Brutal Obsession Quotes

It's despair at the lack of feeling, of love, of reason in the world. It's despair that anyone can even contemplate the idea of dropping a bomb or ordering that it should be dropped. It's despair that so few of us care. It's despair that there's so much brutality and callousness in the world. It's despair that perfectly normal young men can be made vicious and evil because they've won a lot of money. And then do what you've done to me.

Van Houten, I’m a good person but a shitty writer. You’re a shitty person but a good writer. We’d make a good team. I don’t want to ask you any favors, but if you have time – and from what I saw, you have plenty – I was wondering if you could write a eulogy for Hazel. I’ve got notes and everything, but if you could just make it into a coherent whole or whatever? Or even just tell me what I should say differently. Here’s the thing about Hazel: Almost everyone is obsessed with leaving a mark upon the world. Bequeathing a legacy. Outlasting death. We all want to be remembered. I do, too. That’s what bothers me most, is being another unremembered casualty in the ancient and inglorious war against disease. I want to leave a mark. But Van Houten: The marks humans leave are too often scars. You build a hideous minimall or start a coup or try to become a rock star and you think, “They’ll remember me now,” but (a) they don’t remember you, and (b) all you leave behind are more scars. Your coup becomes a dictatorship. Your minimall becomes a lesion. (Okay, maybe I’m not such a shitty writer. But I can’t pull my ideas together, Van Houten. My thoughts are stars I can’t fathom into constellations.) We are like a bunch of dogs squirting on fire hydrants. We poison the groundwater with our toxic piss, marking everything MINE in a ridiculous attempt to survive our deaths. I can’t stop pissing on fire hydrants. I know it’s silly and useless – epically useless in my current state – but I am an animal like any other. Hazel is different. She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth. Hazel knows the truth: We’re as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we’re not likely to do either. People will say it’s sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it’s not sad, Van Houten. It’s triumphant. It’s heroic. Isn’t that the real heroism? Like the doctors say: First, do no harm. The real heroes anyway aren’t the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention. The guy who invented the smallpox vaccine didn’t actually invented anything. He just noticed that people with cowpox didn’t get smallpox. After my PET scan lit up, I snuck into the ICU and saw her while she was unconscious. I just walked in behind a nurse with a badge and I got to sit next to her for like ten minutes before I got caught. I really thought she was going to die, too. It was brutal: the incessant mechanized haranguing of intensive care. She had this dark cancer water dripping out of her chest. Eyes closed. Intubated. But her hand was still her hand, still warm and the nails painted this almost black dark blue and I just held her hand and tried to imagine the world without us and for about one second I was a good enough person to hope she died so she would never know that I was going, too. But then I wanted more time so we could fall in love. I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar. A nurse guy came in and told me I had to leave, that visitors weren’t allowed, and I asked if she was doing okay, and the guy said, “She’s still taking on water.” A desert blessing, an ocean curse. What else? She is so beautiful. You don’t get tired of looking at her. You never worry if she is smarter than you: You know she is. She is funny without ever being mean. I love her. I am so lucky to love her, Van Houten. You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices. I hope she likes hers.

This metropolitan world, then, is a world where flesh and blood is less real than paper and ink and celluloid. It is a world where the great masses of people, unable to have direct contact with more satisfying means of living, take life vicariously, as readers, spectators, passive observers: a world where people watch shadow-heroes and heroines in order to forget their own clumsiness or coldness in love, where they behold brutal men crushing out life in a strike riot, a wrestling ring or a military assault, while they lack the nerve even to resist the petty tyranny of their immediate boss: where they hysterically cheer the flag of their political state, and in their neighborhood, their trades union, their church, fail to perform the most elementary duties of citizenship. Living thus, year in and year out, at second hand, remote from the nature that is outside them and no less remote from the nature within, handicapped as lovers and as parents by the routine of the metropolis and by the constant specter of insecurity and death that hovers over its bold towers and shadowed streets - living thus the mass of inhabitants remain in a state bordering on the pathological. They become victims of phantasms, fears, obsessions, which bind them to ancestral patterns of behavior.

What he doesn’t know is that he’s been digging his grave in my chest for weeks, and me in his. We’re going to trade one day. My heart for his. An even exchange.

What your fairy tales never tell you is that often, moya lyubimaya, it is the villain who wins, because it is the villain who is willing to fight, no matter the cost, for what he wants.

Small boys were a mystery to Sylvie. The satisfaction they gained from throwing sticks or stones for hours on end, the obsessive collection of inanimate objects, the brutal destruction of the fragile world around them, all seemed at odds with the men they were supposed to become.

