Gor Quotes

Darkness got you like Shelob gor Frodo, only worse.

The Gorean myths have it," I said, "that the woman longs for this identity—to be herself in being his—if only for the moment of paradox in which she is slave and thus freed.

Being a Gunner has been the most trying of all the relationships I've had and probably will. What gives me hope is none other than Gor Mahia FC. So tonight was to sit back, sip my glass and watch Arsenal FC's beautiful game.

No man who has seen a woman in Pleasure Silk, or watched her dance, or heard the sound of a belled ankle or watched a woman's hair, unbound, fall to her waist can long live without the possession of such a delicious creature.

I was trying to check my email.” I swallow. “Get in touch with friends.” “You don’t have friends, Misery.

This book is a awsome book and i really gor into it. I couldn't put the book down. Loved it and would recommened it to people that are mature and like horror.

I would choose so to live that I might stand boldly with my deed without regret throughout eternity.

Li wan rojan Min li gor zewqa hezkirîya xwe jîyana xwe tevde bi rengê şîn xemilandibû Şîn û tenê şîn... Şînê bi rengê deryayê Û di rojek ji rojan de ji nişka ve min destê hezkirîya xwe di destê kesekî din de dît ku jîyana xwe tevde bi rengê zer girêdabû Zerê bi rengê ronahîya rojê Min soberî nedizanî Dilê min rê neda ku hînî soberîyê bibim Û ez di nav deryayeke şîn û bêkutahî ya tirs û xeyalan de xeniqîm!

I have lived. Now there must be others.

wished war to be a biologically selective process in which the weaker and slower perish and fail to reproduce themselves.

Yes, I have business with the Priest-Kings of Gor.

It is said, in a Gorean proverb, that a man, in his heart, desires freedom, and that a woman, in her belly, yearns for love. The collar, in its way, answers both needs. The man is most free, owning the slave. He may do what he wishes with her. The woman, on the other hand, being owned, is institutionally and helplessly subject, in her status as slave, to the submissions of love.

La Lo­te­ría, con su re­par­to se­ma­nal de enor­mes pre­mios, era el único acon­te­ci­mien­to pú­bli­co al que los pro­les pres­ta­ban ver­da­de­ra aten­ción. Era pro­ba­ble que hu­bie­se mi­llo­nes de pro­les para quie­nes la Lo­te­ría fuese la razón prin­ci­pal, si no la única, para se­guir con vida. Era su de­lei­te, su lo­cu­ra, su anal­gé­si­co, su es­ti­mu­lan­te in­te­lec­tual. En lo que se re­fe­ría a la Lo­te­ría, hasta quie­nes ape­nas sa­bían leer y es­cri­bir eran ca­pa­ces de lle­var a cabo in­trin­ca­dos cálcu­los y sor­pren­den­tes lo­gros me­mo­rís­ti­cos. Había toda una tribu de in­di­vi­duos que se ga­na­ban la vida ven­dien­do sis­te­mas, pre­dic­cio­nes y amu­le­tos de la suer­te. Wins­ton no tenía nada que ver con la Lo­te­ría, que se ges­tio­na­ba desde el Mi­nis­te­rio de la Abun­dan­cia, pero sabía (como cual­quier otro miem­bro del Par­ti­do) que los pre­mios eran casi todos ima­gi­na­rios. Solo se pa­ga­ban pe­que­ñas sumas y los ga­na­do­res de los pre­mios gor­dos en reali­dad no exis­tían. En au­sen­cia de ver­da­de­ra co­mu­ni­ca­ción entre una parte de Ocea­nía y otra, no re­sul­ta­ba di­fí­cil ama­ñar­lo.

But alas! Firemen [stoking a ship] are not what they were. The gor-blimey firemen of the coal-burning days must, I think, be a diminishing species and in these degenerate times, when ships burn oil, the firemen is rapidly becoming a perfect gentleman, which is a pity …. Yet all was not quite lost in 1932, since one of them, … finding an altercation with the cook becoming beyond his powers of argument, upheld tradition and ‘drew him off a Burton.’ In other words, he knocked him out for the count.

It should be worth the Courage Scar," said Harold from above, "don't you think so?" "What?" I asked. "Stealing a wench from the House of Saphrar and returning on a stolen tarn." "Undoubtedly," I grumbled. I found myself wondering if the Tuchuks had an Idiocy Scar.

help yourselves to equilibrimotors and pray to your ancestors that no air patrol suspects you as you cross the city towards your destination. What think you of this plan, Gor Hajus?” “It is splendid,” replied the assassin. “And you, Vad Varo?” “If I knew what an equilibrimotor is I might be in a better position to judge the merits of the plan,” I replied.

