Falcon Scott Quotes

[W]hen you find yourself face to face with one [Bondsmage], you bow and scrape and mind your 'sirs' and 'madams.'" ... 'Nice bird, asshole,' said Locke.

I am just going outside and may be some time." Reportedly the last words of Lawrence Oates according to Captain Robert Falcon Scott, who commanded the ill-fated expedition to the South Pole 1911/12.

Had we lived, I should have had a tale to tell of the hardihood, endurance and courage of my companions which would have stirred the heart of every Englishman. These rough notes and our dead bodies must tell the tale.

It is the work that matters, not the applause that follows.

And if the worst, or best, happens, and Death comes for you in the snow, he comes disguised as Sleep, and you greet him rather as a welcome friend than a gruesome foe.

We are all adventurers here, I suppose, and wild doings in wild countries appeal to us as nothing else could do. It is good to know that there remain wild corners of this dreadfully civilised world.

God help us, we can't keep up this pulling, that is certain. Amongst ourselves we are unendingly cheerful, but what each man feels in his heart I can only guess.

You know who else thought lightly of them, once? The Falconer.

The eternal silence of the great white desert. Cloudy columns of snow drift advancing from the south, pale yellow wraiths, heralding the coming storm, blotting out one by one the sharp-cut lines of the land.

In the Andes, a lake disappears overnight, sucked through cracks in the earth. How can I explain the sunlight stippling your face in the early morning? Why not believe that the eye throws its own light, that seeing illuminates the world? On the moon, astronaut David Scott drops a hammer and a falcon feather, and we learn nothing we didn’t already know.

Fortune would be in a hard mood indeed if it allowed such a combination of knowledge, experience, ability, and enthusiasm to achieve nothing.

Great God! this is an awful place and terrible enough for us to have laboured to it without the reward of priority.

e are in a desperate state, feet frozen &c. No fuel and a long way from food, but it would do your heart good to be in our tent, to hear our songs and the cheery conversation as to what we will do when we get to Hut Point.

After lunch, and Evans still not appearing, we looked out, to see him still afar off. By this time we were alarmed, and all four started back on ski. I was first to reach the poor man and shocked at his appearance; he was on his knees with clothing disarranged, hands uncovered and frostbitten, and a wild look in his eyes.

Should this be found I want these facts recorded. Oates' last thoughts were of his Mother, but immediately before he took pride in thinking that his regiment would be pleased with the bold way in which he met his death. We can testify to his bravery. He has borne intense suffering for weeks without complaint, and to the very last was able and willing to discuss outside subjects. He did not - would not - give up hope to the very end. He was a brave soul. This was the end. He slept through the night before last, hoping not to wake; but he woke in the morning - yesterday. It was blowing a blizzard. He said, 'I am just going outside and may be some time.' He went out into the blizzard and we have not seen him since.

Surely misfortune could scarcely have exceeded this last blow. We arrived within 11 miles of our old One Ton Camp with fuel for one last meal and food for two days. For four days we have been unable to leave the tent - the gale howling about us. We are weak, writing is difficult, but for my own sake I do not regret this journey, which has shown that Englishmen can endure hardships , help one another, and meet death with as great a fortitude as ever in the past. We took risks, we knew we took them; things have come out against us, and therefore we have no cause for complaint, but bow to the will of Providence, determined still to do our best to the last. But if we have been willing to give our lives to this enterprise, which is for the honor of our country, I appeal to our countrymen to see that those who depend on us are properly cared for. Had we lived, I should have had a tale to tell of the hardihood, endurance, and courage of my companions which would have stirred the heart of every Englishman. These rough notes and our dead bodies must tell the tale, but surely, surely, a great rich country like ours will see that those who are dependent on us are properly provided for.

The attitude of the men is equally worthy of admiration...there is a rush to be first when work is to be done, and the same desire to sacrifice selfish consideration to the success of the expedition...Fortune would be in a hard mood indeed if it allowed such a combination of knowledge, experience, ability, and enthusiasm to achieve nothing.

After many frowns fortune has treated us the kindest smile - for twenty-four hours we have had a calm with brilliant sunshine. Such weather in such a place comes nearer to satisfying my ideal of perfection than any condition that I have ever experienced. The warm glow of the sun with the keen invigorating cold of the air forms a combination which is inexpressibly health-giving and satisfying to me, whilst the golden light on this wonderful scene of mountain and ice satisfies every claim of scenic magnificence. No words of mine can convey the impressiveness of the wonderful panorama displayed to our eyes.

It is always rather dismal work walking over the great snow plain when sky and surface merge in one pall of dead whiteness, but it is cheering to be in such good company with everything going on steadily and well.

Resignation to misfortune is the only attitude, but not an easy one to adopt. It seems undeserved where plans were well laid and so nearly crowned with a first success. I cannot see that any plan would be altered if it were to do again, the margin for bad weather was ample according to all experience and this stormy December - our finest month - is a thing that the most cautious organiser might not have been prepared to encounter. It is very evil to lie here in a wet sleeping-bag and think of the pity of it all.

At lunch, the day before yesterday, poor Titus Oates said he couldn’t go on; he proposed we should leave him in his sleeping-bag. That we could not do, and we induced him to come on, on the afternoon march. In spite of its awful nature for him he struggled on and we made a few miles. At night he was worse and we knew the end had come. Should this be found I want these facts recorded. Oates’s last thoughts were of his Mother, but immediately before he took pride in thinking that his regiment would be pleased with the bold way in which he met his death. We can testify to his bravery. He has borne intense suffering for weeks without complaint, and to the very last was able and willing to discuss outside subjects. He did not – would not – give up hope till the very end. He was a brave soul. This was the end. He slept through the night before last, hoping not to wake; but he woke in the morning – yesterday. It was blowing a blizzard. He said, ‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’ He went out into the blizzard and we have not seen him since. [...] We knew that poor Oates was walking to his death, but though we tried to dissuade him, we knew it was the act of a brave man and an English gentleman. We all hope to meet the end with a similar spirit, and assuredly the end is not far.