I wrote the word: love. I did consider using another one. It's a curious notion, love; difficult to identify and define. There are so many degrees and variations. I could have contented myself with saying that I was smitten (and it is true that Thomas knew how to make me weaken), or infatuated (he could conquer, clatter, even bewitch like no one else), or obsessed (he often provoked a mixture of bewilderment and excitement, turning everything upside down), or seduced (once he caught me in his net, there was so no escaping), or taken with (I was stupidly joyful, I could heat up over nothing), or even blinded (anything that embarrassed me, I pushed to the side, minimizing his defects, putting his good qualities on a pedestal), or disturbed (no longer was I ever quite myself), which would have had less positive connotations. I could have explained it away as a mere affection, having a 'crush,' an explanation vague enough to mean anything. But those would just have been words. The truth, the brutal truth, was that I was in love. Enough to use the right word. All the same, I wondered if this could be a complete invention. As you already know, I invented stories all the time, with so much authenticity that people usually ended up believing me sometimes even I was no longer able to disentangle the true from the false). Could I have made this story up from scratch? Could I have turned an erotic obsession into a passion? Yes, it's possible.

Every cell and molecule of who I am desires, needs and covets Layla. Humans call that love. I call it obsession. Same thing, I suppose, but I am a demon, Trinity. I'm brutally selfish and there are very few things I truly care about. While I may randomly commit acts of perceived kindness, I do them only so that Layla is happy. Because when she's not happy, it makes me want to do really, really bad things to whatever and whoever has upset her.

I didn’t give her a choice—and she’s not going to get one. There’s no going back.

I don’t care if she catches me staring. She already knows how I feel about her. Obsessed. In love.

She’s mine. That’s what plays on repeat, underneath the current of how I can keep her bound to me.

You’re my favorite person on this planet, Violet Reece.” My confession meets her pulse point. “And we’re going to wake up next to each other for the rest of our fucking lives.

From the open French windows Sylvie watched Maurice erecting a makeshift tennis net, which mostly seemed to involve whacking everything in sight with a mallet. Small boys were a mystery to Sylvie. The satisfaction they gained from throwing sticks or stones for hours on end, the obsessive collection of inanimate objects, the brutal destruction of the fragile world around them, all seemed at odds with the men they were supposed to become.

Doesn’t matter how hard I fuck you, baby. I still hate your guts.

I’m fucking telling you, Vi. It’s you and me. Only us. I’m not letting anyone or anything come between us again. You can count on that.

Violet Reece is totally in love with me.

Maybe because she’s finally realizing she’s the prey and I’m the predator. And even though I promised to cut her free, beasts like me don’t tell the truth.

Ruin her for anyone else.

brutal, media-obsessed ISIS commander in Anbar Province notorious for killing Shiite truck drivers and other civilians

One date and I’m already craving everything, Bexley. Especially from these gorgeous lips. Put them on me,” he grunts. “Was it… was it the way I ate my gummy bears?” He laughs, the noise went from his mouth into mine and I sigh dreamily, leaning into him. He’s too potent for me to resist. How can I leave it at one date after he’s said all that sweet stuff? I’m a woman, not a robot. Anyone’s resolve would melt like water on sugar if a sexy as sin guy talks about being obsessed with kissing them. “You were pretty brutal nibbling their ears off first.

I blinked several times, still unable to trust my vision. The man didn't have a penis. He had a damn battering ram. And worse... I blinked again. Yuupp. He had a freaking reverse Prince Albert piercing.

My obsession with her is getting worse. I can’t stop thinking about her. Bloody. Bruised. Brutalized. I want to push my limits, yes, but I want to push her limits. See how far I can take things until we both crumble.

If you’re going downstairs, I want everyone to know that you were just thoroughly fucked. I want them to smell it on your skin and see it in the flush in your cheeks. I want them to know my cum is seeping out of your cunt.

He wanted to take what’s mine. He wanted to hurt her in the worst way he could think of. He wanted to steal and take and destroy her. But she has a meaner, scarier, crazier stalker. Me. And I’ll protect her with every breath in my body.

I post Instagram photos that I think of as testaments to my beauty and then obsessively check the likes to see if the internet agrees. I collect this data more than I want to admit, trying to measure my allure as objectively and brutally as possible. I want to calculate my beauty to protect myself, to understand exactly how much power and lovability I have.

The writing life is brutal on a wounded mind. It really is. So much time spent alone. So much time spent in self-reflection. Emotional wounds heal in other people’s hearts but you have to reopen yours and examine them in order to re-create their painful feelings on the page. Ugly, twisted, vicious thoughts flitter through other people’s minds, but you have to seize yours and hold them to the light in order to understand the soul’s shadowy corners. You have to shred your comfortable pieties. You have to tear your illusions to feathers and rags. When you’re working well, you become bad company, inward-turning, querulous, obsessed.

Promise you’ll stay with me forever,” I say in her ear.

You’re so fucking perfect for me,” he says,

We’re connected, you and I. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.

I can love her, and I won’t lose her.

We’re going to be together forever.

We got our dreams and each other. Perfect, right?

A white male in a dark fisherman’s hat and dark jacket was all they could say for sure. He’d brutally punched their poodle in the eye.

The man is possessive with a capital P.

That was the last dick you’re ever going to touch that isn’t mine,” I inform her.

She’d gone far beyond being my temptation and had become my obsession.

industry without art is brutality”.

How do I compete with a broken heart?