I discovered, to my dismay, that being English does not automatically qualify one as an authority on English history.

themselves. I have wondered sometimes if a man, to be a man, must not master a woman and if a woman to be a woman must not know herself mastered.

How many are there here who would die for this city? How many who would defend to the death its perimeters? How many who would submit to torture on its behalf?

if a man from Lower Caste should come to rule in a city, the city would come to ruin.

Yes," she said, "we also wish to be free." She smiled. "In every woman," she said, "there is something of the Free Companion and something of the Slave Girl.

an unexpected direction.

You are only grateful," I said. "No," she said, "I love you." "You must not," I said. "I do," she said.

the slaveries of her old world are of a different kind, more subtle and invisible, thought by some not even to exist.

Chance does not exist," said Misk, "ignorance exists.

I knew the hatred of men is but a feeble thing compared to the hatred of women,

a slave girl grows bold if her lips are allowed to touch the name of her master.

there are few sounds as pleasurable as the sound of one's own name on the lips of a beautiful woman.

Every woman in her heart," said Vika, "wants to wear the chains of a man.

Only such a man," she tells herself, "could tame me.

Chance does not exist," said Misk, "ignorance exists." "You cannot know that," I said. "No," said Misk, "I cannot know it.

Little one! Good one! Beloved! The sun is baking, the waves are rolling and I love you. Today Lasse and I went out and sailed in the snipe, enjoying ourselves on the most gor- geous beach, with comfortable mats and the Mediterranean foaming under the soles of my feet. There’s a great wind, and I love only, only you. I’ve never been more disappointed than I was in Miel when there was no letter from you. I just hope you haven’t changed your mind, that you’ve found your Superman that you’ve always been going around dreaming about. I want so much to be your Superman, to be your Mofschen, I want to hold you in my arms and kiss your eyes . . . You must always love me, Marianne, never leave me. Perhaps we are among the few who can really be good together. We’ve fought, been crazy with jealousy and devilry, and always found our way back to each other — and that’s where it’s wonderful to be . . . Darling, darling, Marianne. My yearning for you is indescribable. I often imagine that it’s the two of us who are here in the Mediterranean. But the time will come. The whole future lies before us.

Gor," she breathed when she picked up the nearly empty tureen. "Someone done eat the soup!" "Never!" Angus said, his eyes as wide as saucers. "All of it," she said, holding the tureen toward Angus. He peered into it as if expecting to see a hole in the bottom. "Well, I'll be." "It was excellent," Dougal said. Angus sent Dougal a look of respect. "Ye must have an iron stomach." "Indeed," Mary said, a worried look on her face. "I beg yer pardon, me lord, but do ye feel well? There was a bit of pepper in that soup." Dougal shrugged. "I'm fine. And I must get that recipe to give to my own chef." "Gor!" Mary blinked at him, unable to look away. Angus did the same. Dougal smiled inquiringly at Sophia. "I feel as if I've become an exhibit at the British Museum.

Furthermore, I refuse to be affected by these cheap theatrics!" She gestured to the boiling sky. "Gor!" Shelton covered his eyes with one hand. Dougal instantly went from mad to furious, and the clouds rumbled to life. Yet in that instant, he realized that this tiny little bit of a woman had just reduced centuries of a dramatic and secretive curse to "cheap theatrics." He didn't know whether to rage or laugh, but somehow, looking up into her amazing blue eyes, laughter was beginning to win. "Furthermore," she continued in high dudgeon, "I won't be cowed by a few damned drops of rain!" Shelton groaned loudly. "Law,here it comes now." But it didn't. Instead, a chuckle rippled through Dougal. Sophia appeared outraged. "Are you laughing at me?" "No,sweetheart. I'm laughing at us. We cannot even ride from the field to the house without racing. We're doomed to challenge each other forever,and if we don't have a care, my temper will try the two of us like sausages over a spit." Her lips quivered in response. "I don't particularly care for that image." "I haven't time for elegance, my love. It is getting ready to rain, so sausages are all you'll get.

