Eaters Of The Dead Quotes

Praise not the day until evening has come, a woman until she is burnt, a sword until it is tried, a maiden until she is married, ice until it has been crossed, beer until it has been drunk.

The risk is too great. A man cannot place too much faith in any one thing, neither a woman, nor a horse, nor a weapon, nor any single thing.

Animals die, friends die, and I shall die, but one thing never dies, and that is the reputation we leave behind at our death.

All of a sudden, in the good-natured child, the woman stood revealed, a disturbing woman with all the impulsive madness of her sex, opening the gates of the unknown world of desire. Nana was still smiling, but with the deadly smile of a man-eater.

Each person bears a fear which is special to him. One man fears a close space and another man fears drowning; each laughs at the other and calls him stupid. Thus fear is only a preference, to be counted the same as the preference for one woman or another, or mutton for pig, or cabbage for onion.

Anything that suffers and dies instead of us is Christ; if they didn't kill birds and fish they would have killed us. The animals die that we may live, they are substitute people, hunters in the fall killing the deer, that is Christ also. And we eat them, out of cans or otherwise; we are eaters of death, dead Christ-flesh resurrecting inside us, granting us life. Canned Spam, canned Jesus, even the plants must be Christ.

ليس هناك والله خوف أعظم نت خوف الانسان حين لا يعرف السبب

In the eyes of all of them was the hollow stare of fear, and there was hollowness in their merriment, too.

We would all be better off dead, useless eaters of the lotus that we are.

Herger said to me, "Be thankful, for you are fortunate." I inquired the source of my fortune. Herger said in reply, "If you have the fear of high places, than this day you shall overcome it; and so you shall have faced a great challenge; and so you shall be adjudged a hero.

These are the voices which we hear in solitude, but they grow faint and inaudible as we enter into the world. Society everywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members. Society is a joint stock company in which the members agree for the better securing of his bread to each shareholder, to surrender the liberty and culture of the eater. The virtue in most request is conformity. Self-reliance is its aversion. It [That is, conformity.] loves not realities and creators, but names and customs. "Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist. He who would gather immortal palms must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but must explore if it be goodness. Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of our own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world. I remember an answer which when quite young I was prompted to make to a valued adviser who was wont to importune me with the dear old doctrines of the church. On my saying, What have I to do with the sacredness of traditions, if I live wholly from within? my friend suggested--'But these impulses may be from below, not from above.' I replied, 'They do not seem to me to be such; but if I am the devil's child, I will live them from the devil.' No law can be sacred to me but that of my nature. Good and bad are but names very readily transferable to that or this; the only right is what is after my constitution, the only wrong what is against it. A man is to carry himself in the presence of all opposition as if everything were titular and ephemeral but he. I am ashamed to think how easily we capitulate to badges and names, to large societies and dead institutions. Every decent an well-spoken individual affects and sways me more than is right. I ought to go upright and vital, and speak the rude truth in all ways.

We were like confirmed opium-eaters: in our moments of reason we well knew the deadly nature of our pursuit, but we certainly were not prepared to abandon its terrible delights.

تتوقف الأشياء الغربية عن أن تكون كذلك بفعل التكرار

يجب أن يكون الانسان حكيما باعتدال ولكن ليس مفرط الحكمة حتى لا يعرف قدره مسبقا

While I’m all delighted joy, she’s angry revenge, which is pretty adorable on a six year-old, even a dead one – like a wet kitten.

...thus do strange things cease to be strange upon repetition.

You have done the work of a mere man," the tengol continued, “and not a proper hero. A hero does what no man dares to undertake.

Kennedy's issue didn't seem to be that she had been in jail, but that she had put on weight in jail. The food had been crappy, she'd told me, and it has been high on the carbohydrate count. "But I'm an emotional eater," she'd said, as if that were a terrible thing. "And I was real emotional in jail.

What is the use of living if you cannot eat cheese and pickles?' she asked. As cofounder of the Cheese Eaters League, Ivor thought she had a point.

Yet I have discovered that if all those around you believe some particular thing, you will soon be tempted to share in that belief...

what was past was past. No amount of fond memory could bring back the dead.

You're nothing if you're dead. I told myself I needed to be alive to help the Sin Eater, but, really, it was my life, dressed up as hers, that I was saving.