When I break you, it won’t be your leg. Or your ribs. Or your vocal cords. It’s your mind I’m after, Violet. Your mind and your soul, because that black heart that beats behind your ribcage? That already belongs to me.

Saint Paul lives in the Christian imagination as the chief sponsor of Christian contempt for Jews, the avatar of law versus grace, flesh versus spirit, works versus faith, Moses versus Jesus, the Old Covenant versus the New. This brutal dichotomizing was attributed to Paul most influentially by Martin Luther, who used a perceived Jewish legalism, materialism, and obsession with externals as stand-ins for the decadence of his nemesis, the pope. “Because the Papists, like the Jews,” he wrote, “insist that anyone wishing to be saved must observe their ceremonies, they will perish like the Jews.”39 After Luther, both Protestants and Catholics read Paul as the preeminent tribune of Jewish corruption—a misreading that had terrible consequences, especially in Luther’s Germany, where the Volk were defined in ontological opposition to Juden. Paul’s

Nothing provokes more cynicism than a great love that was not shared, but nothing produces more modesty either; I was utterly surprised to feel loved. The truth is: a passion that fully preoccupies a man draws women to him when he least wants them. Even if he is sentimental and tender by nature, when he is obsessed with another he becomes indifferent and almost brutal. Because he is unhappy, he sometimes allows himself to be temped by the offer of affection. As soon as he has tasted this affection, he tires of it and does not disguise the fact. Without wishing to and without even realizing it, he plays the most appalling game. He becomes dangerous and conquers because he himself has been vanquished. This was the case with me. I had never been more convinced of my own inability to attract women, I had never felt less desire to attract them, and I had never received so much clear proof of devotion and love.

Some writers supply the solid virtues of a husband: reliability, intelligibility, generosity, decency. There are other writers in whom one prizes the gifts of a lover, gifts of temperament rather than of moral goodness. Notoriously, women tolerate qualities in a lover — moodiness, selfishness, unreliability, brutality — that they would never countenance in a husband, in return for excitement, an infusion of intense feeling. In the same way, readers put up with unintelligibility, obsessiveness, painful truths, lies, bad grammar — if, in compensation, the writer allows them to savor rare emotions and dangerous sensations.

No, for some unknown reason, I feel more at home in the Italian Alps than I do in the brutal heat of Puglia. I like brisk autumns, snowy winters, rainy springs, and temperate summers. The change of seasons allows for a change in one’s wardrobe (I’m sartorially obsessed) and, most important, one’s diet. A boeuf carbonnade tastes a thousand times better in the last days of autumn than when it’s eighty degrees and the sun is shining. An Armagnac is the perfect complement to a snowy night by the fire but not to an August beach outing, just as a crisp Orvieto served with spaghetti con vongole is ideal “al fresco” on a sunny summer afternoon but not nearly as satisfying when eaten indoors on a cold winter’s night. One thing feeds the other. (Pun intended.) So a visit to Iceland to escape the gloom of what is known in London as “winter” was an exciting prospect. However, my greatest concern, as you can probably guess, if you’re still reading this, was the food.

I have always been intrigued by this obsession with so-called black-on-black violence, as if black-on-white violence was somehow more acceptable. And why had no one ever described what happened in Northern Ireland or in Bosnia, Kosovo, et al. with its vicious brutality as examples of white-on-white violence? There it was just violence - then why black-on-black violence?

The fixation with Israel/Palestine does sometimes return, but the magnitude of what is going on elsewhere has finally enabled at least some observers to understand that the problems of the region are not down to the existence of Israel. That was a lie peddled by the Arab dictators as they sought to deflect attention from their own brutality, and it was bought by many people across the area and the dictators’ useful idiots in the West. Nevertheless the Israeli/Palestinian joint tragedy continues, and such is the obsession with this tiny piece of land that it may again come to be considered by some to be the most pressing conflict in the world. The Ottomans had regarded the area west of the River Jordan to the Mediterranean Coast as a part of the region of Syria. They called it Filistina. After the First World War, under the British Mandate this became Palestine.

Greatness needs courage (above all) and willpower, charisma, intelligence and creativity but it also demands characteristics that we often associate with the least admirable people: reckless risk-taking, brutal determination, sexual thrill-seeking, brazen showmanship, obsession close to fixation and something approaching insanity. In other words, the qualities required for greatness and wickedness, for heroism and monstrosity are not too far distant from each other. The Norwegians alone have a word for this: stormannsgalskap – the madness of great men.

9 October 1943 Regarding the Jewish question, he [Himmler] gives a very unadorned and frank picture. He is of the conviction that the Jewish question can be solved by the end of this year. He advocates the most radical and most severe solution, namely to exterminate Jewry, bag and baggage. Of course, if brutal, this is a consistent solution. Because we must take on the responsibility of entirely solving this question in our time. Subsequent generations will doubtlessly no longer dare address this problem with the courage and obsession as we are able to do today.

exciting time in the age of computers, when the machines first became personal and later, fashionable accessories. It is also a textbook study of the rise and fall and rise of Apple and the brutal clashes that destroyed friendships and careers. And it is a gadget lover’s dream, with fabulous, inside accounts of how the Macintosh, iPod, iPhone and iPad came into being. But more than anything, Isaacson has crafted a biography of a complicated, peculiar personality—Jobs was charming, loathsome, lovable, obsessive, maddening—and the author shows how Jobs’s character was instrumental in shaping some of the greatest technological innovations of our time.

