Eon Book Quotes

A few would quote him scripture to confound his ordering up of eons out of the ancient chaos and other apostate supposings. The judge smiled. Books lie, he said. God dont lie. No, said the judge. He does not. And these are his words. He held up a chunk of rock. He speaks in stones and trees, the bones of things.

Two chemicals called actin and myosin evolved eons ago to allow the muscles in insect wings to contract and relax. Thus, insects learned to fly. When one of those paired molecules are absent, wings will grow but they cannot flap and are therefore useless. Today, the same two proteins are responsible for the beating of the human heart, and when one is absent, the person’s heartbeat is inefficient and weak, ultimately leading to heart failure. Again, science marvels at the way molecules adapt over millions of years, but isn’t there a deeper intent? In our hearts, we feel the impulse to fly, to break free of boundaries. Isn’t that the same impulse nature expressed when insects began to take flight? The prolactin that generates milk in a mother’s breast is unchanged from the prolactin that sends salmon upstream to breed, enabling them to cross from saltwater to fresh.

When in the trance of dance you lose track of time, each moment equals to an eon of smiles.

You live and die in the batting of my eyes. You cast a wavering shadow over the snow for a day. I cast my shadow over empires across eons." - Orm Hinn Langi the Dragon

That’s the kind of love that beats evil in the movies. It marches against armies, connects people over eons, shattering time and defeating death until it stands at the end of the universe, defiant and blazing.

We are all part of a God factory. Gods are what come off the production line at the end of an eons-long, protracted, dialectical process designed to overcome every possible obstacle, trial, setback, difficulty and ordeal. You need to be a God to survive the dialectic. It takes you to hell and forces you to confront the Devil. The Devil is you. The Devil is your Shadow. Only Devils can become Gods. That is the law of the dialectic.

Life is wonderful and strange...and it’s also absolutely mundane and tiresome. It’s hilarious and it’s deadening. It’s a big, screwed-up morass of beauty and change and fear and all our lives we oscillate between awe and tedium. I think stories are the place to explore that inherent weirdness; that movement from the fantastic to the prosaic that is life.... What interests me—and interests me totally—is how we as living human beings can balance the brief, warm, intensely complicated fingersnap of our lives against the colossal, indifferent, and desolate scales of the universe. Earth is four-and-a-half billion years old. Rocks in your backyard are moving if you could only stand still enough to watch. You get hernias because, eons ago, you used to be a fish. So how in the world are we supposed to measure our lives—which involve things like opening birthday cards, stepping on our kids’ LEGOs, and buying toilet paper at Safeway—against the absolutely incomprehensible vastness of the universe? How? We stare into the fire. We turn to friends, bartenders, lovers, priests, drug-dealers, painters, writers. Isn’t that why we seek each other out, why people go to churches and temples, why we read books? So that we can find out if life occasionally sets other people trembling, too?

The triad, being the fundamental principle of the whole Kabalah, or Sacred Tradition of our fathers, was necessarily the fundamental dogma of Christianity, the apparent dualism of which it explains by the intervention of a harmonious and all-powerful unity. Christ did not put His teaching into writing, and only revealed it in secret to His favored disciple, the one Kabalist, and he a great Kabalist, among the apostles. So is the Apocalypse the book of the Gnosis or Secret Doctrine of the first Christians, and the key of this doctrine is indicated by an occult versicle of the Lord's Prayer, which the Vulgate leaves untranslated, while in the Greek Rite, the priests only are permitted to pronounce it. This versicle, completely kabalistic, is found in the Greek text of the Gospel according to St Matthew, and in several Hebrew copies, as follows: Ὅτι σοῦ ἐστιν ἡ βασιλεία καὶ ἡ δύναμις καὶ ἡ δόξα εις τοὺς αἰῶνας. ἀμήν. The sacred word MALKUTH substituted for KETHER, which is its kabalistic correspondent, and the equipoise of GEBURAH and CHESED, repeating itself in the circles of heavens called eons by the Gnostics, provided the keystone of the whole Christian Temple in the occult versicle. It has been retained by Protestants in their New Testament, but they have failed to discern its lofty and wonderful meaning, which would have unveiled to them all the Mysteries of the Apocalypse. There is, however, a tradition in the Church that the manifestation of this mysteries is reserved till the last times.