Helen didn't yet understand that conjuring up the future was the duty of the living, what they owed to the dead.

There is a god in whom I do not believe Yet to this god my love stretches, This god whom I do not believe in is My whole life, my life and I am his. Everything that I have of pleasure and pain (Of pain, of bitter pain and men's contempt) I give this god for him to feed upon As he is my whole life and I am his. When I am dead I hope that he will eat Everything I have been and have not been And crunch and feed upon it and grow fat Eating my life all up as it is his. - God the Eater

And here we have six missing Death Eaters... three dead in my service. One, too cowardly to return... he will pay. One, who I believe has left me for ever... he will be killed, of course... and one who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already re-entered my service.

He carries on his frail shoulders a weird burden of fear; he is cast in the role of the corpse-eater, the body-snatcher who invades the last privacies of the dead. He is white as leprosy, with scrabbling fingernails, and nothing deters him. If you stuff a corpse with garlic, why, he only slavers at the treat: cadavre provençale. He will use the holy cross as a scratching post and crouch above the font to thirstily lap up holy water.

Who’s there?” “It is I,” said a low voice. From behind a suit of armor stepped Severus Snape. Hatred boiled up in Harry at the sight of him: He had forgotten the details of Snape’s appearance in the magnitude of his crimes, forgotten how his greasy black hair hung in curtains around his thin face, how his black eyes had a dead, cold look. He was not wearing nightclothes, but was dressed in his usual black cloak, and he too was holding his wand ready for a fight. “Where are the Carrows?” he asked quietly. “Wherever you told them to be, I expect, Severus,” said Professor McGonagall. Snape stepped nearer, and his eyes flitted over Professor McGonagall into the air around her, as if he knew Harry was there. Harry held his wand up too, ready to attack. “I was under the impression,” said Snape, “that Alecto had apprehended an intruder.” “Really?” said professor McGonagall. “And what gave you that impression?” Snape made a slight flexing movement of his left arm, where the Dark Mark was branded into his skin. “Oh, but naturally,” said Professor McGonagall. “You Death Eaters have your own private means of communication, I forgot.

يردد أهل الشمال مثلا شعبيا يقول : " انظر خلفك " وهم يعتقدون بأن على كل انسان أن يكون مهيئا دائما لان يدافع عن نفسه

The meaning of these discoveries has not yet been sorted out, but it is certainly now impossible to regard the prehistoric Europeans as savages idly

Man-eaters are finally shot dead.

وأخيرًا قلتُ لهرغر: المطر بارد. فضحك ثم قال: كيف يمكن أن يكون المطر باردًا؟! أنت البارد وأنت التعيس! أما المطر فليس باردًا ولا تعيسًا.

She reminded herself that there was nothing they could do to her. She was already like them. Already dead.

Love has no cost for our children. Living or dead, here or gone.

Call them whatever you like: Walkers, the living-dead, the undead, biters, flesh eaters. It's a zombie.

you see, my whole life is tied up to unhappiness it's father cooking breakfast and me getting fat as a hog or having no food at all and father proving his incompetence again i wish i knew how it would feel to be free it's having a job they won't let you work or no work at all castrating me (yes it happens to women too) it's a sex object if you're pretty and no love or love and no sex if you're fat get back fat black woman be a mother grandmother strong thing but not woman gameswoman romantic woman love needer man seeker dick eater sweat getter fuck needing love seeking woman it's a hole in your shoe and buying lil sis a dress and her saying you shouldn't when you know all too well that you shouldn't but smiles are only something we give to properly dressed social workers not each other only smiles of i know your game sister which isn't really a smile joy is finding a pregnant roach and squashing it not finding someone to hold let go get off get back don't turn me on you black dog how dare you care about me you ain't go no good sense cause i ain't shit you must be lower than that to care it's a filthy house with yesterday's watermelon and monday's tears cause true ladies don't know how to clean it's intellectual devastation of everybody to avoid emotional commitment "yeah honey i would've married him but he didn't have no degree" it's knock-kneed mini skirted wig wearing died blond mamma's scar born dead my scorn your whore rough heeeled broken nailed powdered face me whose whole life is tied up to unhappiness cause it's the only for real thing i know

...in other spheres of Victorian Society the appeal of a young woman dressed in black from head to toe was acknowledged. In Victorian popular culture, widows had two manifestations: the battleaxe and the man-eater, preying upon husbands and bachelors alike. Even today, an attractive, dark-haired person dressed in all black has vampiric connotations, as the novelist Alison Lurie has noted, 'so archetypally terrifying and thrilling, that any black-haired, pale-complexioned man or woman who appears clad in all black formal clothes projects a destructive eroticism, sometimes without concious intention.

