Daemon Book Quotes

Your mail could've waited." Daemon followed me into the kitchen. "What is it? Just books?" Grabbing the OJ from the fridge, I sighed. People who didn't heart books didn't understand.

Because this absolutely insane - the craziest thing I'd ever done. Worse than giving a one-star review, scarier than asking for an interview with an author I'd give my firstborn to eat lunch with, more stupid than kissing Daemon.

Daemon snatched the yellow packages from my hands. “Oh! Books! You have books!” I laughed as several people waiting in line looked over their shoulders. “Hand them over.” He clutched them to his chest, making moony eyes. “My life is now complete.” “My life would be complete if I could actually post a review on something other than the school library computers.” I did that about twice a week since my latest laptop went to the big computer heaven in the sky.

What?" he demanded. "Did you just...clean a dish?" Dee backed away slowly, blinking. She glanced at Daemon. "The world is going to end. And I’m still a vir—" "No!" both the brothers yelled in unison. Daemon looked like he was actually going to vomit. "Jesus, don’t ever finish that statement. Actually, don’t ever change that. Thank you." Her mouth dropped open."You expect me to never have—" "This isn’t a conversation I want to start my morning with." Dawson grabbed his book bag off the kitchen table. "I’m so leaving for school before this gets more detailed." "And why aren’t you dressed yet?" Dee demanded, her full attention concentrated on Daemon. "You’re going to be late." "I’m always late." "Punctuality makes perfect.

For once, I agree with Blake." Daemon met my shocked stare. "We can't, Kitten. Not now." I wasn't okay with this, but I couldn't run down the hall, letting people free. We didn't plan for that and we only had a set amount of time. It sucked-sucked worse than people who pirated books, sucked more than a year for the next book in a beloved series, and sucked more than a brutal cliffhanger ending.

Daemon was sprawled on his back, one arm stretched across the space beside him and the other rested across his bare stomach. Sheets were twisted around his narrow hips. His face was almost angelic in sleep, chiselled lines softened and lips relaxed. Thick lashes fanned the top of his cheeks. He looked so much younger at rest but, in a weird way, he was even more out of my league. His kind of masculine beauty was otherworldly and intimidating. Something that existed in between the pages of the books I read. Sometimes I had a hard time convincing myself he was real.

I review books." "Do you get paid for them?" I laughed out loud at that. "No, not at all." Daemon seemed confused by that. "So you review books and you don't get paid if someone buys a book based on your review?

You read too much.” Daemon exhaled slowly. [...] "There’s no such thing as that.

Taking pity on me, Carissa kept her voice low. “You were calling out for Daemon.”I dropped my face in my hands and moaned. “Oh, God.” Lesa giggled. “It was kind of cute.” A minute before the tardy bell rang, I felt an all-too-familiar warmth on my neck and glanced up. Daemon swaggered into class. Textbook-less as usual. He had a notebook, but I don’t think he ever wrote anything in it. I was beginning to suspect our math teacher was an alien, because how else would Daemon get away with not doing a damn thing in class? He passed by without so much as a look. I twisted around in my chair. “I need to talk to you.” He slid into his desk chair. “Okay.” “In private,” I whispered. His expression didn’t change as he leaned back in his chair. “Meet me in the library at lunch. No one really goes in there. You know, with all those books and stuff.

Giddy, I hit record and shrieked, “I have a MacBook Air!” Daemon laughed as he buried his head in my hair. “You dork.

To face a real daemon, you must first look inwards and conquer your own darkness. ☥

I review books. Do you get paid for them? I laughed out loud at that. No, not at all. Daemon seemed confused by that. So you review books and you don't get paid if someone buys a book based on your review?

Malcolm stared back calmly, though he felt anything but calm: if that monkey had a name, it might be Malice, he thought.

What do you mean 'has to be?' and what are you smiling at?" I stopped contributing to this ridiculous dance. I grabbed the teapot and began to fill it with water in the sink. Suddenly I felt the slight weight go this body against my back and the corner of his mouth brushed adjacent my ear. "How human you are," he whispered.

What do you mean 'has to be?' and what are you smiling at?" I stopped contributing to this ridiculous dance. I grabbed the teapot and began to fill it with water in the sink. Suddenly I felt the slight weight of his body against my back and the corner of his mouth brushed against my ear. "How human you are," he whispered.