Isaacson’s biography can be read in several ways. It is on the one hand a history of the most exciting time in the age of computers, when the machines first became personal and later, fashionable accessories. It is also a textbook study of the rise and fall and rise of Apple and the brutal clashes that destroyed friendships and careers. And it is a gadget lover’s dream, with fabulous, inside accounts of how the Macintosh, iPod, iPhone and iPad came into being. But more than anything, Isaacson has crafted a biography of a complicated, peculiar personality—Jobs was charming, loathsome, lovable, obsessive, maddening—and the author shows how Jobs’s character was instrumental in shaping some of the greatest technological innovations

Isaacson’s biography can be read in several ways. It is on the one hand a history of the most exciting time in the age of computers, when the machines first became personal and later, fashionable accessories. It is also a textbook study of the rise and fall and rise of Apple and the brutal clashes that destroyed friendships and careers. And it is a gadget lover’s dream, with fabulous, inside accounts of how the Macintosh, iPod, iPhone and iPad came into being. But more than anything, Isaacson has crafted a biography of a complicated, peculiar personality—Jobs was charming, loathsome, lovable, obsessive, maddening—and the author shows how Jobs’s character was instrumental in shaping some of the greatest technological innovations of our time.

By those who get a kick out of this sort of thing (and they are very numerous) inhumanity is enjoyed for its own sake, but often, nonetheless, with a bad conscience. To allay their sense of guilt, the bullies and the sadists provide themselves with a creditable excuses for their favorite sport. Thus, brutality toward children is rationalized as discipline, as obedience to the Word of God - "he that spareth the rod, hateth his son". Brutality toward criminals is a corollary of the Categorical Imperative. Brutality toward religious or political heretics is a blow for the True Faith. Brutality toward members of an alien race is justified by arguments drawn from what may once have passed for Science. Once universal, brutality toward the insane is not yet extinct - the mad are horribly exasperating. But this brutality is no longer rationalized, as it was in the past, in theological terms. The people who tormented Surin and the other victims of hysteria or psychosis did so, first, because they enjoyed being brutal and, second, because they were convinced that they did well to be brutal. And they believed that they did well, because, ex hypthesi, the mad had always brought their own troubles upon themselves. For some manifest or obscure sin, they were being punished by God, who permitted devils to besiege or obsess them. Both as God's enemies and as temporary incarnations of radical evil, they deserved the be maltreated. And maltreated they were - with a a good conscience and a heart-warming sense that the divine will was being done on earth, as in heaven.

One of the first examples of forensic science solving a murder appears in a book called The Washing Away of Wrongs, published in 1247 by Song Ci, a Chinese coroner and detective. The author relates a story about a peasant found brutally hacked to death with a hand sickle. The local magistrate, unable to make headway in the investigation, calls for all the village men to assemble outside with their sickles; they’re instructed to place their sickles on the ground and then take a few steps back. The hot sun beats down. A buzz is heard. Metallic green flies descend in a chaotic swarm and then, as if collectively alerted, land on one sickle, crawling all over it as the other sickles lie undisturbed. The magistrate knew traces of blood and human tissue attract blowflies. The owner of the fly-covered sickle hung his head in shame. The case was solved.

When people become famous, they are often objectified, discussed, and ridiculed with little consideration for who they are as people. Fans and critics feel as though they have the right to comment on everything celebrities do with little regard to the costs that those in the crosshairs of attention will bear. The cost that celebrities pay for the supposed benefits of being rich and famous is ongoing scrutiny and a lack of privacy. Most people do not understand or appreciate the pressure that results from fame, even though public meltdowns—such as the night that Britney Spears shaved her head in front of numerous photographers—are highly publicized. The public’s obsession with obtaining information about the famous puts serious pressure on those people’s lives, as the paparazzi’s role in Princess Diana’s death so brutally reminds us.20 Few people have sympathy for the kinds of stress that gossip places on public figures who have high status and wealth. At a distance, famous people seem invulnerable.

I know what the cynics will say. I know how the scoffers will sneer. I know the non-dreamers believing only in the brutal ways of force will laugh me off as impossibly naive. But I don’t care. I’ve grown immune to their strain of unbelief. I’ve turned a corner. I believe that what Isaiah dreamed of, Jesus died for. I believe that what Isaiah said would come to pass in the last days, Jesus inaugurated in his resurrection. I’ve caught a glimpse of the better world that can be—a world that Jesus came to give and continues to offer us. I believe the world of peace is possible in Christ. I won’t let the doomsday preppers with their Armageddon obsession talk me out of it. Jesus has already spoken the first word of a new world—the word peace. So things have changed. I have changed. I’ve prayed my last war prayer and preached my last war sermon. I’ve given up bellicose flag waving and singing lustily about bombs bursting in air. I’ve bid a final farewell to Mars. From now on I follow the Prince of Peace. I know others will come with me. Maybe you will be one of them. I hope so.

