Coup De Grace Quotes

For a hundred years or more the world, our world, has been dying. And not one man, in these last hundred years or so, has been crazy enough to put a bomb up the asshole of creation and set it off. The world is rotting away, dying piecemeal. But it needs the coup de grace, it needs to be blown to smithereens. Not one of us is intact, and yet we have in us all the continents and the seas between the continents and the birds of the air. We are going to put it down ― the evolution of this world which has died but which has not been buried.

Love was slow, creeping poison, loge was treacherous and insincere, love was a veil thrown over the misery of the world, love was sticky and indigestible, it was a mirror in which one could be what one was not, it was a spectre that spread hope where hope had long since dies, it was a hiding place where people thought they found refuge and ultimately found only themselves, it was a vague memory of another love, it was the possibility of a salvation that was ultimately equivalent to a coup de grace, it was a war without victors, it was a precious jewel amid broken fragments you cut yourself on: yes, Brilka, in those days that was love.

Les gens que l'on rencontre dans les rues, pendant le jour, donnent l'impression d'aller vers un but précis, que l'on suppose raisonnable, mais, la nuit, ils paraissent marcher dans leurs rêves.

Within a week, the entire nation was raving about alternating current as the future of electricity. The fair was a debilitating blow to Edison’s direct current, and foreshadowed the coup de grace in the War

My work is just beginning. The easy part is over—the initial capture. It will be far more challenging from this point on. I need to set the stage for her to bond with her captor -- me. I know it will take time for her to accept her fate. In the coming weeks she’ll move through predictable stages, much like the stages of grief: shock, anger, fear, even bargaining. Eventually, she’ll realize that she depends on me – requires me -- for her day-to-day, most basic needs. Then will come the final stage, a coup de grace that is to be savored and celebrated: acceptance. Her will to survive will break down her resistance and bring her walls crashing down. That’s my favorite part—the giving over of her will. I straighten the cuffs on my tailored shirt as I peer through the door’s window pane. It’s interesting to watch her as she shuffles across the floor on her knees, blindfolded—the chains on her feet and wrists impede her attempts to move about freely. Her wrists are bruised and bloodied from her attempts to free herself, her vision hampered by a blindfold. And yet she fights. My brave girl.

For a hundred years or more the world, our world, has been dying. And not one man, in these last hundred years or so, has been crazy enough to put a bomb up the asshole of creation and set it off. The world is rotting away, dying piecemeal. But it needs the coup de grace, it needs to be blown to smithereens.

Arthur said brightly, “Actually I quite liked it.” Ford turned and gaped. Here was an approach that had quite simply not occurred to him. The Vogon raised a surprised eyebrow that effectively obscured his nose and was therefore no bad thing. “Oh good …” he whirred, in considerable astonishment. “Oh yes,” said Arthur, “I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective.” Ford continued to stare at him, slowly organizing his thoughts around this totally new concept. Were they really going to be able to bareface their way out of this? “Yes, do continue …” invited the Vogon. “Oh … and, er … interesting rhythmic devices too,” continued Arthur, “which seemed to counterpoint the … er … er …” he floundered. Ford leaped to his rescue, hazarding “… counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor of the … er …” He floundered too, but Arthur was ready again. “… humanity of the …” “Vogonity,” Ford hissed at him. “Ah yes, Vogonity—sorry—of the poet’s compassionate soul”—Arthur felt he was on the homestretch now—“which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other”—he was reaching a triumphant crescendo—“and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into … into … er …” (which suddenly gave out on him). Ford leaped in with the coup de grace: “Into whatever it was the poem was about!” he yelled. Out of the corner of his mouth: “Well done, Arthur, that was very good.” The Vogon perused them. For a moment his embittered racial soul had been touched, but he thought no—too little too late. His voice took on the quality of a cat snagging brushed nylon. “So what you’re saying is that I write poetry because underneath my mean callous heartless exterior I really just want to be loved,” he said. He paused, “Is that right?” Ford laughed a nervous laugh. “Well, I mean, yes,” he said, “don’t we all, deep down, you know … er …” The Vogon stood up. “No, well, you’re completely wrong,” he said, “I just write poetry to throw my mean callous heartless exterior into sharp relief. I’m going to throw you off the ship anyway. Guard! Take the prisoners to number three airlock and throw them out!” “What?” shouted Ford. A huge young Vogon guard stepped forward and yanked them out of their straps with his huge blubbery arms. “You can’t throw us into space,” yelled Ford, “we’re trying to write a book.” “Resistance is useless!” shouted the Vogon guard back at him. It was the first phrase he’d learned when he joined the Vogon Guard Corps.