Daemon snatched the yellow packages from my hands. “Oh! Books! You have books!” I laughed as several people waiting in line looked over their shoulders. “Hand them over.” He clutched them to his chest, making moony eyes. “My life is now complete.

Oh my," she said as though to herself. "The rumors are true, you have been kept in the dark.

Surreal realized Daemon’s madness was confined to emotions, to people, to that single tragedy he couldn’t face. It was as if Titian had never died, as if Surreal hadn’t spent three years whoring in back alleys before Daemon found her again and arranged for a proper education in a Red Moon house. He thought she was still a child, and he continued to fret about Titian’s absence. But when she mentioned a book she was reading, he made a dry observation about her eclectic taste and proceeded to tell her about other books that might be of interest. It was the same with music, with art. They posed no threat to him, had no time frame, weren’t part of the nightmare of Jaenelle bleeding on that Dark Altar.

I take it that witches aren’t supposed to hang out with vampires?’ ‘Or with daemons. It makes humans uncomfortable,’ Matthew said. ‘Uncomfortable?’ Chris looked dubious. ‘So did blacks sitting on buses next to white people. Segregation isn’t the answer.

My face flushed scarlet. I was a stranger in my own skin. I had ever felt this kind of anger in my life. Fort and confusion grew. Its sensation was an overwhelming concoction of hate. The only things I knew - the only things keeping me remotely calm- was the following litany. My name is Eleanora Ada Stone. I was moved from home to home for seventeen years. I am now living on this god-forsaken island in Maine. I was being kept from a world of secrets. I have abilities. I am not human. I do not know what I am.

What a complicated, delicate business it was going to be to love him. We were the stuff of fairy tales-- vampires, witches, knights in shining armour. But there was a troubling reality to face. I had been threatened, and creatures watched me in the Bodleian in hopes I'd recall a book that everyone wanted but no one understood. Mathew's laboratory had been targeted. And our relationship was destabilizing the fragile détente that had long existed among daemons, humans, vampires, and witches.

A flash of lightning illuminated the object ... it was the wretch, the filthy daemon, to whom I had given life." Frankenstein

The question was, she thought, was the universe alive or dead?

Cook was a captain of the powder-days When captains, you might have said, if you had been Fixed by their glittering stare, half-down the side, Or gaping at them up companionways, Were more like warlocks than a humble man— And men were humble then who gazed at them, Poor horn-eyed sailors, bullied by devils' fists Of wind or water, or the want of both, Childlike and trusting, filled with eager trust— Cook was a captain of the sailing days When sea-captains were kings like this, Those captains drove their ships By their own blood, no laws of schoolbook steam, Till yards were sprung, and masts went overboard— Daemons in periwigs, doling magic out, Who read fair alphabets in stars Where humbler men found but a mess of sparks, Who steered their crews by mysteries And strange, half-dreadful sortilege with books, Used medicines that only gods could know The sense of, but sailors drank In simple faith. That was the captain Cook was when he came to the Coral Sea And chose a passage into the dark. Men who ride broomsticks with a mesmerist Mock the typhoon. So, too, it was with Cook.

There is a presence, delivered on the breeze, that only shows itself on Halloween. You feel it in the shiver crawling up your spine and hear it in the rustle of fallen leaves." ~ Lois Fischer