He perceived too in these still hours how little he had understood her hitherto. He had been blinded, — obsessed. He had been seeing her and himself and the whole world far too much as a display of the eternal dualism of sex, the incessant pursuit. Now with his sexual imaginings newly humbled and hopeless, with a realization of her own tremendous minimization of that fundamental of romance, he began to see all that there was in her personality and their possible relations outside that. He saw how gravely and deeply serious was her fine philanthropy, how honest and simple and impersonal her desire for knowledge and understandings. There is the brain of her at least, he thought, far out of Sir Isaac's reach. She wasn't abased by her surrenders, their simplicity exalted her, showed her innocent and himself a flushed and congested soul. He perceived now with the astonishment of a man newly awakened just how the great obsession of sex had dominated him — for how many years? Since his early undergraduate days. Had he anything to put beside her own fine detachment? Had he ever since his manhood touched philosophy, touched a social question, thought of anything human, thought of art, or literature or belief, without a glancing reference of the whole question to the uses of this eternal hunt? During that time had he ever talked to a girl or woman with an unembarrassed sincerity? He stripped his pretences bare; the answer was no. His very refinements had been no more than indicative fig-leaves. His conservatism and morality had been a mere dalliance with interests that too brutal a simplicity might have exhausted prematurely. And indeed hadn't the whole period of literature that had produced him been, in its straining purity and refinement, as it were one glowing, one illuminated fig-leaf, a vast conspiracy to keep certain matters always in mind by conspicuously covering them away? But this wonderful woman — it seemed — she hadn't them in mind! She shamed him if only by her trustful unsuspiciousness of the ancient selfish game of Him and Her that he had been so ardently playing.... He idealized and worshipped this clean blindness. He abased himself before it.

...we realized with astonishment that whereas our group—or to use Gustav's favorite expression: our detachment—as monsters of forward progress was playing the role of pioneers in a world only hesitatingly liberating itself from the controlling machinery of goodness, "Herman" had all this while been acting as a fanatic obsessed with the centripetal forces of restraint. And whereas our techniques—having realized in the wake of our sorry experiences that we were not questing heroes but merely dumb victims of the thinking mind—were based on paraphiliac fulfillment, unbridled pursuit of pleasure, the ceaseless apocatastasis of an Eden missing from primal imagination, and took refuge in transgression, Herman's deliberately paltry means were called into being by hubris, a hubris that believed in the invincibility of weakness. We realized that even as we (again only Gustav managed to find the right words) brutalized things, violating their frail integrity precisely because of their perfection, "Herman," driven by the pressures of ancient ingrained compulsions, managed to monumentalize destructiveness.

I notice my own flaws more than anyone’s—I can be cold and unwelcoming. Obsessive. Quick to get angry and slow to forgive. Worst of all, I’m easily annoyed.

And me? I’m the worst fucking nightmare you could imagine.

For many people, the haunting begins the minute they wake up. Maybe they are fat or disabled, feel ugly, or are failing and overwhelmed at school or work, and it consumes them. Their obsession with their own imperfections and faults suffocates self-respect and submarines progress, and from the time they get out of bed until they are able to crawl back in that night, the only thing on their agenda is avoiding exposure and surviving another day in hell. When that’s how you feel about yourself, it’s impossible to see possibilities or seize opportunities. We all have the ability to be extraordinary, but most of us—and especially the haunted ones—tap out of the crucible and never experience what it’s like to get to the other side of hell. My metamorphosis was a brutal process that unfolded over decades, but eventually, I became the polar opposite of the kid frozen in the hot stage lights and the gaze of his teacher who only wanted to teach him to read. I became a full-time savage who walked the distant, narrow path with cliffs rising on both sides, no aid stations or rest areas, and no turnouts or exits of any kind. Whatever popped up in front of me had to be dealt with head-on because the full-time savage sees everything in life as an opportunity to learn, adapt, and evolve. However, when Babbitt’s message found me, at first, I looked for an exit. Then, I pulled my head out of my ass and found a way.

Girls like me need guys like him to spar with, to fight. To hurl the miseries and the anger at someone who can handle it.

But I want to take all that passion and jealousy and obsession inside of me, and I want to give it all to her. I want to give her the best of me, whatever that might be.

I’ll make sure the whole fucking world knows Violet belongs to me.

I want to spend the rest of my life pulling Violet apart piece by piece, inspecting how she works, how she was made, and then putting her back together again.

He’s letting his demons out. Showing me that I can bare mine, too.

God, I couldn’t have predicted how obsessed I’d be with her. How much I’d enjoy all of what she gives me. Even the irritating parts.

meant it when I said I loved her, but it’s terrifying, too. I felt, in that moment, like I was offering my heart out for her to do with what she pleased.