Poetry: Peacekeeper of the World I declare poetry, 'Peacekeeper of the World!' As our sentinel. she glides softly like a guided missile, carries within words an alliteratively wide-ranging whistle, she ride shotgun preserving the liberties of our fucked-up human race, eliminating evil empires with ametaphor, a simile or elegant coup de grace.

Replete is the body which holds for us these sublime ecstasies, replete with sanctity and graces, all of it so briefly; it glitters wondrously on the ground, then extinguishes like a flame.

The events in Poland were hailed far and wide. Political clubs in Paris voted to make Stanislaw Augustus an honorary member. Condorcet and Thomas Paine acclaimed the constitution as a breakthrough, while Edmund Burke called it `the most pure' public good ever bestowed upon mankind. For the same reasons, they alarmed Poland's neighbours. The Prussian minister Count Hertzberg was convinced that `the Poles have given the coup de grace to the Prussian monarchy by voting a constitution much better than the English', and warned that the Poles would sooner or later regain not only the lands taken from them in the partition, but also Prussia.

But while Paul is silent about the question of future choices in verse 11, he does not remain so. In verse 16 he makes it clear: “So then it is not of him who wills, nor of him who runs, but of God who shows mercy.” This is the coup de grace to Arminianism and all other non-Reformed views of predestination. This is the Word of God that requires all Christians to cease and desist from views of predestination that make the ultimate decision for salvation rest in the will of man. The apostle declares: “It is not of him who wills.” The non-Reformed views must say that it is of him who wills. This is in violent contradiction to the teaching of Scripture. This one verse is absolutely fatal to Arminianism.

What, may I ask, does your one truck contain if not gowns?” Inspiration struck, and Elizabeth smiled radiantly. “Something of great value. Priceless value,” she confided. All faces at the table watched her with alert fascination-particularly the greedy Sir Francis. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense, love. What’s in it?” “The mortal remains of Saint Jacob.” Lady Eloise and Lady Mortand screamed in unison, Sir William choked on his wine, and Sir Francis gaped at her in horror, but Elizabeth wasn’t quite finished. She saved the coup de grace until the meal was over. As soon as everyone arose she insisted they sit back down so a proper prayer of gratitude could be said. Raising her hands heavenward, Elizabeth turned a simple grace into a stinging tirade against the sins of lust and promiscuity that rose to crescendo as she called down the vengeance of doomsday on all transgressors and culminated in a terrifyingly lurid description of the terrors that awaited all who strayed down the path of lechery-terrors that combined dragon lore with mythology, a smattering of religion, and a liberal dash of her own vivid imagination. When it was done Elizabeth dropped her eyes, praying in earnest that tonight would loose her from her predicament. There was no more she could do; she’d played out her hand with all her might; she’d given it her all. It was enough. After supper Sir Francis escorted her to her chamber and, with a poor attempt at regret, announced that he greatly feared they wouldn’t suit. Not at all. Elizabeth and Berta departed at dawn the following morning, an hour before Sir Francis’s servants stirred themselves. Clad in a dressing robe, Sir Francis watched from his bedchamber window as Elizabeth’s coachman helped her into her conveyance. He was about to turn away when a sudden gust of wind caught Elizabeth’s black gown, exposing a long and exceptionally shapely leg to Sir Francis’s riveted gaze. He was still staring at the coach as it circled the drive; through its open window he saw Elizabeth laugh and reach up, unpinning her hair. Clouds of golden tresses whipped about the open window, obscuring her face, and Sir Francis thoughtfully wet his lips.

La mémoire des femmes ressemble à ces tables anciennes dont elles se servent pour coudre. Il y a des tiroirs secrets ; il y en a, fermés depuis longtemps et qui ne peuvent s'ouvrir, il y a des fleurs séchées qui ne sont plus que de la poussière de roses ; des écheveaux emmêlés, quelquefois des épingles. La mémoire de Marie était très complaisante ; elle devait lui servir à broder son passé.