There are three kinds of oyster-eaters: those loose-minded sports who will eat anything, hot, cold, thin, thick, dead or alive, as long as it is oyster, those who will eat them raw and only raw; and those who with equal severity will eat them cooked and no way other. The first group may perhaps have the most fun, although there is a white fire about the others' bigotry that can never warm the broad-minded.

The only tangible evidence of the enemy's existence so far was dead bodies, but strangely, the dead were somehow less, did not match the fear and terror they inspired, much like one could not imagine flight from the evidence of a dead bird on the ground.

Herger said to me, “Be thankful, for you are fortunate.” I inquired the source of my fortune. Herger said in reply, “If you have the fear of high places, then this day you shall overcome it; and so you shall have faced a great challenge; and so you shall be adjudged a hero.

Pelor’s freckled face paled a bit. “Bill Chastain—the Eye Eater—was found stone cold dead this morning.” A Champion was dead? And a notorious killer at that. “How?” she demanded. Pelor swallowed hard. “Verin said it wasn’t pretty. Like someone ripped him wide open. He passed the body on his way here.” Nox cursed under his breath, and Celaena studied the other Champions. A hush had fallen on the group, and clusters of them stood together, whispering. Verin’s story was spreading fast. Pelor went on. “He said Chastain’s body was in ribbons.

And now, over to Romulus for our popular feature ‘Pals of Potter.’” “Thanks, River,” said another very familiar voice; Ron started to speak, but Hermione forestalled him in a whisper. “We know it’s Lupin!” “Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time you’ve appeared on our program, that Harry Potter is still alive?” “I do,” said Lupin firmly. “There is no doubt at all in my mind that his death would be proclaimed as widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at the morale of those resisting the new regime. ‘The Boy Who Lived’ remains a symbol of everything for which we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting.” A mixture of gratitude and shame welled up in Harry. Had Lupin forgiven him, then, for the terrible things he had said when they had last met? “And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?” “I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” said Lupin, then hesitated slightly. “And I’d tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right.” Harry looked at Hermione, whose eyes were full of tears. “Nearly always right,” she repeated. “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” said Ron in surprise. “Bill told me Lupin’s living with Tonks again! And apparently she’s getting pretty big too…” “…and our usual update on those friends of Harry Potter’s who are suffering for their allegiance?” Lee was saying. “Well, as regular listeners will know, several of the more outspoken supporters of Harry Potter have now been imprisoned, including Xenophilius Lovegood, erstwhile editor of The Quibbler,” said Lupin. “At least he’s still alive!” muttered Ron.

And I did it for Him and He loves them. He betrayed us! Do you know why they get to come back from the dead to slaughter more and more of us? I thought it was some demon’s trick. That maybe we could fix that, too, or instead if our first mission failed.” Now she’s laughing at herself, at her naivety. “But He did it. Because He loves them. He loves the demons. He still loves them! After they sold their souls, after they’ve tortured the Templars and Beacons, and countless random innocents, He still loves them! He wants to give them time to change their minds before they’re committed to hell. He wants to give those murdering bastards the ability to be redeemed. They slaughtered my family, bathed in the blood of my friends, and He still loves them.” She looks at me and I see in her expression so much pain, so much bitterness, so much rage that I would have stepped back, had the demons not been holding me in place. The darkness that has taken over her personality since she became a demon becomes suddenly clear. After everything she has sacrificed to His cause she can’t understand how He can forgive her enemies. But I do. I do and it hits me with the force of a train.