But she didn’t stomp on it. She looked scared, and I can fucking relate to that. I didn’t want to tell her I’m terrified.

Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of our lives? This addiction? This feeling in my chest like I’m inflated with helium?

We mix our blood and saliva and love together.

Obsessed. In love.

She swallows. Her throat works, and she kisses the tip of my dick when she straightens back up. She’s definitely the first person to do that. I choke on my laugh.

Sometimes I think we’ll never be close enough,” I admit softly. “Is that strange?

I think I know what you want,” he says. “You want my blood and yours. Together.

Yes. I almost say it out loud. I want another thing binding us together. And what’s better than blood? I love that he knows it automatically. That he followed my line of thinking all the way through my fucked-up mind and ended up with the same conclusion.

I meant what I said: she’s never going to know another cock.

I really like Sloane, but I’ve never had a worse meal in my life.” “She’s very into her health.” “Is she into Declan’s health? Because it seems like her poor husband could starve to death eating that shredded cardboard she calls food.” He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair off my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. “Declan would eat broken glass if that’s what Sloane was serving.” I recall how his eyes tracked her every movement and smile. “He does seem a little obsessed with her.

(Including: blood/knife play, dubious consent, breath play, consensual non-consent, primal play, and mental/physical/emotional bullying.)

Greyson wanted me to inform you that he does not grovel. Under any circumstances.

eye combination my mother always made a fuss about. Maybe that’s why my skin crawled every time someone commented on how attractive a couple we were. It was more a reflection on me than us. He lifts his hand and moves my hair off my forehead. The gesture is intimate, but I’m too stunned to stop him. He brushes his thumb over the scar on my temple. “I was worried about you. You wouldn’t let me see you in the hospital. Or after?” A sigh escapes before I can school my features into something a little more… regretful. “Well, I was embarrassed.” That’s a lie. I just didn’t want to face whatever the fuck emotional roller coaster I was riding the last six months. Seriously. My life went from normal to shit in a split second. Adding Jack—and the life that I thought I had, the one that seemed to go up in a puff of smoke when I woke up in the hospital—would’ve been more pain than I was ready to accept. “Violet!” I step away from Jack, ignoring his wounded expression, and turn to my other friends. Half the dance team is here, and they all crowd around me. Someone pulls at my coffee-stained blouse, and another swoops in to clean the floor where my cup dropped. I had forgotten, in my Jack-shock. “Lucky it wasn’t hot.” Willow nudges me. “Luck and I aren’t on speaking terms.” She visited faithfully every day while I was stuck in the hospital. Kept me sane, kept me looped in to the gossip. She’s the only one who knows what I went through, and I’m keeping it that way. I’m not in the habit of airing my dirty laundry—or my newfound nightmares. I’ve been plagued by bright lights, crunching metal, and snapping bones. She rolls her eyes at my luck comment. “You need to change. We’re taking you out.” Oh boy. My first instinct is to say no, but honestly? I could use a bit of normalcy. My therapist—the talk one, not the physical one—said something about getting back into a routine. Well, for the last two years, I’ve gone out with my girls on Friday nights. There’s nothing more normal than that. I’m actually looking forward to it. She leads the way to the bedroom I haven’t been in since… before. She steps aside and lets me do the honors. Opening the door is like cracking into a time capsule. Fucking devastating. Willow stands behind me, her hand on my shoulder, as I stare around at the remnants of the person I used to be. If I wasn’t aware of how different I was after six months away, I am now. Mentally, physically. There are still clothes that I left on the floor. My chair is pulled out and covered in clothes. There’s a pile of books that I had planned to conquer over the summer in the center of the desk. My bed is made. “I kept the door open

definitely

Think Brutal.No need to be mean, just brutally honest—and avoid the partial truths while you’re at it. Ask those you interact with to do the same. People will be more focused, more positive, and more productive when they don’t have to guess what you’re thinking. Positive or negative, make honesty the basis of all interactions. You’ll avoid wasting valuable time and energy later.

Harnessing the Power of Simplicity Think Brutal. No need to be mean, just brutally honest—and avoid the partial truths while you're at it. ... Positive or negative, make honesty the basis of all interactions. Think Small. Small groups of smart people deliver better results, higher efficiency, and improved morale. Think Minimal. The more you minimize your proposition, the more attractive it will be. Think Motion. It's just a fact of life that a degree of pressure keeps things moving ahead with purpose. Think Iconic. It will serve you well to crystallize your thinking by leveraging an image that can symbolize your idea or the spirit of it. Think Phrasal. The best way to make yourself organization look smart is to express an idea simply and with perfect clarity. Think Casual. Embrace the fact that you'll get more accomplished when you converse with people rather than present to them. Think Human. Have the boldness to look beyond the numbers and spreadsheets and allow your heart to have a say in the matter. Think Skeptic. Don't allow the discouragement of others to force compromise upon your ideas. Push.

she throws her arms around me and hugs me tightly. It’s a nice hug—warm and genuine. I always liked Nessa. I’ve never met someone so completely and truly kind. The only thing that makes me stiffen in her arms is the knowledge that her husband is both dangerous and intensely obsessed with his wife. I’d rather not start my interaction with Mikolaj with the sight of me embracing his beloved.