Is the consideration of a little dirty pelf, to individuals, to be placed in competition with the essential rights & liberties of the present generation, & of millions yet unborn? shall a few designing men for their own aggrandizement, and to gratify their own avarice, overset the goodly fabric we have been rearing at the expence of so much time, blood, & treasure? and shall we at last become the victems of our own abominable lust of gain? Forbid it heaven! forbid it all, & every state in the union! by enacting & enforcing, efficatious laws for checking the growth of these monstrous evils, & restoring matters in some degree to the pristine state they were in at the commencement of the War. Our cause is noble. It is the cause of Mankind! and the danger to it springs from ourselves—Shall we slumber & sleep then while we should be punishing those miscreants who have brought these troubles upon us, & who are aiming to continue us in them? While we should be striving to fill our Battalions—and devising ways and means to appreciate the currency—On the credit of which every thing depends? I hope not—let vigorous measures be adopted—not to limit the price of articles—for this I conceive is inconsistent with the very nature of things, & impracticable in itself—but to punish speculators—forestallers—& extortioners—and above all—to sink the money by heavy Taxes—To promote public & private Œconomy—encourage Manufactures &ca—Measures of this sort gone heartily into by the several states will strike at once at the root of all our misfortunes, & give the coup-de-grace to British hope of subjugating this great Continent, either by their Arms or their Arts—The first as I have before observed they acknowledge is unequal to the task—the latter I am sure will be so if we are not lost to every thing that is good & virtuous.

One of Matsudaira Sagami no kami’s retainers went to Kyoto on a matter of debt collection and took up lodgings by renting living quarters in a townhouse. One day while standing out front watching the people go by, he heard a passerby say, “They say that Lord Matsudaira’s men are involved in a fight right now.” The retainer thought, “How worrisome that some of my companions are involved in a fight. There are some men to relieve those at Edo staying here. Perhaps these are the men involved.” He asked the passerby of the location, but when he arrived out of breath, his companions had already been cut down and their adversaries were at the point of delivering the coup de grace. He quickly let out a yell, cut the two men down, and returned to his lodgings. This matter was made known to an official of the shogunate, and the man was called up before him and questioned. “You gave assistance in your companions’ fight and thus disregarded the government’s ordinance. This is true beyond a doubt, isn’t it?” The man replied, “I am from the country, and it is difficult for me to understand everything that Your Honor is saying. Would you please repeat that?” The official got angry and said, “Is there something wrong with your ears? Didn’t you abet a fight, commit bloodshed, disregard the government’s ordinance, and break the law?” The man then replied, “I have at length understood what you are saying. Although you say that I have broken the law and disregarded the government’s ordinance, I have by no means done so. The reason for this is that all living things value their lives, and this goes without saying for human beings. I, especially, value my life. However, I thought that to hear a rumor that one’s friends are involved in a fight and to pretend not to hear this is not to preserve the Way of the Samurai, so I ran to the place of action. To shamelessly return home after seeing my friends struck down would surely have lengthened my life, but this too would be disregarding the Way. In preserving the Way, one will throw away his own precious life. Thus, in order to preserve the Way of the Samurai and not to disregard the Samurai Ordinances, I quickly threw away my life at that place. I beg that you execute me immediately.” The official was very impressed and later dismissed the matter, communicating to Lord Matsudaira, “You have a very able samurai in your service. Please treasure him.

As a booty or a spoil, captured, caught, with snare and toil. Selling pleasure, selling joy, Tantalizing, tortured toy; Tricked and trafficked, mocked and marred, Branded, baffled, scoffed and scarred! Wander, wander whither, why? Ye who pay while all pass by, Casting stones each at his sin As he spurns in you his kin. Fools of fortune, pity ye Your bejewelled poverty ! Hounded like a hare at bay, That no coup de grace will slay, Like a bird of broken wing, Wild, defiant, fluttering. Hither, thither, drearily, On and onward, wearily; Laughing, cursing to defy Stifled sob and surging sigh.

We are kidding ourselves when we romanticize death as the climax of a life well lived. It is an enemy. It cuts us off from all the wonderful pleasures of this world. We call death sweet names only as the lesser of evils. The executioner that delivers the coup de grace in our suffering is not the fulfillment of a longing, but the end of hope. The longing of the human heart is to live and to be happy.

