Forged By Malice Quotes

The mountains told me your name. The forest sang your song. My heart has been searching for you since the first dawn.

I could pass a thousand seasons staring at you and never have my fill of your beauty. I want you when the cherry blossoms fall in spring, and during the balmy nights of summer. I want you on a forest floor filled with autumn leaves and shivering in winter’s snow.

My mother used to tell me not to mourn the flower in bloom because you know one day it will wilt, for then you are forsaking its beauty.

I know you will never let any harm come to Rosalina. Caspian, you have always been a worthy mate for my daughter.

She kisses the side of my face. “I love you, Farron.” “In the starlight way,” I whisper back.

It’s as if the forest were made for her, like it has been waiting all these eons for her arrival. See? We’ve bloomed just for you.

Now, Petal, let’s hear that pretty mouth beg.

I find the scariest beasts aren’t the ones with teeth and claws, but the ones that hide behind a smile.

I stopped my curse from breaking.” I suck in a breath, eyes widening. If his curse was going to break… Rosalina. Of course. Of course she would save us all. My Rose’s eternal love has no limits.

He was always so distracted. A dreamer. There are so many moments in our childhood where I was so focused on fulfilling my own duty, I never stopped to look behind me and wait for him to catch up.

For the first time I understood the dogma of eternal pain -- appreciated "the glad tidings of great joy." For the first time my imagination grasped the height and depth of the Christian horror. Then I said: "It is a lie, and I hate your religion. If it is true, I hate your God." From that day I have had no fear, no doubt. For me, on that day, the flames of hell were quenched. From that day I have passionately hated every orthodox creed. That Sermon did some good. In the Old Testament, they said. God is the judge -- but in the New, Christ is the merciful. As a matter of fact, the New Testament is infinitely worse than the Old. In the Old there is no threat of eternal pain. Jehovah had no eternal prison -- no everlasting fire. His hatred ended at the grave. His revenge was satisfied when his enemy was dead. In the New Testament, death is not the end, but the beginning of punishment that has no end. In the New Testament the malice of God is infinite and the hunger of his revenge eternal. The orthodox God, when clothed in human flesh, told his disciples not to resist evil, to love their enemies, and when smitten on one cheek to turn the other, and yet we are told that this same God, with the same loving lips, uttered these heartless, these fiendish words; "Depart ye cursed into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels." These are the words of "eternal love." No human being has imagination enough to conceive of this infinite horror. All that the human race has suffered in war and want, in pestilence and famine, in fire and flood, -- all the pangs and pains of every disease and every death -- all this is as nothing compared with the agonies to be endured by one lost soul. This is the consolation of the Christian religion. This is the justice of God -- the mercy of Christ. This frightful dogma, this infinite lie, made me the implacable enemy of Christianity. The truth is that this belief in eternal pain has been the real persecutor. It founded the Inquisition, forged the chains, and furnished the fagots. It has darkened the lives of many millions. It made the cradle as terrible as the coffin. It enslaved nations and shed the blood of countless thousands. It sacrificed the wisest, the bravest and the best. It subverted the idea of justice, drove mercy from the heart, changed men to fiends and banished reason from the brain. Like a venomous serpent it crawls and coils and hisses in every orthodox creed. It makes man an eternal victim and God an eternal fiend. It is the one infinite horror. Every church in which it is taught is a public curse. Every preacher who teaches it is an enemy of mankind. Below this Christian dogma, savagery cannot go. It is the infinite of malice, hatred, and revenge. Nothing could add to the horror of hell, except the presence of its creator, God. While I have life, as long as I draw breath, I shall deny with all my strength, and hate with every drop of my blood, this infinite lie.

Pumblechook made out, after carefully surveying the premises, that he had first got upon the roof of the forge, and had then got upon the roof of the house, and had then let himself down the kitchen chimney by a rope made of his bedding cut into strips; and as Mr. Pumblechook was very positive and drove his own chaise-cart — over Everybody — it was agreed that it must be so. Mr. Wopsle, indeed, wildly cried out, “No!” with the feeble malice of a tired man; but, as he had no theory, and no coat on, he was unanimously set at naught,— not to mention his smoking hard behind, as he stood with his back to the kitchen fire to draw the damp out: which was not calculated to inspire confidence.

Precisely because God does not determine himself in creation—because there is no dialectical necessity binding him to time or chaos, no need to forge his identity in the fires of history—in creating he reveals himself truly. Thus every evil that time comprises, natural or moral—a worthless distinction, really, since human nature is a natural phenomenon—is an arraignment of God’s goodness: every death of a child, every chance calamity, every act of malice; everything diseased, thwarted, pitiless, purposeless, or cruel; and, until the end of all things, no answer has been given. Precisely because creation is not a theogony, all of it is theophany. (from Radical Orthodoxy 3.1 (2015):1-17)

Amantes Assemble Sonnet 99 Rise, revolt and roar out loud, No more pleading in front of prejudice! Breathe, burn and brave out loud, No more bearing in front of malice! Dream, dare and dance out loud, No more dangling as docile doormat! Heave, hold and help out loud, No more retreat in front of cold updraught! Fall, fix and forge out loud, No more settling as the forgotten figures! Grow, glow, and break out loud, No more groveling at the feet of bloodsuckers! Only antidote to oppression is civilian unsubmission. When the children go astray, it’s time for parental intervention.