That's like asking me if I'll get bored of breathing. As long as I'm alive, I'll always want you. Maybe I love you." My heart flutters at the words. "Maybe it's obsession. Hell, I kind of think it's both. I'm fucking obsessed with you, Hazel. I will always be obsessed with you.

I bit my bottom lip, thinking. “I don’t, but…” I paused, knowing the next words out of my mouth would probably result in either his death or mine. “I know people who might.” “There are others that would betray your maker?” I nodded. “Not everyone was keen on Kaden’s latest obsession, and he has been brutal in his search. As a result, he has made enemies that have chosen to bide their time.” Liam steepled his fingers, studying me across the table. “And who are these people?” “Let’s just say I have connections.” “I would assume your connections are the same as his. So, tell me how you perceive them helping us if you, his consort, killed one of his generals in cold blood.” I didn’t bother to correct him. “Simple. Kaden’s ego is almost as big as yours, if not more so. He won’t tell anyone about me killing Alistair because it would make him seem weak. He will not advertise that he couldn’t control the woman he created. I would bet he is already weaving a story about how the great World Ender overpowered Alistair and took his favorite toy.

I shift, suddenly uncomfortable with the spotlight. I shouldn’t be. I grew up in the spotlight. I was cultivated in the spotlight. But somehow, sparring with Greyson has worn away the edges. I’ve come to learn that it hurts when I’m put to the test and don’t pass. Is that what happened? I didn’t pass his test? My cheeks burn.

I lost weight while I was away—but most of it was muscle mass. My body is soft where I used to be strong. Physical therapy helped, but not nearly enough. Not enough to give me back the muscles I had before. - Freaking hell. I can’t explain the knotting high in my chest, but I need to explain it to her. “[Jack] missed the dance team, peppy version of me. I’ve been doused in...” I struggle to find the right way to explain, finally settling on, “gray.

I shift, suddenly uncomfortable with the spotlight. I shouldn’t be. I grew up in the spotlight. I was cultivated in the spotlight. But somehow, sparring with Greyson has worn away the edges. I’ve come to learn that it hurts when I’m put to the test and don’t pass. Is that what happened? I didn’t pass his test? My cheeks burn.

Doesn’t matter how hard I fuck you, baby. I still hate your guts.” My chest tightens, and my eyes burn. Again. Shit. Why the hell am I having such an emotional response? I don’t want to care about what he says. It would appear to be his own special brand of brutality. He makes me obsessed with him and then this . He tears the rug out from under me.

Jack and I broke up.” “I know.” “Of course you know,” I grumble. “You still invited him.” I yank it open and flip through clothes. I lost weight while I was away—but most of it was muscle mass. My body is soft where I used to be strong. Physical therapy helped, but not nearly enough. Not enough to give me back the muscles I had before. “He begged. And he does look cute when he’s on his knees...” I glare at her. “Seriously?” She shrugs, still smiling. “I think he missed you. He made a point that you like to isolate when you stress, which is true . You can’t deny it. We’re just trying to prevent that from happening, is all.” Freaking hell. I can’t explain the knotting high in my chest, but I need to explain it to her. “He missed the dance team, peppy version of me. I’ve been doused in...” I struggle to find the right way to explain, finally settling on, “gray.

Jack and I broke up.” “I know.” “Of course you know,” I grumble. “You still invited him.” I yank it open and flip through clothes. I lost weight while I was away—but most of it was muscle mass. My body is soft where I used to be strong. Physical therapy helped, but not nearly enough. Not enough to give me back the muscles I had before. “He begged. And he does look cute when he’s on his knees...” I glare at her. “Seriously?” She shrugs, still smiling. “I think he missed you. He made a point that you like to isolate when you stress, which is true. You can’t deny it. We’re just trying to prevent that from happening, is all.” Freaking hell. I can’t explain the knotting high in my chest, but I need to explain it to her. “He missed the dance team, peppy version of me. I’ve been doused in...” I struggle to find the right way to explain, finally settling on, “gray.

You’re a little slut for me,” I tell her. “No one else will give you this rush.” “Fuck off,” she snaps breathlessly. No stop. I should’ve picked a more unique word for her. A safe word that won’t slip as easily from her lips. But she hasn’t spoken it, even when I gave her the chance last night. It solidifies a few things in my mind, but the main one is that she wants this. She’s a glutton. And I can keep pushing her until she breaks, or I do.

I take and take and take. The people in my life who know me best, they know I take and don’t give back. My mother, for instance, always leaving those pieces of herself behind. I collect them because the alternative is worse. I kept them to remind myself of her, because even when we’re standing in front of each other, she’s not there. She lives in baubles and forgotten bits. My father? I harbor the watercolor memories of him. Willow? I steal her generosity, I leech her comfort. Greyson. I’ll suck the anger clean out of his body, because I think he can live without it—while I need it to keep going.