Takie dzia­ła­nia to także go­to­wy prze­pis na ka­ta­stro­fę. Nawet naj­po­pu­lar­niej­si twór­cy, któ­rych mamy za wiecz­nie za­do­wo­lo­nych i na­ła­do­wa­nych dobrą ener­gią, łapią so­cial­me­dio­we kry­zy­sy, gdy któ­re­goś dnia nie są w sta­nie wsta­wić żad­ne­go po­zy­tyw­ne­go zdję­cia ani na­grać ekscytujące­go sto­ries. Na tym polu łatwo się wy­pa­lić, znu­dzić swoją dzia­łal­no­ścią i na­brać niebezpiecznego prze­ko­na­nia, że nie mamy prawa do sła­bo­ści oraz gor­szych dni.

Massa Stubb say dat you can fill your dam bellies up to de hatchings, but by Gor! you must stop dat dam racket!" "Cook," here interposed Stubb, accompanying the word with a sudden slap on the shoulder,—"Cook! why, damn your eyes, you mustn't swear that way when you're preaching. That's no way to convert sinners, cook!" "Who dat? Den preach to him yourself," sullenly turning to go. "No, cook; go on, go on." "Well, den, Belubed fellow-critters:"— "Right!" exclaimed Stubb, approvingly, "coax 'em to it; try that," and Fleece continued. "Do you is all sharks, and by natur wery woracious, yet I zay to you, fellow-critters, dat dat woraciousness—'top dat dam slappin' ob de tail! How you tink to hear, spose you keep up such a dam slappin' and bitin' dare?" "Cook," cried Stubb, collaring him, "I won't have that swearing. Talk to 'em gentlemanly." Once more the sermon proceeded. "Your woraciousness, fellow-critters, I don't blame ye so much for; dat is natur, and can't be helped; but to gobern dat wicked natur, dat is de pint. You is sharks, sartin; but if you gobern de shark in you, why den you be angel; for all angel is not'ing more dan de shark well goberned. Now, look here, bred'ren, just try wonst to be cibil, a helping yourselbs from dat whale. Don't be tearin' de blubber out your neighbour's mout, I

say. Is not one shark dood right as toder to dat whale? And, by Gor, none on you has de right to dat whale; dat whale belong to some one else. I know some o' you has berry brig mout, brigger dan oders; but den de brig mouts sometimes has de small bellies; so dat de brigness of de mout is not to swaller wid, but to bit off de blubber for de small fry ob sharks, dat can't get into de scrouge to help demselves." "Well done, old Fleece!" cried Stubb, "that's Christianity; go on." "No use goin' on; de dam willains will keep a scougin' and slappin' each oder, Massa Stubb; dey don't hear one word; no use a-preaching to such dam g'uttons as you call 'em, till dare bellies is full, and dare bellies is bottomless; and when dey do get 'em full, dey wont hear you den; for den dey sink in the sea, go fast to sleep on de coral, and can't hear noting at all, no more, for eber and eber." "Upon my soul, I am about of the same opinion; so give the benediction, Fleece, and I'll away to my supper." Upon this, Fleece, holding both hands over the fishy mob, raised his shrill voice, and cried— "Cussed fellow-critters! Kick up de damndest row as ever you can; fill your dam bellies 'till dey bust—and den die." "Now, cook," said Stubb, resuming his supper at the capstan; "stand just where you stood before, there, over against me, and pay particular attention.

As Rohan pulled the man upward, he glanced toward the threshold of a door that led into the club, where a club employee waited. “Dawson, escort Lord Latimer to his carriage out front. I’ll take Lord Selway.” “No need,” said the aristocrat who had just struggled to his feet, sounding winded. “I can walk to my own bloody carriage.” Tugging his clothes back into place over his bulky form, he threw the dark-haired man an anxious glance. “Rohan, I will have your word on something.” “Yes, my lord?” “If word of this gets out—if Lady Selway should discover that I was fighting over the favors of a fallen woman—my life won’t be worth a farthing.” Rohan replied with reassuring calm. “She’ll never know, my lord.” “She knows everything,” Selway said. “She’s in league with the devil. If you are ever questioned about this minor altercation…” “It was caused by a particularly vicious game of whist,” came the bland reply. “Yes. Yes. Good man.” Selway patted the younger man on the shoulder. “And to put a seal on your silence—” He reached a beefy hand inside his waistcoat and extracted a small bag. “No, my lord.” Rohan stepped back with a firm shake of his head, his shiny black hair flying with the movement and settling back into place. “There’s no price for my silence.” “Take it,” the aristocrat insisted. “I can’t, my lord.” “It’s yours.” The bag of coins was tossed to the ground, landing at Rohan’s feet with a metallic thud. “There. Whether you choose to leave it lying on the street or not is entirely your choice.” As the gentleman left, Rohan stared at the bag as if it were a dead rodent. “I don’t want it,” he muttered to no one in particular. “I’ll take it,” the prostitute said, sauntering over to him. She scooped up the bag and tested its heft in her palm. A taunting grin split her face. “Gor’, I’ve never seen a Gypsy what’s afraid o’ blunt.” “I’m not afraid of it,” Rohan said sourly. “I just don’t need it.