Einstein preferred to believe that "God does not play dice with the cosmos." It may be that Einstein and the Book of Genesis are right. A system left to itself may evolve in the direction of randomness. On the the other hand, our world may not be a system left to itself. There may in fact be a creative impulse acting on it, the Spirit of God hovering over the dark waters, operating over the course of millennia to bring order out of chaos, It may yet come to pass that, as "Friday afternoon" of the world's evolution ticks towards the Great Sabbath which is the End of Days, the impact of random evil will be diminished. Or it may be that God has finished His work of creating eons ago, and left the rest to us. Residual chaos, chance and mischance, things happening for no reason, will continue to be with us, the kind of evil that Milton Steinberg has called "the still unremoved scaffolding of the edifice of God's creativity." In that case, we will simply learn to live with it, sustained and comforted by the knowledge that earthquakes and the accidents, like the murder and the robbery, are not the will of God, but represents that aspect of reality which stands independent of His will, and which angers and saddens God even as it angers and saddens us.

They say that wisdom comes with age. So who could be wiser than the sky, with its eternal sunsets, thunderstorms, stars, galaxies? Who could be wiser than the rocks, these monoliths of stone, witness to all, over the eons of time? There’s an all-knowingness out here. It lies within all this silence and stillness. A wisdom so profound that it transcends words. An understanding so pure it cannot be explained, cannot be taught, nor grasped by the human mind. Only felt. Experienced firsthand. When I tap into this wisdom, a switch is flipped, a reversal happens. My mind, always up front, driving and controlling everything, takes a back seat. And my soul, hiding quietly in the back seat, jumps up to take shotgun.

THE WAY I see it, there are three reasons never to be unhappy. First, you were born. This in itself is a remarkable achievement. Did you know that each time your father ejaculated (and frankly he did it quite a lot) he produced roughly twenty-five million spermatozoa – enough to repopulate Britain every two days or so? For you to have been born, not only did you have to be among the few batches of sperm that had even a theoretical chance of prospering – in itself quite a long shot – but you then had to win a race against 24,999,999 or so other wriggling contenders, all rushing to swim the English Channel of your mother’s vagina in order to be the first ashore at the fertile egg of Boulogne, as it were. Being born was easily the most remarkable achievement of your whole life. And think: you could just as easily have been a flatworm. Second, you are alive. For the tiniest moment in the span of eternity you have the miraculous privilege to exist. For endless eons you were not. Soon you will cease to be once more. That you are able to sit here right now in this one never-to-be-repeated moment, reading this book, eating bon-bons, dreaming about hot sex with that scrumptious person from accounts, speculatively sniffing your armpits, doing whatever you are doing – just existing – is really wondrous beyond belief. Third, you have plenty to eat, you live in a time of peace and ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree’ will never be number one again.

In the afternoon he sat in the compound breaking ore samples with a hammer, the feldspar rich in red oxide of copper and native nuggets in whose organic lobations he purported to read news of the earth's origins, holding an extemporary lecture in geology to a small gathering who nodded and spat. A few would quote to him scripture to confound his ordering up of eons out of the ancient chaos and other apostate supposings. The judge smiled. Books lie, he said. God dont lie. No, said the judge, he does not. And these are his words. He held up a chunk of rock. He speaks in stones and trees, the bones of things. The squatters in their rags nodded among themselves and were soon reckoning him correct, this man of learning, in all his speculations, and this the judge encouraged until they were right proselytes of the new order whereupon he laughed at them for fools.

She was faint by passing the terrible things art has done countless times over, why believe in put down theories and books her eyes constantly told me without lower lengths of ultraviolet new beams pouring from an endless waterfall toward the center of every center. I've emerged my skin in years of Roman romance only to find cosmic rays from a different perspective and on that note perception expanded all the truthful parts of myself. I was merely deadly alone in a sunlit gaze trying to hold my organs inside long enough to finish the next book, to wrap the defensive cloak of life before the moon rose from the red sea eons ago, casting the net of creation where no man has ever been.

She was faint by passing the terrible things art has done countless times over, why believe in put down theories and books her eyes constantly told me without lower lengths of ultraviolet new beams pouring from an endless waterfall toward the center of every center. I've emerged my skin in years of Roman romance only to find cosmic rays from a different perspective and on that note perception expanded all the truthful parts of myself. I was merely deadly alone in a sunlit gaze trying to hold my organs inside long enough to finish the next book, to wrap the defensive cloak of life before the moon rose from the red sea eons ago, casting the net of creation where no man has ever been.

Gwyn’s voice floated from far away, recounting Merrill’s earlier research on dimensions. The possibility of twenty-six dimensions. We shall move through space and eons together … The small strings are for games—light movement and leaping … Could the Harp … Nesta’s breath caught in her throat. Could the Harp transplant her from one place to another? Not only open a door, but create one she might walk through?