Let’s get something straight,” I say slowly, my gaze fixed on her lips. It’s a real struggle not to kiss her. “I am that terrible —and worse. Remember that, sweetheart, when you go to sleep and wish for dreams. Because you’ll just get nightmares. And me? I’m the worst fucking nightmare you could imagine.” Her eyes flash, giving me not fear but hurt. Like she has a better picture of me in her head, but I’m ruining it. Good. It should be ruined.

She sinks gracefully to the floor and begins to undo the ribbons around her ankles. “Whatever you want to do to me... I may as well take these off. They’re too expensive for you to ruin.” “But your body isn’t?” I focus in on her, my lips curling. Yes, something in the back of my mind hisses. Ruin her for anyone else. “My body will heal.” She meets my eyes. “Unless you’re planning on breaking me again.” I smile, too. I can’t help it. “When I break you, it won’t be your leg. Or your ribs. Or your vocal cords. It’s your mind I’m after, Violet. Your mind and your soul, because that black heart that beats behind your ribcage? That already belongs to me.

Empathy works wonders when dealing with the most brutal kind of criticism. The harshest of the negative feedback I received oozed with the kind of insecurity that had, for a long while, been lodged so deep within me that it had prevented me from sharing my music. I was able to recognize the ugly emotion and the place of fear that it was born from because once upon a time, I, too, had been at its mercy. The only difference was that I’d resisted the impulse to go on the Internet anonymously and be a jerk about it by taking it out on other people. The choice is always there.

Egalitarianism under the best circumstances becomes hypocrisy; if sincerely accepted and believed in, its menace is greater. Then all actual inequalities appear without exception to be unjust, immoral, intolerable. Hatred, unhappiness, tension, a general maladjustment is the result. The situation is even worse when brutal efforts are made to establish equality through a process of artificial levelling (“social engineering”) which can only be done by force, restrictions, or terror, and the outcome is a complete loss of liberty.371 The egalitarian and anti-personalistic terror of the French Revolution was perhaps partly prepared by the views of Abbé Mably, who traced the victory of Rome and the decline of Greece to the egalitarian statism of Rome and the individualistic disunity of the Hellenes.372 Even today our liberties are menaced by the same basic obsession.

Good thing I’m in the mood for brutality.

- I didn't seduce her! OK, I didn't know exactly what I was doing. It seemed like fun and then... well, THAT happened. - said Ronnie. - It wasn't intentional. I did it for shits and giggles, alright? We never had sex. She was mortified at the thought of losing her job, but I told her that I wouldn't tell anyone. - Well... you just did. - said Tyler. - You two aren't just "anyone". That's the difference. - said Ronnie and resumed his task... until his ears caught a disturbing row of cries for help. - What kind of language is that? - Tyler asked. - It's... Hindi. Urdu, to be specific. - Ronnie answered. - How the fuck do you know? - Tyler asked. - Just found it out. - answered Ronnie. - Well, where does that lead us? - asked Tyler once again. - Pakistan. - said Garret. - We're not going there saving Muslims from the clutches of radical Islam and fighting for human rights, are we? - said Tyler. - No, obviously. But if their lives are in danger, we'll help. Not because some non-governmental organisation is obsessed with political correctness and equal rights, but because they don't deserve to die just because some delusional maniac decided to play God with their fate. - said Ronnie.

It is my argument that American liberalism is a totalitarian political religion, but not necessarily an Orwellian one. It is nice, not brutal. Nannying, not bullying. But it is definitely totalitarian--or "holistic", if you prefer--in that liberalism today sees no realm of human life that is beyond political significance, from what you eat to what you smoke to what you say. Sex is political. Food is political. Sports, entertainment, your inner motives and outer appearance, all have political salience for liberal fascists. Liberals place their faith in priestly experts who know better, who plan, exhort, badger, and scold. They try to use science to discredit traditional notions of religion and faith, but they speak the language of pluralism and spirituality to defend "nontraditional" beliefs. Just as with classical fascism, liberal fascists speak of a "Third Way" between right and left where all good things go together and all hard choices are "false choices". The idea that there are no hard choices--that is, choices between competing goods--is religious and totalitarian because it assumes that all good things are fundamentally compatible. The conservatives or classical liberal vision understands that life is unfair, that man is flawed, and that the only perfect society, the only real utopia, waits for us in the next life. Liberal fascism differs from classical fascism in many ways. I don't deny this. Indeed, it is central to my point. Fascisms differ from each other because they grow out of different soil. What unites them are their emotional or instinctual impulses, such as the quest for community, the urge to "get beyond" politics, a faith in the perfectibility of man and the authority of experts, and an obsession with the aesthetics of youth, the cult of action, and the need for an all powerful state to coordinate society at the national or global level. Most of all, they share the belief--what I call the totalitarian temptation--that with the right amount of tinkering we can realize the utopian dream of "creating a better world".