She danced before me for several minutes, her scarlet dancing silks flashing in the firelight, her bare feet, with their belled ankles, striking softly on the carpet. With a last flash of the finger cymbals, she fell to the carpet before me, her breath hot and quick, her eyes blazing with desire. I was at her side, and she was in my arms. Her heart beat wildly against my breast. She looked into my eyes, her lips trembling, the words stumbling but audible. "Call for the iron," she said. "Brand me, Master." "No, Talena," I said, kissing her mouth. "No." "I want to be owned," she whimpered. "I want to belong to you, fully, completely in every way. I want your brand, Tarl of Bristol, don't you understand? I want to be your branded slave." I fumbled with the collar at her throat, unlocked it, threw it aside. "You're free, my love," I whispered. "Always free." She sobbed, shaking her head, her lashes wet with tears. "No," she wept. "I am your slave." She clenched her body against mine, the buckles of the wide tharlarion belt cutting into her belly. "You own me," she whispered. "Use me.

Uh... avete davvero degli strani metodi señor mio, ma ad ogni modo non posso che ringraziarvi per avermi salvato!" "Mi fa uno strano effetto sentirmi chiamare señor: gli indiani, i coloni, i fuorilegge mi hanno soprannominato Zagor: puoi usare anche tu questo nome!" "È davvero uno strano nome: ha qualche significato particolare?" "Già... è l'abbreviazione di Za-gor-te-nay, che in dialetto algonkino significa 'lo spirito con la scure' un appellativo che mi è stato dato molti anni fa... ad ogni modo questo non è il momento per fare conversazione... sarà bene muoverci, amico!" "Il mio nome è Felipe Cayetano Lopez Martinez y Gonzales ma gli amici mi chiamano Cico...

Our friend, Gor – he’s the bony, old one, by the tallboy – has been suffering strange occurrences, spirit.

Everything in our life is an illusion.

the deplorable subject of physical education.

This practice, as once in England, is more than a simple matter of convention. When one keeps to the left side of the road, one's sword arm faces the passing stranger.

If death was easy, I might seek life less strenuously.

some of the boldest even contending that the social function of the Initiates is to keep the lower castes contented with their servile lot.

I realized, with an incomprehensible suddenness and a joy that still bewilders me, that someone existed who loved me.

I wanted to hate her—so much I wanted to hate her—but I found that I could not. I had come to love her.

one must distinguish between the data to be interpreted and the interpretation of the data, and one chooses, normally, the interpretation that preserves as much as possible of the old world view,

and sunken. Atton shook his head and screamed once more. “He’s a Gor! Mom, he’s a Gor!” But she couldn’t hear, and she didn’t appear to notice Hoff’s transformation. Atton’s eyelids grew heavy and the scene faded to black, but he went on screaming, “He’s a Gor! Hoff’s a Gor!” A loud hiss reached Atton’s ears and a gust of frigid air surrounded him. He opened his eyes and saw none other than Admiral Hoff Heston glaring at him, his eyes once again their usual gray. Atton fell out of the stasis tube, and Hoff held out a hand to help him up. Atton scuttled away, shaking his head vehemently. “You’re a Gor! Stay away from me!” Hoff smiled. “I thought the Gors were your friends?” “Not you!” “That’s a fine way to greet your rescuer. You’re delirious. Get

Psychogeography does not have to be complicated. Anyone can do it. You do not need a map, Gor-Tex, a rucksack or a companion. All you need is a curious nature and a comfortable pair of shoes. There are no rules to doing psychogeography - this is its beauty.