Ascent To The Sierras poet Robinson Jeffers #140 on top 500 poets Poet's PagePoemsCommentsStatsE-BooksBiographyQuotationsShare on FacebookShare on Twitter Poems by Robinson Jeffers : 8 / 140 « prev. poem next poem » Ascent To The Sierras Beyond the great valley an odd instinctive rising Begins to possess the ground, the flatness gathers to little humps and barrows, low aimless ridges, A sudden violence of rock crowns them. The crowded orchards end, they have come to a stone knife; The farms are finished; the sudden foot of the slerra. Hill over hill, snow-ridge beyond mountain gather The blue air of their height about them. Here at the foot of the pass The fierce clans of the mountain you'd think for thousands of years, Men with harsh mouths and eyes like the eagles' hunger, Have gathered among these rocks at the dead hour Of the morning star and the stars waning To raid the plain and at moonrise returning driven Their scared booty to the highlands, the tossing horns And glazed eyes in the light of torches. The men have looked back Standing above these rock-heads to bark laughter At the burning granaries and the farms and the town That sow the dark flat land with terrible rubies... lighting the dead... It is not true: from this land The curse was lifted; the highlands have kept peace with the valleys; no blood in the sod; there is no old sword Keeping grim rust, no primal sorrow. The people are all one people, their homes never knew harrying; The tribes before them were acorn-eaters, harmless as deer. Oh, fortunate earth; you must find someone To make you bitter music; how else will you take bonds of the future, against the wolf in men's hearts?

Fresh in modern memory, for hamburger eaters anyway: Toxin gene transfer to E. coli bacteria in cattle,” Turner began. “Modern factory farming and slaughterhouse technique puts severe stress on the cattle, who send hormonal signals to their multiple tummies, their rumen. E. coli react to these signals by taking up phages—viruses for bacteria—that carry genes from another common gut bacteria, Shigella. Those genes just happen to code for Shiga toxin. The exchange does not hurt the cow, fascinating, no? But when a predator kills a cow-like critter in nature, and bites into the gut—which most do, eating half-digested grass and such, wild salad it’s called—it swallows a load of E. coli packed with Shiga toxin. That can make the predators—and us—very sick. Sick or dead predators reduce the stress on cows. It’s a clever relief valve. Now we sterilize our beef with radiation. All the beef.

HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED RETURNS ‘In a brief statement on Friday night, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge confirmed that He Who Must Not Be Named has returned to this country and is once more active. ‘“It is with great regret that I must confirm that the wizard styling himself Lord – well, you know who I mean – is alive and among us again,” said Fudge, looking tired and flustered as he addressed reporters. “It is with almost equal regret that we report the mass revolt of the Dementors of Azkaban, who have shown themselves averse to continuing in the Ministry’s employ. We believe the Dementors are currently taking direction from Lord – Thingy. ‘“We urge the magical population to remain vigilant. The Ministry is currently publishing guides to elementary home and personal defence which will be delivered free to all wizarding homes within the coming month.” ‘The Minister’s statement was met with dismay and alarm from the wizarding community, which as recently as last Wednesday was receiving Ministry assurances that there was “no truth whatsoever in these persistent rumours that You-Know-Who is operating amongst us once more”. ‘Details of the events that led to the Ministry turnaround are still hazy, though it is believed that He Who Must Not Be Named and a select band of followers (known as Death Eaters) gained entry to the Ministry of Magic itself on Thursday evening. ‘Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, reinstated member of the International Confederation of Wizards and reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, has so far been unavailable for comment. He has insisted over the past year that You-Know-Who is not dead, as was widely hoped and believed, but is recruiting followers once more for a fresh attempt to seize power. Meanwhile, the “Boy Who Lived” –

I wanted to ask you if you know the answer to a riddle." "Fire away." "Samson told it. The strong guy in the Bible? It goes like this--" "'Out of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came forth sweetness.' That's the one?" "Yeah, it is. How'd you know--?" "Oh, I've been around the block a time or two. Listen to this: 'Samson and a lion got in attack, And Samson climbed up on the lion's back. Well, you've read about lion killin men with their paws, But Samson put his hands round the lion's jaws! He rode that lion 'til the beast fell dead, And the bees made honey in the lion's head.' That answer to your question, friend?" "Wow! Good song! Where'd you hear it?" "Oh, Aaron knows them all. He was hanging around Bleecker Street back before Bob Dylan knew how to blow more than open G on his Hohner. At least, if you believe HIM." "It's an old spiritual. By the way, you're in check, fatso." "Not for long." "So the answer is a lion." "Wrong. Only HALF the answer. Samson's Riddle is a DOUBLE, my friend. The other half of the answer is honey. Get it?" "Yes, I think so.

