, graceful outlet; and more than one of the hands exchanged a knowing glance with a shipmate. But Jack had no notion of this whatsoever – he had always attributed Mr Marshall’s painstaking, scrupulous navigation and his zeal as an executive officer to natural goodness, to his nautical character; and in any case his mind was now quite taken up with the idea of exercising the guns in the darkness.

Not strictly one of mine, but worth repeating! A very forceful old lady in these parts, when referring to the eight novels of the Angel Mountain Saga,was heard to say: "You know them books by that fellow Brian John? If I was you I wouldn't believe a single word. Take it from me. It's lies -- all lies!