The main character, a musician named Nicholas Brady, experiences being visited at night by a figure standing next to his bed and gazing down benevolently. “He had the impression that the figure, himself, had come back from the future, perhaps from a point vastly far ahead, to make certain that he, his prior self, was doing okay at a critical time in his life. The impression was distinct and strong and he could not rid himself of it.”4 In his classic 1954 book about a profound experience using mescaline, The Doors of Perception, Aldous Huxley speculated that the brain served as a kind of filter or reducing valve for a more expanded, potentially omniscient consciousness he called Mind at Large.5 Increased understanding of the brain, altered states, and sleep states since that time has made it possible to push the kinds of questions Huxley asked about that reducing valve, and the special situations that may open or widen it, as well as the precognitive nature of some perceptual distortions and hallucinations, such as those that Dick chronicled and drew upon for his fiction. Expanding on Huxley’s insights, the writer Anthony Peake speculates that so-called REM intrusions in semi-awake states on the edge of sleep—as well as waking hallucinations experienced most commonly by people with neurological disorders and mental illness—reflect openings to our vaster consciousness, an inner guide he calls the Daemon.6 The Daemon, he notes, is often precognitive (among other things). What I am calling the Long Self is analogous to Peake’s Daemon, but I am placing greater emphasis on the biographical dimensions of this expanded sense of who we are. What precognitive dreams and dream-like phenomena suggest to me is the possibility that what Huxley called Mind at Large, and what mystics and shamans have often described as other realities and spirit worlds, may (at least partly) be our own transfigured lives, our biographies as they still lay untraversed and unlived ahead of us, including all the people and situations and emotions we have yet to encounter and experience. The reducing valve, in other words, might be a temporal thing, reducing our Long Self to something manageable by the mind in the moment, reflecting and refracting our entire biography through the present moment of conscious awareness. People who experience visitations by guardian protectors in dreams or waking visions may be unlikely to interpret these experiences as encounters with their future selves. It’s not an intuitive idea. They may interpret them instead in spiritual terms, as divine messengers. The Jungian tradition in psychotherapy, on the other hand, interprets them as split-off parts of the self. The Jungian analyst and writer Donald Kalsched describes an inner self-care system through which patients traumatized in childhood cordon off and protect a portion of the self from harm.7 That sequestered “regressed self”8 may reappear in dreams throughout life

Nothing is more wretched than a man who traverses everything in a round, and pries into things beneath the earth, as the poet says, and seeks by conjecture what is in the minds of his neighbours, without perceiving that it is sufficient to attend to the daemon within him,

Bag that box for me," he called out to Crane as he ran back to the main house with the key, pushing through the group of startled monks. He clambered back down the basement stairs, sneezing again on the way, then poised the key in front of the lock. He slid the key in, finessing it a little side to side, muttering a short prayer to anyone or anything that could turn this damn case around, whether the entity the monks dedicated their lives to, the washing machine daemon, or the minor Sumerian god who lived in Ron Safari's hair.

Art is long. Life is short, but it deserves our attentive devotion. Embrace life. No person has a monopoly on wisdom. Despite the plethora of written books and e-books covering virtually every imaginable subject, advances in human knowledge and changes in the physical environment will cause recurrent alterations in the human condition that writers are uniquely able to express, explain, explicate, and elucidate. The complexities of human life demand humanistic persons to explore and offer guidance and solace to troubled souls. The world is not in the need of any more corporate entities devoted to milling money. What the world needs is writers, singers, poets, and philosophers whom can expand upon the universal desire to display an intense and absorbing respect for life and honor the principles of truthfulness and charity in human relations. I wish for every person to cull the lyrical prose from their stroll in the meadow of life and express the vivacity of their inner daemon in whatever artistic methodology stirs their imagination and voices their uniqueness. I call upon each person to use logic, intuition, and imagination to share all their adventures in this world of rocks and stones, earth and sky, sunshine and rain. Splash it out there for everyone to witness your appreciativeness of nature’s glory, verification of your meaningful existence demands that you settle for nothing less.

The book explains why we’re here,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of desperation. “It tells our story—beginning, middle, even the end. We daemons need to understand our place in the world. Our need is greater than that of the witches or vampires.

Further Reading You can learn more about the technologies and themes explored in Freedom™ through the following books: Omnivore’s Dilemma by Michael Pollan, Penguin Press The Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein, Metropolitan Books When the Rivers Run Dry by Fred Pearce, Beacon Press The Shadow Factory by James Bamford, Doubleday When Corporations Rule the World by David C. Korten, Kumarian Press & Berrett-Koehler Publishers The Transparent Society by David Brin, Basic Books Wired for War by P. W. Singer, Penguin Press The Populist Moment by Lawrence Goodwyn, Oxford University Press Wikinomics by Don Tapscott and Anthony D. Williams, Portfolio Brave New War by John Robb, John Wiley & Sons

Did he see?” I wondered because, if they fought, then Apollo would have had to see the cowardly thief Artemis talked about. “He did,” she said now, sipping on her tea slowly. “He saw. And once we get to him down there, we’ll know exactly who’s behind all of this. I’ll know exactly whom to hunt down.” The grin on her face was downright scary. Easy to see that she was a predator, even with a soft beauty like hers. So easy to see how she would rip you apart piece by piece—not only without hesitation or an ounce of guilt, but she would enjoy it, too. “Why haven’t you gotten him out yet?” I wondered. If this had happened a thousand years ago—give or take a couple hundred, she said—why was Apollo not out of the portal yet? At that, Artemis flinched, then put the cup down on the table. “Because we can’t get through the daemons,” she told me.