Sorry,” said Ron, wrenching Harry back out of the brambles, “but the name’s been jinxed, Harry, that’s how they track people! Using his name breaks protective enchantments, it causes some kind of magical disturbance — it’s how they found us in Tottenham Court Road!” “Because we used his name?” “Exactly! You’ve got to give them credit, it makes sense. It was only people who were serious about standing up to him, like Dumbledore, who ever dared use it. Now they’ve put a Taboo on it, anyone who says it is trackable — quick-and-easy way to find Order members! They nearly got Kingsley —” “You’re kidding?” “Yeah, a bunch of Death Eaters cornered him, Bill said, but he fought his way out. He’s on the run now, just like us.” Ron scratched his chin thoughtfully with the end of his wand. “You don’t reckon Kingsley could have sent that doe?” “His Patronus is a lynx, we saw it at the wedding, remember?” “Oh yeah . . .” They moved farther along the hedge, away from the tent and Hermione. “Harry . . . you don’t reckon it could’ve been Dumbledore?” “Dumbledore what?” Ron looked a little embarrassed, but said in a low voice, “Dumbledore . . . the doe? I mean,” Ron was watching Harry out of the corners of his eyes, “he had the real sword last, didn’t he?” Harry did not laugh at Ron, because he understood too well the longing behind the question. The idea that Dumbledore had managed to come back to them, that he was watching over them, would have been inexpressibly comforting. He shook his head. “Dumbledore’s dead,” he said. “I saw it happen, I saw the body. He’s definitely gone. Anyway, his Patronus was a phoenix, not a doe.” “Patronuses can change, though, can’t they?” said Ron. “Tonks’s

( In war) you determine who will die anyway, and you move to those you can save. You want to stand over the dead and cry, but that helps no one. That’s a tourist’s sensibility.

High in the Tower of Love, the last remaining tower of Tallith, he rests on a bier, not living, not dead. He doesn’t age, or change, needs no sustenance. He sleeps. He waits

My mother is a fat woman, made large from gobbling the sins of the dead, the meal prepared and served to her as if she were a queen for the day. For an Eating the mourners cover the surface of the coffin with breads and meats and ale and more, each morsel representing a sin known, or suspected, to have been committed by the deceased. She Eats it all; she has to – it’s the only way to cleanse the soul so it can ascend to the Eternal Kingdom. To not finish the meal is to condemn the soul to walk the world for ever. We’ve all heard the tales of the wraiths that haunt the West Woods because people less dedicated than my mother could not finish the Eating.

The meaning of these discoveries has not yet been sorted out, but it is certainly now impossible to regard the prehistoric Europeans as savages idly awaiting the blessings of Eastern civilization.

The galaxy was vast beyond mortal comprehension. It was common to visualise it as a great spiral of light, but this was an illusion. The stars were only tiny specks scattered across the endless night. To travel between them required risking a still greater darkness, the maddened hell that was the immaterium. The only light in that twisted nether-realm was the Astronomican, the soul-blaze guided by the Emperor Himself. Yet even the divine beacon had limits. In the far reaches it thinned and faded to nothing. There, at the very edge of where the shadows reigned unchallenged, sat the Blackstone Fortress. It was older than human civilisation. Whatever hands had built it were no longer around to explain its opaque workings. Such a shadowed existence led, unsurprisingly, to superstition. It had borne many names through the slow creep of years. The Dark Star. Old Unfathomable. The Eater of the Dead. Thousands more across hundreds of languages. That last name was given for a particular oddity of the ancient station. Its gravity obeyed no known rules. Instead, it seemed almost hungry. It pulled in debris and ships, a train of wreckage and ruin that spiralled in from the stars to be consumed into the lightless hull. There in the belly of the beast everything was slowly absorbed. Perhaps that was how it repaired itself. Perhaps it was how it learned. Perhaps it was growing. There was no one to ask.

I told him that my father was dead and that to take her mind off it I had told my mother that I was pregnant. I said it had taken her mind off it wonderfully, so far; and that it also happened to be true.

Rejected seed of a diseased pig-eater,’ I began. ‘Despised dropping from a dead vulture’s crutch. Eater of sweeper’s turds and feeder on after-birth. Fart in the holy silence of the universe and limp pudenda on the body of the false prophet.