The fact that reality doesn’t match what you want or expect isn’t reality’s fault. Besides, authenticity is overrated. When you were a kid playing in your backyard, who did you pretend to be, Han Solo piloting the Millennium Falcon, or Buzz Aldrin going to the bathroom in his astronaut pants?

Now, said Locke, ‘I can accept that it would be a bad idea to kill you. But when I finally let you slink back to Karthain, you’re going as an object lesson. You’re going to remind your pampered, twisted, arrogant fucking brethren about what might happen when they fuck with someone’s friends in Camorr.’ The blade of Jean’s hatchet whistled down, severing the Bondsmage’s little finger of his left hand. The Falconer screamed. ‘That’s Nazca,’ said Locke. ‘Remember Nazca?’ He swung down again; the ring finger rolled in the dirt, and blood spurted. ‘That’s Calo,’ said Locke. Another swing, and the middle finger was gone. The Falconer writhed and pulled at his bonds, whipping his head from side to side in agony. ‘Galdo, too. Are these names familiar, Master Bondsmage? These little footnotes to your fucking contract? They were awfully real to me. Now this finger coming up – this one’s Bug. Actually, Bug probably should have been the little finger, but what the hell.’ The hatchet fell again; the index finger of the Falconer’s left hand joined its brethren in bloody exile. ‘Now the rest,’ said Locke, ‘the rest of your fingers and both of your thumbs, those are for me and Jean.

It was tedious work; they had to reheat the dagger several times to cauterise all the wounds. The Falconer was half-mad with pain by the time they’d finished; his eyes were closed and his teeth clenched. The air in the enclosed room stank of burnt flesh and scalded blood. ‘Now,’ said Locke, sitting on the Falconer’s chest, ‘it’s time to talk.’ ‘I cannot,’ said the Bondsmage. ‘I cannot . . . betray my client’s secrets.’ ‘You no longer have a client,’ said Locke. ‘You no longer serve Capa Raza; he hired a Bondsmage, not a fingerless freak with a dead bird for a best friend. When I removed your fingers, I removed your obligations to Raza – at least the way I see it.’ ‘Go to hell,’ the Falconer spat. ‘Oh, good. You’ve decided to do it the hard way.’ Locke smiled again and tossed the dagger to Jean, who set it over the flame and began to heat it once more. ‘If you were any other man, I’d threaten your balls next. I’d make all sorts of cracks about eunuchs, but I think you could bear that. You’re not most men. I think the only thing I can take from you that would truly pain you to the depths of your soul would be your tongue.’ The Bondsmage stared at him, his lips quivering. ‘Please,’ he whispered at last, ‘have pity, for the gods’ sakes, have pity; my order exists to serve – I was carrying out a contract.’ ‘When that contract became my friends,’ said Locke, ‘you exceeded your mandate.’ ‘Please,’ whispered the Falconer. ‘No,’ said Locke. ‘I will cut it out; I will cauterise it while you lie there writhing. I will make you a mute – I’m guessing you might be able to conjure some magic without fingers, but without a tongue?’ ‘Please!’ ‘Speak,’ said Locke. ‘Tell me what I want to know.’ ‘Gods,’ sobbed the Falconer. ‘Gods forgive me. Ask. Ask your questions.’ ‘If I catch you in a lie,’ said Locke, ‘it’s balls first, and then the tongue. Don’t presume on my patience. Why did Capa Raza want us all dead?

Locke shook hands with Jean, stepped to the doorway, and turned back. ‘Cut this bastard’s fucking tongue out.’ ‘You promised,’ yelled the Falconer. ‘You promised!’ ‘I didn’t promise you shit. My dead friends, on the other hand – I made them certain promises.’ Locke whirled and went out through the curtain; behind him, Jean was setting the knife over the oil flame once again. The Falconer’s screams followed him down the debris-strewn street, and then faded into the distance as he turned north and began to jog towards the Hill of Whispers.

All right?” Scott asks. I grin. “Just like I told you: Betas understand foreplay.” I deliberately raise my eyebrow at Falcon, whose cheek twitches. Perhaps, I shouldn’t bait the Chief Alpha. Xavier looks delighted. “We have another brat!

This was back before online banking, when the only way to tell how much money you had in the bank was to send a peregrine falcon to town and then wait two weeks for it to come back.

We took risks, we knew we took them; things have come out against us, and therefore we have no cause for complaint, but bow to the will of Providence, determined still to do our best to the last.

When you were a kid playing in your backyard, who did you pretend to be, Han Solo piloting the Millennium Falcon, or Buzz Aldrin going to the bathroom in his astronaut pants?

I’ve seen these movies at least twenty times, and I’m used to making snarky comments and pointing out filming errors. I haven’t watched Star Wars without a liberal dose of cynicism since I was ten years old. But something funny begins to happen when we start A New Hope. The words scrawl across the screen, and Matteo reads them out loud, and a shiver runs down my spine. This whole universe is about to be opened up to him, and I’m the one who gets to introduce him to the marvels of the Millennium Falcon. And R2-D2. And I’m seriously hoping this is the old cut with the non-remastered Jabba. I realize I’m giddy. It feels magical.

In the comic, the guys are tied together with jesses—those are the leather thongs used to secure a falcon—