Kota tua ini sudah boleh ditanggalkan daripada peta Bangunan diruntuhkan menjadi puing untuk didiami lelabah dan kelelawar -Gor Az De-

March 31 MORNING “With His stripes we are healed.” — Isaiah 53:5 PILATE delivered our Lord to the lictors to be scourged. The Roman scourge was a most dreadful instrument of torture. It was made of the sinews of oxen, and sharp bones were inter-twisted every here and there among the sinews; so that every time the lash came down these pieces of bone inflicted fearful laceration, and tore off the flesh from the bone. The Saviour was, no doubt, bound to the column, and thus beaten. He had been beaten before; but this of the Roman lictors was probably the most severe of His flagellations. My soul, stand here and weep over His poor stricken body. Believer in Jesus, can you gaze upon Him without tears, as He stands before you the mirror of agonizing love? He is at once fair as the lily for innocence, and red as the rose with the crimson of His own blood. As we feel the sure and blessed healing which His stripes have wrought in us, does not our heart melt at once with love and grief? If ever we have loved our Lord Jesus, surely we must feel that affection glowing now within our bosoms. “See how the patient Jesus stands, Insulted in His lowest case! Sinners have bound the Almighty’s hands, And spit in their Creator’s face.” “With thorns His temples gor’d and gash’d Send streams of blood from every part; His back’s with knotted scourges lash’d. But sharper scourges tear His heart.” We would fain go to our chambers and weep; but since our business calls us away, we will first pray our Beloved to print the image of His bleeding self upon the tablets of our hearts all the day, and at nightfall we will return to commune with Him, and sorrow that our sin should have cost Him so dear.

Expressions to designate homosexuality exist in some fifty (Sub-Saharan) African languages - gor-jigeen in Wolof, ngochani in Shona, Hasini in Nandi, 'yan daudu in Hausa, mashoga ("passive" homosexual), mabasha ("virile" partner) in Kiswahili. [They refer] to ancestral practices in "traditional", that is pre-industrial, societies [...].

Well, I'll tell yer now, it's going t' be even better for talkin' t' me! Get your arse down tut station. I'd gor meself, but I'm sending you as a proxy. Sort it out at Oxford Street for me, will yer, eh? They're not doin' the bloody figures, an' I for one want to know what the eck's goin' on! You'll be writin' me a full report. And if they're pissing about, sack 'em, right? Get your arse on the next bloody train, eh! I want you there as soon as possible. Get yourself checked in tut hotel when you get there. You can phone that man, Bart is it, whatsisname, and let 'im knor, eh?.....What d'yer say? You'll do it for me? Grand! Get your arse down that station, now! The phone clicked off

so he shoved his claw into her mouth, separated her jaw from her face with a mighty pull, and continued pulling it down her neck until the screaming stopped. Her blood sprayed all over the beige table, the countertop, and the floor, as well as Gor’s green scaly body. The woman flailed the air wildly with her arms until she fell into a heap on the tile floor.

Slowly, with agony, I began to believe that it had indeed been nothing but the cruelest of dreams and that I was now once again coming to my senses.

She looked down. "He shamed me," she said. "I cannot help it that I moved as I did—I cannot help that I am a woman.

I do not know what we did," said Misk. "But I think I would now choose to do that action which I would be willing that I should do again and again with each turning of the wheel. I would choose so to live that I might be willing that I should live that life a thousand times, even forever. I would choose so to live that I might stand boldly with my deed without regret throughout eternity.

only when true love is learned is the Free Companionship possible, and that some women can learn love only in chains.

By gor’, that’s a bloody enormous cat.” “It’s a lion,” said Granny Weatherwax, looking at the stuffed head over the fireplace. “Must’ve hit the wall at a hell of a speed, whatever it was,” said Nanny Ogg “Someone killed it,” said Granny Weatherwax, surveying the room. “Should think so,” said Nanny, “If I’d seen something like that eatin’ its way through the wall I’d of hit it myself

I held her head in my hands and took in her fea­tures: eyes swim­ming, skin red­dened from too much vodka, top lip flaky and swollen from de­hy­dra­tion, black make-up dust col­lect­ing in the del­i­cate lines un­der her eyes. Still so im­pos­si­bly gor­geous at half three in the morn­ing.

I need friends ! I just made my profile and don't have any connections yet. I'll be honest, I'M NOT A READER ! but I'm a writer. I've read less than ten books in my whole life: Of Mice and Men, The Stand, the Gor series (maybe the first 4 or 5 books in the series) , parts of the bible, and Tom Sawyer in French even though I didn't speak French but I understood enough to keep it interesting and read it all the way to the end.

All you got down here is your word. You hold to it, or you're nothing at all. - Gor Half-horn

Do not resent the righteous God, when He rebukes you.

The British Cor blimey! started as Gor blimey, which was a disguised “God blind me,” as in “May God blind me if . . . ,” a “swear,” as it were.