He lived in a hut on a bleak hillside, and was despised. Nobody knew his name, or how old he was, or where he even came from. If he’d ever had family in the neighborhood, they were either long gone or kept quiet about their link to the outcast. When people met him on the roads or in the fields, they turned aside, some saying a prayer, others mouthing a charm passed down from an older tradition. Children sometimes taunted him, the braver ones even threw stones, but only till an adult came and drove them away. Everyone knew it was bad luck to lay eyes on the nameless man, to spend even the briefest time within sight of him. The Sin-Eater was one of many boogeymen invoked by weary parents to keep fractious children quiet. He just happened to be real. He had only one function, and when he was needed, the people of the district did not need to seek him out. Some uncanny instinct told the Sin-Eater when he could enter a home where a wake was being held. It was his role to eat a simple meal from a wooden bowl placed on the chest of the corpse, and to take upon himself all the sins of any dead

The creature was an eater of the dead. We were driving a hearse. ‘NO!’ Meg shouted. ‘Leave him alone!

We will be stronger for this, But only if it forces us To reach out. Corona Barry Marks “…normally only visible during a solar eclipse” Of course I’m crazy there are no sharks in swimming pools, just like there were none in freshwater lakes and rivers all those years when boys and dogs and a horse or two disappeared and everyone knew it was a haint, not some biological U-Boat stalking Little Bear Creek for 400 million years. Yes, I watch for periscopes, dorsal fins, Indian signs whispering something is down there, beneath the surface tension: angle of reflection, angle of refraction, invisible geometry making you squint and not see, making you not see. Go ahead, tell me I’m crazy with my stock of masks and toilet paper, bottled water and ammo; I know this immigrant air is from Mexico, maybe Wuhan before that, and the things I can’t see are the ones trying to pry my ribs open to let the ghost-you-can’t-see out of its cage. I know things under the air, behind the darkness, within the water are real because so am I and I believe the myth of electricity and the fable of fluoridation, that the sun can be lethal and meds can mend a Stockholm Syndrome childhood. I believe my vote and my opinion count. I believe in germs and viruses, and not going out with a wet head, and the new normal and the old one, too. I believe it is the unseen things that kill us, the small things: a moment’s distraction, the hole a virus shoots through a body. I cannot believe the dead will forgive us for being too slow to believe in what we did not want to see.

The whiter the bread, the sooner you'll be dead. "Eating what stands on one leg [mushrooms and plant foods] is better than eating what stands on two legs [fowl], which is better than eating what stands on four legs [cows, pigs, and other mammals]." The food scientists' chemistry set is designed to extend shelf life, make old food look fresher and more appetizing than it really is, and get you to eat more.

I am all for encouraging the arts and literature, but I do think writers should seek out their own publishers and write their own introductions. The perils of doing this sort of thing was illustrated when I was prevailed upon to write a short introduction to a book about a dreaded man-eater who had taken a liking to the flesh of the good people of Dogadda, near Lansdowne. The author of the book could hardly write a decent sentence, but he managed to string together a lengthy account of the leopard's depradations. He was so persistent, calling on me or ringing me up that I finally did the introduction. He then wanted me to edit or touch up his manuscript; but this I refused to do. I would starve if I had to sit down and rewrite other people's books. But he prevailed upon me to give him a photograph. Months later, the book appeared, printed privately of course. And there was my photograph, and a photograph of the dead leopard after it had been hunted down. But the local printer had got the captions mixed up. The dead animal's picture earned the line: 'Well-known author Ruskin Bond.' My picture carried the legend: 'Dreaded man-eater, shot after it had killed its 26th victim.' The printer's devil had turned me into a serial killer. Now

I give it a shot. “Relax,” I whisper. “You’re already dead.” Her eyes fill with tears and I roll mine. Ghosts.

He looks at me now. “Anyway, I want you to be careful, Meda. Careful you don’t wake up one day, an old fool with nothing but the sun-dappled memory of a dead girl to keep you company. Your mom wouldn’t want you to live like that. Remember people you have lost, but let them go. Let the memories fade.” It’s obvious he hasn’t let her go. “Wouldn’t she want you to do the same?” He smiles the caught smile of someone doing something they shouldn’t. “Yes, but part of the fun of loving your mom was arguing with her.