Because what would you rather read about: a swashbuckling starship captain? Or a being as incomprehensible to us as we are to an amoeba? To be fair, science fiction novels have been written about a future in which this transformation has occurred. And I could write one of these, as well. The problem is that for the most part, people like reading about other people. People who are like them. People who act and think like, you know . . . people. Even if we imagine a future society of omniscient beings, we wouldn’t have much of a story without conflict. Without passions and frailties and fear of death. And what kind of a story could an amoeba write about a man, anyway? I believe that after a few hundred years of riding up this hockey-stick of explosive technological growth, humanity can forge a utopian society whose citizens are nearly-omniscient and nearly-immortal. Governed by pure reason rather than petty human emotions. A society in which unrecognizable beings live in harmony, not driven by current human limitations and motivations. Wow. A novel about beings we can’t possibly relate to, residing on an intellectual plane of existence incomprehensible to us, without conflict or malice. I think I may have just described the most boring novel ever written. Despite what I believe to be true about the future, however, I have to admit something: I still can’t help myself. I love space opera. When the next Star Trek movie comes out, I’ll be the first one in line. Even though I’ll still believe that if our technology advances enough for starships, it will have advanced enough for us to have utterly transformed ourselves, as well. With apologies to Captain Kirk and his crew, Star Trek technology would never coexist with a humanity we can hope to understand, much as dinosaurs and people really didn’t roam the earth at the same time. But all of this being said, as a reader and viewer, I find it easy to suspend disbelief. Because I really, really love this stuff. As a writer, though, it is more difficult for me to turn a blind eye to what I believe will be the truth. But, hey, I’m only human. A current human. With all kinds of flaws. So maybe I can rationalize ignoring my beliefs long enough to write a rip-roaring science fiction adventure. I mean, it is fiction, right? And maybe dinosaurs and mankind did coexist. The Flintstones wouldn’t lie, would they?  So while the mind-blowing pace of scientific progress has ruined far-future science fiction for me, at least when it comes to the writing of it, I may not be able to help myself. I may love old-school science fiction too much to limit myself to near-future thrillers. One day, I may break down, fall off the wagon, and do what I vowed during my last Futurists Anonymous meeting never to do again: write far-future science fiction.  And if that day ever comes, all I ask is that you not judge me too harshly.

I cup her face, increasing my pace, getting more and more turned on as she writhes beneath me. Suddenly, a scent hints at me, one of earth and metal. I clutch her jaw and make her look up at me. “Tell me, Rosalina, have you been a good girl for the Prince of Spring?” Her whole body trembles and something devious flashes in her eyes. “Maybe.

Kill them all. For Rosalina, I will do it. For Rosalina, I will do anything.

Our hearts are not always trustworthy.

The storm always passes.

Then I will love you in the darkness,” I say.

Don’t think you can’t tell me what’s going on in that glorious mind of yours. If you need to follow your feelings, I will stand by you.

How does one hold on to hope when it has waned to but a sliver of moonlight?

I have always and will forever be yours, my Rose.” “...You know I’m yours.” “Then hold on to the headboard and sit on my face.” … “I’ll suffocate you,” I whisper. He makes a dissatisfied sound. “What need do I have for air with your thighs around my head?” … until he remembers he is indeed mortal— or near enough to it— and needs to breathe.

The usurper Ezryn mentioned is none other than that little shit, Kairyn.

Or my presence soothes her. The thought disturbs me.

Dayton grabs a knot of my hair, tugs. “Are you making fun of my cock, Blossom?” “Wouldn’t dream of it.” “Good.” He draws me closer until his lips are by my ear. “Because this cock is going to fucking claim you, going to make you scream my name, going to fill you with so much cum it’ll be leaking down your legs, and there won’t be a soul in the Enchanted Vale that won’t recognize my scent on you.

How would you like to be bred? Filled with load after load of my cum until your belly swells with our child?

This will only confirm for her the villain I am. But I told her I’d be her darkness, and if only a villain can save her, then so be it.

Let me take no other but you. If one day, my vow shall prove false and I lie with another, let them serve you in repentance until you tire of them as I did your heart. And if ever there is no love between us, let this bargain melt away like snow under rain.

He laughs darkly. Then a thorn wraps around my ankle and drags me down until I’m flat on my back, legs spread, ripped dress awry. He places a hand on either side of my head. “So, choose now.” Choose me, he purrs inside my mind.

You can’t get better if you’re not bad at something first,

Because a human can’t become what she wants.