Halo Prophets Quotes

The willingness to be slain for Christ (who is adored as the essential divinity of all the sons and daughters of God), in the sense of self-surrender to the Elect One, is what the path and the teachings of the Great White Brotherhood* are all about. * The word white refers not to race but to the aura, the halo that surrounds these immortals.

The Sound Of Silence" Hello, darkness, my old friend I've come to talk with you again Because a vision softly creeping Left its seeds while I was sleeping And the vision that was planted in my brain Still remains Within the sound of silence In restless dreams I walked alone Narrow streets of cobblestone 'Neath the halo of a streetlamp I turned my collar to the cold and damp When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light That split the night And touched the sound of silence And in the naked light I saw Ten thousand people, maybe more People talking without speaking People hearing without listening People writing songs that voices never share No one dared Disturb the sound of silence "Fools," said I, "You do not know Silence like a cancer grows Hear my words that I might teach you Take my arms that I might reach you." But my words like silent raindrops fell And echoed in the wells of silence And the people bowed and prayed To the neon god they made And the sign flashed out its warning In the words that it was forming And the sign said, "The words of the prophets Are written on the subway walls And tenement halls And whispered in the sounds of silence." Paul Simon, Wednesday Morning, 3 AM (1964)

Ravic went into his room to read. He had once bought several volumes of world history and now he took them out. It was not particularly cheerful to read them. The only thing one gained by it was a strangely depressing satisfaction that what was happening today was not new. Everything had happened before dozens of times. The lies, the breaches of faith, the murders, the St. Bartholomew massacres, the corruption through the lust for power, the unbroken chain of wars—the history of mankind was written in blood and tears, and among the thousands of bloodstained statues of the past, only a few wore the silver halo of kindness. The demagogues, the cheats, the parricides, the murderers, the egoists inebriated with power, the fanatic prophets who preached love with the sword, it was the same time and again—and time and again patient peoples allowed themselves to be driven against one another in a senseless slaughter for kaisers, kings, religions, and madmen—there was no end to it.  

The Great Journey waits for no one brother, not even you.

A crowd of Gammas and their new allies rush toward the Snowball to celebrate the pilot and his prophetic maneuver against the torchShip. From a distance, they think it was me and not the small human by my side. As they see our faces, they slow and then stop, gathering in a sort of wary perimeter. Their faces are young and old, all sunburnt. They hold antique rifles, household pistols, even slingBlades. A ripple of recognition goes through them when they spot Pax and Electra. Then understanding as they see the pilot halo Pax wears. It isn’t disbelief on their faces when he takes it off. It is fulfillment. As if they believed in something once, grew to laugh at the naïveté of their own conviction, only to see that they were right all along. I sense the weight of the moment, and it chills me.

Our bodies may take months to travel between worlds, but our disputes and arguments take seconds or minutes. As long as everybody agrees to abide by my arbitration, physical enforcement can wait until they’re close enough to touch. And everybody does agree that my legal framework is easier to comply with, better adjusted to trans-Jovian space, than any earthbound one.” A note of steel creeps into her voice, challenging. Her halo brightens, tickling a reactive glow from the walls of the throne room. Five billion inputs or more, Sadeq marvels. The crown is an engineering marvel, even though most of its mass is buried in the walls and floor of this huge construct. “There is law revealed by the Prophet, peace be unto him, and there is law that we can establish by analyzing his intentions. There are other forms of law by which humans live, and various interpretations of the law of God even among those who study His works. How, in the absence of the word of the Prophet, can you provide a moral compass?” “Hmm.” She taps her fingers on the arm of her throne, and Sadeq’s heart freezes. He’s heard the stories from the claim jumpers and boardroom bandits, from the greenmail experts with their roots in the earthbound jurisdictions that have made such a hash of arbitration here. How she can experience a year in a minute, rip your memories out through your cortical implants, and make you relive your worst mistakes in her nightmarishly powerful simulation space. She is the queen—the first individual to get her hands on so much mass and energy that she could pull ahead of the curve of binding technology, and the first to set up her own jurisdiction and rule certain experiments to be legal so that she could make use of the mass/energy intersection. She has force majeure—even the Pentagon’s infowarriors respect the Ring Imperium’s autonomy for now. In fact, the body sitting in the throne opposite him probably contains only a fraction of her identity. She’s by no means the first upload or partial, but she’s the first gust front of the storm of power that will arrive when the arrogant ones achieve their goal of dismantling the planets and turning dumb and uninhabited mass into brainpower throughout the observable reaches of the universe. And he’s just questioned the rectitude of her vision, in her presence.

And he said... ...donuts shall be forever be the halo around the hole.

Many female devotees 'babied' Vivekananda. Sara Ellen Waldo traveled for hours in a jogging horsecar to care for him and was pleased when the cooked for her; he said he 'found genuine rest and relaxation in the freedom and quiet of Miss Waldo's simple home.' There he 'invented new dishes or tried experiments with Western provisions and ran back and forth from one room to the other like a child at play.' Josephine MacLeod loved the combination of holiness and childlike absorption when, after a talk on Jesus, he 'seemed to radiate a white light from head to foot.' On the way home, she did not want to interrupt his 'great thoughts,' but was delighted to learn that, despite the halo 'over his head,' he was in fact pondering 'the best way to complete a recipe for mulligatawny soup.' The admired his 'learning of a university president' or 'dignity of an archbishop,' but loved the 'child side' when the 'prophet and sage would disappear.' Maud Stumm, who gave Vivekananda drawing lessons, loved to watch him 'lying at full length on the green couch in the hall, sound asleep like a tired child.' Sometimes, he would get up after a meal to smoke or think, but he lured back to the table by ice cream: 'he would sink into his place with a smile of expectancy and pure delight seldom seen on the face of anybody over sixteen.

What we do, is just create - sympathy. We create-- we create admirers. We don't create followers. Christ's life is a demand. You don't want to be reminded of it. So we don't have to see what happens to the truth. A darker time is coming - when men will be more clever. They won't fight the truth, they'll just ignore it. I paint their comfortable Christ, with a halo over his head. How can I show what I haven't lived? Someday I might have the courage to venture, not yet. Someday I'll - I'll paint the true Christ. I paint the tombs of the prophets. I help people look up from those pews and dream. They look up and they imagine if they lived back in Christ time they wouldn't have done what the others did. They wouldn't have murdered those whom we now adore. I paint all this suffering, but, I don't suffer myself. I make a living of it.