Vultures!” Joe cried with his mouth full. “Go away! We’re not dead yet.” “They aren’t vultures,” said the Professor, “but boobies.” “How do you know they’re boobies? They haven’t done anything stupid yet.” “It’s only what they’re called, Joe.” “They certainly look beautiful in flight,” said Danny. “Look how their wings catch the air currents.” “They’d look more beautiful in a plate with gravy and mashed potatoes,” Joe grinned. “I don’t think you’d enjoy them. They are fish-eaters, and they have a strong, fishy taste,” said the Professor. “We couldn’t cook them in the raft anyway,” Danny added. “Gee, that’s right,” said Joe. “We haven’t any potatoes.

The stone eater at the core of the obelisk floats before her. It’s her first time being close to one. All the books say that stone eaters are neither male nor female, but this one resembles a slender young man formed of white-veined black marble, clothed in smooth robes of iridescent opal. Its—his?—limbs, marbled and polished, splay as if frozen in mid-fall. His head is flung back, his hair loose and curling behind him in a splash of translucence. The cracks spread over his skin and the stiff illusion of his clothing, into him, through him. Are you alright? she wonders, and she has no idea why she wonders it, even as she herself cracks apart. His flesh is so terribly fissured; she wants to hold her breath, lest she damage him further. But that is irrational, because she isn’t here and this isn’t real. She is on a street about to die, but this stone eater has been dead for an age of the world. The stone eater closes his mouth, opens his eyes, and lowers his head to look at her. “I’m fine,” he says. “Thank you for asking.” And then the obelisk shatters.

It didn’t matter if they were black or white or Mexican, they all grew up with a sense of entitlement that was sickening. Everybody owed them something. They assumed they could talk to the law the same way they talked to their friends because the world had gone soft and they knew it. Everything was tolerated because nobody was at fault.

The criminal profile of corpse-eaters was surprising. Only 2 percent had a previous criminal record. They were primarily women, uneducated females with no employment and no local Leningrad address. They were, in other words, often refugees who had fled to the city and who therefore did not have ration books at all. They had to make a choice between eating those already dead or dying themselves.

I’d make a great Death Eater. I’d eat death for breakfast if I could. Nom, nom, nom. Wouldn’t beat Coco Pops though.

I think my nose is still there…I hope so anyway. I wouldn’t want to look like Lord Voldemort. Though, I guess I could pull it off. I’d make a great Death Eater.

Pork, of course, was off the menu – not because it harboured potentially deadly bacteria, as is often supposed, but because the pig tended to be regarded as a dangerously liminal animal. With the feet of a cud-eater, the diet of a scavenger, the habits of a dirt-dweller and the cunning of a human, it exhibited an unsettling combination of characteristics, rendering it culturally inedible for some (but not all) southern Levantine peoples, for whom pigs were often associated with the underworld or malevolent supernatural powers.

a grim reminder that what was past was past. No amount of fond memory could bring back the dead.

It's just the dead have time the dying don't.

The whiter the bread, the sooner you’ll be dead.” This

Salmon en Croute In Celtic mythology, the salmon is a magical fish that grants the eater knowledge of all things. Notes: Nonstick spray may be substituted for melted butter. Keep the phyllo covered with plastic wrap and a damp towel until ready to assemble; otherwise, it will dry out. 2 cloves garlic 1 7-oz. jar sun-dried tomatoes in olive oil 3 cups torn fresh basil leaves salt and pepper to taste 1 package 9x14 phyllo dough, thawed 1 cup melted butter 10 4-oz. salmon fillets, skin removed 2 eggs, beaten with ¼ cup water Preheat oven to 425 degrees. In a food processor, blend garlic, tomatoes with oil, basil, and salt and pepper. Set aside. Grease two large cookie sheets. Carefully lay five sheets of phyllo across each cookie sheet, overlapping and brushing each sheet with melted butter. Repeat. Divide salmon evenly between the cookie sheets and place vertically on top of phyllo, leaving a space between each fillet. Divide and spread basil mixture on top of each individual salmon fillet. Cover salmon with five sheets of phyllo, brushing each sheet with butter. Repeat. With a pizza cutter or knife, slice in between each fillet. Using egg wash, fold sides of phyllo together to form individual “packets.” Bake for 15–20 minutes. Serves 10. Lemon Zucchini Bake Use lemon thyme to add a sweet citrus flavor to everything from poultry to vegetables. If you can’t find it in your area, try chopped lemon balm, lemon verbena, or lemon basil. ¼ cup seasoned bread crumbs ¼ cup grated Parmesan cheese 2 teaspoons lemon thyme leaves 2 large zucchinis, thinly sliced 1 large Vidalia onion, thinly sliced 4 tablespoons melted butter Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix bread crumbs, cheese, and thyme. In a round casserole dish, layer half of the zucchini and half of the onion slices. Baste with melted butter. Add half of the bread crumb mixture. Repeat layers and bake, covered, for 20 minutes. Serves 4–6. Body Scrub Sugar scrubs are a great way to slough off stress and dead skin. For unique scents, try layering dried herbs like lavender (revitalizing) or peppermint (energizing) with a cup of white sugar and let stand for two weeks before use, shaking periodically. Then blend with a tablespoon of light oil such as sunflower seed. Slough away dead skin in the shower or tub.