We’re called sentinels. We train during the second year of the Academy, and every day of service here as well, and then we make sure that every daemon that crawls out of that hole dies and goes back to the Underworld,

Now comes your part—the mortals. See, when we were faced with the daemons at first, we didn’t have these walls to keep them contained, and there weren’t nearly as many Elyseans in existence to stop them. Those who were had no clue how to go about fighting them at all. We had no clue about godlight at first. In fact, I’m pretty convinced it didn’t even exist at the time, but I could be mistaken. My memory’s not what it used to be.” She tapped her finger to her temple playfully. “But, anyway, it took a couple centuries to figure out that mortals can produce godlight when exposed to Ichor, and that godlight is pretty much the only weapon we have that is effective enough to actually kill a daemon. So, we began to harness it.

Daemon strode forward and took his wife in a firm embrace, placing a kiss in her lips as he did so.

We all endure the pain of loss, Daemon. We are equipped for it, and we start learning how to deal with it from a very young age. Your heart was broken, but your mind and spirit endured. Now,” she placed a gentle hand on his cheek with a sad expression, “your mind and spirit are under attack. You retreated to this place to find solace, but it must be brief. You have to fight back, Daemon.

Semantics. You’re Daemon’s endgame and Evie is mine. None of us need rings for that.

Nope. Get those thoughts out of your head right now, Nikolas Daemon Deimos. You are the most incredible father, our children are so loved, and in turn, they will learn to love just as hard and fiercely as you do.

There was a long pause on the coms. “I... I do not know Professor Surus. When I try to search my memory, it becomes slippery, something I can not focus attention on.” Golgoth paused again, thinking about this question, then replied. “Let us think of it this way. If each Mongruxx unit were to carry a containment unit for the gods/daemon/blackhole, it would stand to reason that they all would be carrying the same gods/daemon/blackhole. A god would be of many parts as a black hole might extend across multiple realities. This would make sense to me.

It was a thing coarse when set against her perfect curls, her head of dark hair so soft and full and lustrous that it was the very picture of youthful beauty. Yet the hand stroking it gently just now—large but no longer meaty, with liver spots and raised veins leading up to its gaudily ringed fingers—summoned a different image indeed. This was the quivering claw of a corpse not quite deceased, feebly scraping at the black soil raining down upon its body. This was a rake that could never quite collect all the leaves.

Daemon snatched the yellow packages from my hands. “Oh! Books! You have books!

People lock themselves in bathrooms’ glass when they want to, I can do that too, of break it and cut myself as I want to all so I want to do bad things, like have sex or throw up, freak and never stop, kill something or someone, have a threesome or something unforgivable or unbelievable to be remembered by- for there not kill themselves, to be like me. So far- I do it every day for them, to slice me up one side and down the other, they have end freaked through me, at least my girlfriend can’t do that as those boys do. (Lunchroom) ‘Liv…? Are reading that same pace of crap again?’ ‘It sucks, not that heard it better than Twilight pace of horse crap, that I could write better in one day- yet come on, like read something else, I am just in love this man writhing I can’t help it, then read something else, by him, I never even thought of that really, in a dumb moment of Eureka! Do you read Twilight? Are you freaking five… that for babies! Said Ray, boy falls to freaked up face guy, and she has no freaking face yet she looks freaking high all the time, oh may- and thing happens. You suck for saying this book sucks! Said liv is awesome! Where does the daemon come out of?

I picked up the scent of it downstairs when I knocked out the guards. There are dead wearhs in that book. Witches and daemons, too, I warrant. Whoever could have imagined that the lost Book of Life would stink to high heaven of death?

Darkness has been and shall ever be. Long after the substances that fuel heat and light have burned away—giving out at the end of a brief, fragile course—an everlasting night shall reign. Imlod Nir considered this as he watched the last tendrils of smoke from the evening's fire stream lazily into the night air. They mingled with black leaves under a low, moonlit canopy before melding into the consuming void.