Hammer Of Witches Quotes

Starlight and comet tails burned the tips of endless grass below into hammered silver. Like thousands of tapers in the chapel, just blown out but still glowing. If one could drown in the grass...it might be the best way to die.

No, they're contemporary witch hunters, based in Russia." The crease deepened. "Hold on a moment. They sound like assholes?" I blinked, uncertain I'd heard him correctly. "I beg your pardon?" Jesus grimaced and pointed at his head. "It's this tiny human brain-I have to have a filing system for all this information or I can't keep track of it all. It sounds like these guys would be filed under Assholes Who Do Evil Shit in My Name." "Jesus. I mean, wow. That's the name of one of your files?" "One of my largest, unfortunately.

Somewhere deep inside his mind, somewhere beyond the event horizon of rationality, the sheer pressure of insanity had hammered his madness into something harder than diamond.

Destiny was funny stuff, he knew. You couldn’t trust it. Often you couldn’t even see it. Just when you knew you had it cornered, it turned out to be something else—coincidence, maybe, or providence. You barred the door against it, and it was standing behind you. Then just when you thought you had it nailed down it walked away with the hammer.

Live or die, but don't poison everything... Well, death's been here for a long time -- it has a hell of a lot to do with hell and suspicion of the eye and the religious objects and how I mourned them when they were made obscene by my dwarf-heart's doodle. The chief ingredient is mutilation. And mud, day after day, mud like a ritual, and the baby on the platter, cooked but still human, cooked also with little maggots, sewn onto it maybe by somebody's mother, the damn bitch! Even so, I kept right on going on, a sort of human statement, lugging myself as if I were a sawed-off body in the trunk, the steamer trunk. This became perjury of the soul. It became an outright lie and even though I dressed the body it was still naked, still killed. It was caught in the first place at birth, like a fish. But I play it, dressed it up, dressed it up like somebody's doll. Is life something you play? And all the time wanting to get rid of it? And further, everyone yelling at you to shut up. And no wonder! People don't like to be told that you're sick and then be forced to watch you come down with the hammer. Today life opened inside me like an egg and there inside after considerable digging I found the answer. What a bargain! There was the sun, her yolk moving feverishly, tumbling her prize -- and you realize she does this daily! I'd known she was a purifier but I hadn't thought she was solid, hadn't known she was an answer. God! It's a dream, lovers sprouting in the yard like celery stalks and better, a husband straight as a redwood, two daughters, two sea urchings, picking roses off my hackles. If I'm on fire they dance around it and cook marshmallows. And if I'm ice they simply skate on me in little ballet costumes. Here, all along, thinking I was a killer, anointing myself daily with my little poisons. But no. I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar. Even with the witches' gymnastics they trust my incalculable city, my corruptible bed. O dearest three, I make a soft reply. The witch comes on and you paint her pink. I come with kisses in my hood and the sun, the smart one, rolling in my arms. So I say Live and turn my shadow three times round to feed our puppies as they come, the eight Dalmatians we didn't drown, despite the warnings: The abort! The destroy! Despite the pails of water that waited, to drown them, to pull them down like stones, they came, each one headfirst, blowing bubbles the color of cataract-blue and fumbling for the tiny tits. Just last week, eight Dalmatians, 3/4 of a lb., lined up like cord wood each like a birch tree. I promise to love more if they come, because in spite of cruelty and the stuffed railroad cars for the ovens, I am not what I expected. Not an Eichmann. The poison just didn't take. So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.

...the ocean, the perpetual shapeshifter: one day a disc of hammered gold, the next wild and rearing, like a thousand white horses. I noticed how the ocean had moods, just like a person.

The most reckless volume on the subject, the Malleus Maleficarum, or Witch Hammer, summoned a shelf of classical authorities to prove its point: “When a woman thinks alone, she thinks evil.” As is often the case with questions of women and power, elucidations here verged on the paranormal. Weak as she was to devilish temptations, a woman could emerge dangerously, insatiably commanding. According to the indispensable Malleus, even in the absence of occult power, women constituted “a foe to friendship, an inescapable punishment, a necessary evil, a natural temptation, a desirable calamity, a domestic danger, a delectable detriment.” The

The rock I'd seen in my life looked dull because in all ignorance I'd never thought to knock it open. People have cracked ordinary New England pegmatite - big, coarse granite - and laid bare clusters of red garnets, or topaz crystals, chrysoberyl, spodumene, emerald. They held in their hands crystals that had hung in a hole in the dark for a billion years unseen. I was all for it. I would lay about me right and left with a hammer, and bash the landscape to bits. I would crack the earth's crust like a piñata and spread to the light the vivid prizes in chunks within. Rock collecting was opening the mountains. It was like diving through my own interior blank blackness to remember the startling pieces of a dream: there was a blue lake, a witch, a lighthouse, a yellow path. It was like poking about in a grimy alley and finding an old, old coin. Nothing was at it seemed. The earth was like a shut eye. Mother's not dead, dear - she's only sleeping. Pry open the thin lid and find a crystalline intelligence inside, a rayed and sidereal beauty. Crystals grew inside rock like arithmetical flowers. They lengthened and spread, adding plane to plane in awed and perfect obedience to an absolute geometry that even the stones - maybe only the stones - understood.