In a flash, the helicopter began a corkscrew dive, coming directly for them. Decker frantically pushed himself to his feet and took off on a dead run.

Dread flooded Harry at the sound of the words. . . . He turned and looked. There it was, hanging in the sky above the school: the blazing green skull with a serpent tongue, the mark Death Eaters left behind whenever they had entered a building . . . wherever they had murdered. . . . “When did it appear?” asked Dumbledore, and his hand clenched painfully upon Harry’s shoulder as he struggled to his feet. “Must have been minutes ago, it wasn’t there when I put the cat out, but when I got upstairs —” “We need to return to the castle at once,” said Dumbledore. “Rosmerta” — and though he staggered a little, he seemed wholly in command of the situation — “we need transport — brooms —” “I’ve got a couple behind the bar,” she said, looking very frightened. “Shall I run and fetch — ?” “No, Harry can do it.” Harry raised his wand at once. “Accio Rosmerta’s Brooms!” A second later they heard a loud bang as the front door of the pub burst open; two brooms had shot out into the street and were racing each other to Harry’s side, where they stopped dead, quivering slightly at waist height. “Rosmerta, please send a message to the Ministry,” said Dumbledore, as he mounted the broom nearest him. “It might be that nobody within Hogwarts has yet realized anything is wrong. . . . Harry, put on your Invisibility

Elspeth removed one of her pills and placed it into her mouth. She drew a slow breath and sighed again, only this time she did so quietly and with satisfaction, no doubt taking comfort in the knowledge that her little opium pill would see her through. Jane cared nothing for such things. She’d read of its effects, and she’d seen them manifested often enough. She had noted how it could, for a short time, replace misery with happiness, how it excited and enlarged the senses, and in many cases, when the dose was high enough, led to both moral and physical debility. Ultimately, however, it appeared to leave one all the more disconsolate. She had read that it was rare to find an ‘opium-eater’ over thirty years of age if the practice had been started early enough. To her knowledge, however, this was a new fixation for Elspeth, which had begun soon after their arrival in Bombay. She prayed that Arabella would not take to it as her mother had.

Every person gauges his or her own personality. Self-evaluation includes reviewing a person’s conception of a self from a wide variety of viewpoints including if said person is an insider or an outsider, religious or nonreligious, partisan or nonpartisan, and vegetarian or meat eater. Self-assessment of who we are usually takes into consideration many principles including when compared to other persons, what specific personality factors a person exhibits. Combinations of personality factors establish every person’s recognizable temperament, which assist people achieve a recognizable personality and a sense of self-identity.

She’s a coward,” the silver-haired man said. “We’ve been left with a coward as our only guardian.” He threw up his hands. Anger reared its head and heat rushed through me. I turned hot eyes on the Lupinata. “Maybe you’ve forgotten what it feels like to see your friends cut down. Maybe you’ve forgotten what it feels like to see a soul eater suck the life from someone’s body. Maybe you’ve forgotten what it feels like to run for your life with death breathing down your neck. After all, you’ve been cloistered underground for the last one hundred years while others fight the battle for you. But for me, that day was less than three weeks ago, and yes, I’m fucking scared, but I’m willing to go out there and do what it takes to keep this Hive alive. What I’m asking you is: what are you willing to do to keep me alive? I am, after all, your only hope for the next nine months.

But the ghosts never go away. Drugs won’t stop them—I know this already. The dead are always in the room. So I look away. It’s all I can do. I try to pretend they’re not there, staring back. Reaching out for me.