The book was in the form of a long letter from The Creator of the Universe to the experimental creature. The Creator congratulated the creature and apologized for all the discomfort he had endured. The Creator invited him to a banquet in his honor in the Empire Room of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York City, where a black robot named Sammy Davis, Jr., would sing and dance. And the experimental creature wasn't killed after the banquet. He was transferred to a virgin planet instead. Living cells were sliced from the palms of his hands, while he was unconscious. The operation didn’t hurt at all. And then the cells were stirred into a soupy sea on the virgin planet. They would evolve into ever more complicated life forms as the eons went by. Whatever shapes they assumed, they would have free will. Trout didn't give the experimental creature a proper name. He simply called him The Man. On the virgin planet, The Man was Adam and the sea was Eve. The Man often sauntered by the sea. Sometimes he waded in his Eve. Sometimes he swam in her, but she was too soupy for an invigorating swim. She made her Adam feel sleepy and sticky afterwards, so he would dive into an icy stream that had just jumped off a mountain. He screamed when he dived into the icy water, screamed again when he came up for air. He bloodied his shins and laughed about it when he scrambled up rocks to get out of the water. He panted and laughed some more, and he thought of something amazing to yell. The Creator never knew what he was going to yell, since The Creator had no control over him. The Man himself got to decide what he was going to do next—and why. After a dip one day, for instance, The Man yelled this: “Cheese!” Another time he yelled, “Wouldn't you really rather drive a Buick?

The tiny sculptures revelled in the demotion of their celestial peers soaking up the limelight of human attention after an eon of slumber. Woken from their torpor by the one thing that all art desires; an audience.

Prince Yosef glanced at the bright anomaly and also wondered if it would ever cease existing or if it were to be a permanent addition to the night sky. “But then, what is permanent? The stars that men gaze on, are they really there? The atmosphere of the earth, has it always been oxygen? Could it not have been another substance? The animals on the earth, were they always as they were or were there different types?” Yosef pondered. “How often have oceans risen and fallen? “The mysterious light that has been present since Miriam’s conception, does it descend from a star that is real or from a star that had perished eons ago? Do our words somehow remain, captured in the atmosphere, waiting to return to someone’s ears. The internal energy of man—his soul—when it perishes, as it must, will the man whom it embraced be forgotten? “Ideologies, how often do they change? Every generation? Every hundred years? Every thousand years? Mohse wrote the books of constant law! Ezra sealed them, making them unchangeable! But then the Greeks came. They invaded the world with different ideas. Different ways of discerning truth! Cyrus came before them with his Zoroastrianism, challenging the established Marduk! Can Yehuway’s truth reside alongside Greeks and Babylonian philosophers? No. For man is a thing inside Yehuway, and without Yehuway, what can be? Can Yehuway perish leaving us behind?” Yosef shook his head. “No! Yehuway’s essence cannot perish! Nothing exists without Yehuway! The Greeks’ intellect, how cunning is its invasion into the concrete reality of Mohse! Hellenistic thoughts have penetrated and conquered the P’rushim’ and Tz’dukim’ intellect. Immortality of the soul! No resurrection! No angels. Heaven’s reward and hell’s damnation according to one’s earthly deeds! All invasive Greek ideologies that are steadfastly adhering and corrupting the Mosaic truths. The Greeks’ intellect is an infectious intellect, founded on nothing but myth and fantasy. “It is man’s spirit that transcends itself to wait in a holding place in Yehuway’s memory. The Greeks declared a heaven and a hell. A tormenting residence and a rewarding residence. Such invasive thoughts are hideous to me. Paganism at its supreme level! The soul perishes. All thoughts become nonexistent! The body is consumed by the earth’s processes. A well versed man in the laws of Yehuway could not accept anything else! I will teach my son to be aware of false tautologies. “It is the personality of the individual that is remembered by Yehuway and it is that exact personality that is brought back to life. It will come back in a different body. In a different tone of voice. But the mannerisms will be the same. The intellect identical. “Yet, what man can return if the Mashi’ach fails in his mission to ransom man’s sins? What man may dwell alongside his past, risen ancestors if the Mashi’ach fails? What man can be if the Mashi’ach fails? What future can there be? Before Adam was created there was void! What is void? It is nothingness. It is total darkness! Total nonexistence. No thoughts. No light. No stars. No motions of the wind or of the seas.