2 prisonniers, dans des cachots voisins, qui communiquent par des coups frappés contre le mur. Le mur est ce qui les sépare, mais aussi ce qui leur permet de communiquer. Ainsi nous et Dieu. Toute séparation est un lien

didn’t say a word. I waited. I felt like my eyes were shooting flames. “I love you,” he said. I waited. “My maker, Appius Livius Ocella”—the dead Appius Livius Ocella—“was in the process of making a match for me before he died,” Eric said. “He mentioned it to me during his stay, but I didn’t realize the process had gone as far as it had when he died. I thought I could ignore it. That his death canceled it out.” I waited. I could not read his face, and without the bond, I could only see that he was covering his emotion with a hard face. “This isn’t much done anymore, though it used to be the norm. Makers used to find matches for their children. They’d receive a fee if it was an advantageous union, if each half could supply something the other lacked. It was mostly a business arrangement.” I raised my eyebrows. At the only vampire wedding I’d witnessed, there’d been plenty of evidence of physical passion, though I’d been told the couple wouldn’t be spending all their time together. Eric looked abashed, an expression I’d never thought to see on his face. “Of course, it has to be consummated,” he said. I waited for the coup de grace. Maybe the ground would open up and swallow him first. It didn’t. “I’d have to put you aside,” he admitted. “It’s not done, to have a human wife and a vampire wife. Especially if the wife is the Queen of Oklahoma. The vampire wife must be the only one.” He looked away, his face stiff with a resentment he’d never expressed before. “I know you’ve always insisted that you weren’t my true wife, so presumably that would not be so difficult for you.” Like hell. He looked at my face as if he were reading a map. “Though I believe it would be,” he said softly.

You can’t just physically beat a man and expect him not to retaliate. Insults, slaps, threats go just so far. You’ve got to go for the jugular. You’ve got to finish the job in a clean sweep. What do the French call it? Coup de grace, as believe. I did learn a few things from living with Charlie.

Plagiarism is the silliest of misdemeanors. What harm is there in writing what’s already been written? Real originality is a capital crime, often calling for cruel and unusual punishment in advance of the coup de grace.

If by some miracle Buster Freitag could live a long enough life, say two hundred years, there might be time enough for him to lose all his appendages and extremities. Seven more fingers, nine more toes, hands, feet, arms, legs, his genitals, his nose and, of course, the one ear still attached. Reduced down to only head and torso, he might find gainful employment in some circus sideshow, billed as the Human Bratwurst. At least until the final coup de grace, when he would be decapitated in a jealous rage incident, courtesy of a machete wielded by his jilted lover, The Bearded Lady.

They are perhaps reminded of their readings in Roman history at school when they find the stage occupied permanently by the Romans, to whom enter in turn a number of outlandish characters called Pyrrhus, Mithridates or Jugurtha just in time to receive their coup de grace. What they were doing behind the scenes before responding to their cue is left obscure.

British government prosecutors delivered the coup de grace to the efforts to bring Karl Wolff to justice. They formally requested that the U.S. turn over the SS general and several senior Wehrmacht generals for a full British war crimes trial.

[Dick] had absorbed Hume's argument that we cannot verify causality (that B follows A does not prove that A caused B), Bishop Berkeley's demonstration that physical reality cannot be objectively established (all we have are sensory impressions that seem to be real), and Kant's distinction between noumena (unknowable ultimate reality) and phenomena (a priori categories, such as space and time, imposed upon reality by the workings of the human brain). From Jung he adopted the theory of projection: The contents of our psyches strongly color our perceptions. As a coup de grace, Phil's study of Vedic and Buddhist philosophy led to a fascination with maya: True reality is veiled from unenlightened human consciousness. We create illustory realms in accordance with our fears and desires.

Socialization itself is in question. The present crisis, of which the disintegration of the banlieues is only the spectacular form, is the crisis of general disintegration in the face of the ideal demands of sociality. The disturbances in the margins conceal the fact that society as a whole is resisting the systematic colonization of socialization. The bar of total investment in life through society and economics has been set too high. When did we discover that the deepest demands were social and economic, that the only horizon was the horizon of integration and calculation? Capital's coup de force is to make everything dependant on the economic order, to subject all minds to a single mental dimension. Every other issue becomes unintelligible. The displacement of all problems into economic and performance terms is a trap: the belief that everything is granted us virtually, or will be, by the grace of continual growth and acceleration - including, by extension, a universal lifting of prohibitions, the availability of all information and, of course, the obligation to experience jouissance.

Thank God! He went down in front of the bar on the tiled floor. BANG! The fat bastard, he shattered both knees with the weight of him. My hands were in just a little bit of pain, but I was driven on to keep punching his fat head in by the gratifying squeals I was eliciting from him and, broken hands or not, with the coup de grace… I knocked him out.