The night is about to lull everything and everyone to sleep. I stretch myself at the window and open it so that the books can breathe fresh damp air. I suspect that books need to breathe like people, and I think they tolerate damp better than people say. There is no doubt that they stare rather sadly at the trees out in the garden, as if they have a vague recollection of relationship with them, and sighs are borne from the pages to the damp trunks and branches. I begin to sigh too, for I feel that people are like trees that move, trees that have lost their roots and are always in search of the soil. I have a hazy idea that humans have come from trees that broke off from their roots in a wild whirlwind eons ago - that is my thory of evolution.

Although an act ceases as soon as it has been done, it will inevitably produce its effect, even after a hundred eons have passed. What is the factor that makes inevitable the causal process through which cause and result are connected? Some philosophers who have examined this subject assert that the supporting factor is something acquired or possessed. Others maintain that it is an inevitable phenomenon separate [from the cause or its result]. In either case, some sub-schools of the Analysts maintain that this supporting factor is substantially existent while others [maintain that it is] designatively existent. The Idealists assert that fundamental consciousness functions [as the support] upon which the instincts of evolutionary actions are imprinted, after which one experiences their ripening. Those who postulate the six groups of consciousness6 but not a fundamental consciousness state that [the support] is the continuum of mental consciousness, [itself only] a designation. Some Centrists assert that the supporting factor is designatively existent, [being the] designation of mere “I” or mere “person.” However many similar philosophical views on this subject there are, all are simply reifications based on partial understanding; they do not reflect the truth. At this point, however, we will not refute or confirm any of these theses.

You know why I write books? Because it is the one thing about the outcome of which I don't give a damn. I don't care if they gather dust, I don't care if they don't sell. In fact, among my hundred plus works, there are a few that have sold barely ten copies. Yet, am I bothered! Nope! I don't write to sell books, I write because my mind teeters on the edge of psychosis if I spend a single day without writing. Sure, the ultimate mission behind my legacy is the construction of a humane world, but if you get down to the actual morale of the moment - the only recompense I get out of it all, is the felicity of putting my fervor on paper - thus immortalizing them for eons to come. That's how this one life could produce such an impossibly inexhaustible amount of literature in the first place - because I dream my ideas, breathe my ideas, and live my ideas. Better a lesser read genius, than a misread genius. Or to put it plainer still - I am not a writer, I am an anomaly - for better or for worse, I am an anomaly.

You’re frightened. I understand that. You’re mortal. We are not. The monsters and beasts of legends died eons ago. The seals that hold the barriers to the realms are intact. Your world is safe, and will remain so as long as I breathe.

Haldnunen,” Liam whispered. Tobias’s smile was icy. “I have not heard my real name in eons, Samkiel.” “It’s not possible.” Liam’s breath hitched. “You perished alongside my grandfather. I saw the texts, read them. I know them.

She held her hand up, her palm facing me. “Please, never assume again. They are my brethren, or so I call them. Kaden made me, but they followed him from the dimension he came from.” “Dimension?” My brows furrowed. “As in realm?” She nodded. Unfeasible. She must have misunderstood, or the man claiming to be Kaden was a liar. My father and the old gods had fought, leading to the closure of those dimensions eons ago. Nothing escaped, especially not anything that powerful or ancient, but I could not deny what I had seen so far. “How many are there that possess the power you do?” I asked. Her expression softened for the first time since I’d met her. There was no false bravado, no illicit comments, just sadness etched in the depths of her eyes. “There is only me.

This awesome scientific truth means that we, when you really think about it, are accumulated bits of stardust, which over the evolution of eons became sentient. We are, each of us, aggregated bits of the universe literally contemplating itself. And if that isn’t a cosmic miracle, then I cannot imagine what is.

Maybe peace is just moments… Maybe peace is just a second or an eon or a decade or a day. War is… the same, I think.

So, here they were, face to face with the Son of God! When they had first seen him in the throne room, he had been nearly indistinguishable from the Father. In a manner that defied explanation and description, both he and the entity who had leaned upon the back of the Father’s throne had been one with God himself. Now, outside the throne room, the Son was clearly his own person, yet his majesty and the wonder he evoked were not diminished. He was unsurpassably beautiful. Tall and graceful, he sat upon his fabulous steed with a dignity that emanated pure power. His snow white hair hung to his saddle-back in thick waves, two intricate braids caught back at the temples to form a tiara entwined with gold. Despite his snowy hair, his face, while containing all the eons of heaven, seemed ageless, eternally youthful. His clothing, while utterly elegant, was simple and straightforward. A gown of blazing white was topped by a sleeveless coat of sky blue, and draping all was a cloak of deep, dark scarlet, its ample hood spread out across his shoulders. Everything was trimmed with gold and silver braid, gleaming gems of many colors peeking here and there from the folds. His horse’s tack was fabulous, all of embossed gold and cushioned wood, carved with dazzling intricacy. But, they had only a moment to take all of this in, before the prince saluted them with an outstretched arm. “Good day, friends,” he hailed them. “We meet again.” Gabriel’s heart lurched. He would have returned the salutation, but his voice failed him. Supporting one another, the four archangels were determined not to fall down. But, it was no use. They simply had no strength to stay upright. Besides, they were overcome with the desire to worship this mighty prince. Slumping to the ground, even the most self-assured of them, Lucifer, was brought to his knees. Again, the seraph flew over them, this time raising them to their feet without laying a hand on them. A swift flick of his fingers, and they were upright, once again. By the time they had regained their composure, the prince had dismounted and was walking toward one root of the mammoth tree. “Follow me,” he said, waving them forward. “It is time for us to have a talk.” Michael was the first to comply. Gabriel followed, with Raphael and Uriel close behind, all of them tingling from head to toe.

Hey," Arnold shot Hector a small glare. "Emma's worth every second of my time. She's the only girl for me. There's not anyone else who could hold a candle to her." "That's nice," said Hector as Emma hid behind a row of lockers while the two boys walked by. "It's great to have unrealistic and dangerously high expectations. Maybe, I should make 'High Hopes' your ringtone." "Just keep it up, Hec," Arnold grinned as he shook his head. "I'm just saying that you need to keep your options open until you know it's a sure thing." "Like you and Pria?" "Exactly, like Pria and me! We're soulmates, y'know? Reincarnated lovers from eons ago in vain of Romeo and Juliet." "You're a total spaz. You know that, right?" "Hector Spazz Ramirez. I like the sound of that. Y'know what also has a nice ring to it?" "What?" "Mrs. Pria Spazz Ramirez! You think I should run that by her later?" "Definitely go for it. Put a ring on it." "But should I do it before or after French Class?" "See? Now, I can't tell if you're still joking." "Oh, I am." "Thank goodness." "Or am I? I really don't know anymore.

This book forwards the hypothesis that schizophrenia is a product of very recent evolutionary events. Although humans, or something like them, have been around for some six million years, language has been extant for a mere 50,000 to 100,000 years. The onset of language was afforded by skyrocketing advances in brain development, the central nervous system ballooning incrementally over eons of time to the point where the fetus's little head could barely navigate Momma's birth canal. The Horno sapiens brain profited from a unique folding of the cerebral cortex, allowing for greater speed and a sly adeptness at symbol formation that led to speech.

I'd strutted past his ground-floor grotto a gazillion times, but one day, my nosy nature nudged me to take a peek. Holy hoarders. The place was stuffed to the rafters with ancient artifacts and dust-bunny colonies, all carefully curated over eons. A skinny pathway, barely lit, snaked through the clutter, kind of like Dorothy's obstacle course to Oz. Except here, not even a desperate Dorothy would be clicking her ruby slippers, chanting, "There's no place like home." -Kim Lee ‘The Big Apple Took a Bite Off Me’ Now on Amazon Books and Kindle

Speaking of Andrew Finn—Wait But Why’s co-founder and my 15-year work husband—he has managed to remain patient and supportive during the eon I took to finish this project. Andrew and I like to refer to our partnership as “two monkeys trying to figure out how to drive a spaceship,” and for the past six years (and 20 before that), Andrew has helped me navigate the unpredictable and stay sane in the process. His friendship, and his continued willingness to show up, are an invaluable anchor.

I can’t read anymore. Not that I need to. I’ve read each poem, each note countless times since he mailed this book to me. By then I understood the curse I carried in my blood. Loving too deeply, too fiercely, too wholly. A love like that for the wrong man would ruin you. I’m about to replace the book of poems when something silver in the drawer caches my eye. It’s a cheap whistle, tarnished by age. I pull it out by the discolored string from which it dangles. I don’t have to blow it to hear its piercing shrill. It’s as sharp and clear in my head as the smell of funnel cake and the cool night air on my face at the top of a Ferris wheel. I fall back into my bed, placing the whistle and the book of poems on the pillow beside me. They’re like artifacts from another age that was marked with the promise of love. Marred with the agony of loss. It wasn’t eons ago. It wasn’t a light year away. It was eight years, and now the man who scrawled in these margins and presented this whistle to me like a piece of his heart, is cutting me out completely. This is all I have left of that night, of those days. Of the man who begged me to never forget.