I noticed chartreuse lichen scabbing the rocks, the lick and suck of tide against sea-smoothed stones, how every single one of the shells in the bay was different; white limpet shells and ear-shaped mussel shells; kelp fronds, the ones like bronze ribbons, and cream ones like bandages, their stems like bone joints; and, of course, the ocean, that perpetual shapeshifter: one day a disc of hammered gold, the next wild and rearing, like a thousand white horses. I noticed how the ocean had moods, just like a person.

I also felt that I had failed Hans in failing to save his child. Poor Susanna, in that house with me, but really alone. She mended every garment in the home, even those of the children. LittleHammer survived. But she had become cold and aloof. I understood her—to love others is to suffer.

Over two days, the remaining superheroic population of the Earth had heeded the call--by ship, teleport, magical portal, elemental transduction...the H-Man, Pangolin the Protector, Glass Tambourine, Omega-Mur, Hammer and Sickle, Jackdaw, the Infinite Wisdom, Doctor Mandragora, Czar and Tzar and Star, Kalamari Karl, Lightening Dancer, Doctor Chlorophyll, Jack Viking, Monomaniac, the Gin Fairy, the Holy Ghanta, the Bandolier, the Nuclear Atom, the Mysterious Flame, Moonstalker, Cataclysm and Inferno, the Skyguard II, Your Imaginary Pal, Dark Storm, the Hate Witch, Psychofire, Rabid, Riot, Fox and Hound, Hydrolad, Captain Fuji, Captain Cape Town, Captain Australia, Captain...Jeannie lost count, one uniform and one costume blurring into another.

The local coachman used to warn visitors, you see. “Don’t go near the castle,” they’d say. “Even if it means spending a night up a tree, never go up there to the castle,” they’d tell people. “Whatever you do, don’t set foot in that castle.” He said it was marvellous publicity. Sometimes he had every bedroom full by 9 p.m. and people would be hammering on the door to get in. Travellers would go miles out of their way to see what all the fuss was about.

Look at a skilled blacksmith working steel. To the untrained eye, he's merely repeating the same hammer blows, but anyone trained in the art of calligraphy knows that each time the blacksmith lifts the hammer and brings it down, the intensity of the blow is different. The hand repeats the same gesture, but as it approaches the metal it understands that it must touch it with more or less force. It's the same thing with repetition: it may seem the same, but it's always different. The moment will come when you no longer think about what you're doing. You become the letter, the ink, the paper, the word.

Your daughter needs you to be a rational damn human being,” replied Sloane. “Pull your head out of your ass and stop making empty threats. So she’s pregnant. So what? Sick people have babies all the damn time. Steel Magnolias stopped being relevant years ago. You sit down and you talk to her about what she wants to do, and then you talk to the boyfriend, and you find a way to get all three of you through this.” “I—what?” Holly’s mother stared at Sloane. I did much the same. I couldn’t even find the words to ask her what she was trying to pull. Sloane continued to glare. “If you don’t make this right, then you’re going to lose her forever. Do you get that, or do I need to draw a diagram to hammer it through your thick-ass skull? You’ll become the wicked witch in her private fairy tale, and even if she lives, she’ll never love you again. You’re so close right now. You’re so close that I can smell it. Is that what you want?” Holly’s mother was silent. Sloane took a step forward, eyes blazing. “Is it?” she screamed.

I wasn’t going to let a cat push me around. What? Who are you calling a pushover?

I suppose I should be angry about that, but it's true. We do tend to believe that we're hammers and every problem is a nail.

The Catholic Church had murdered more people during the past two thousand years than any other institution devised. my man. It systematically suppressed knowledge and fought scientific progress. Across time, at one point or another, it actively supported slavery, racism, fascism and sexism. It published the Hammer of Witches, detailing how to torture and murder innocent women. It jailed and burned scientists at the stake in a futile attempt to keep the masses ignorant. It terrorized Jews and Muslims for centuries, torturing and murdering during the Inquisition and crusades, all in the name of a supposedly loving God. It ignored eyewitness accounts that Jews were being slaughtered by Nazis. It systematically covered up tens of thousands of cases involving sexual misconduct by priests. It even had the audacity to absolve fault that had not yet been committed, thanks to indulgences bought with wealth.

I think the humans say, when you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail. We seek to make sure that those who wield great power do not treat everything like a nail.

It was the Roman Catholic Church that first articulated the witch theory of causality in medieval Europe with the Papal Bull of Innocent VIII in 1484, Summis Desiderantes Affectibus (Desiring with Supreme Ardor), followed two years later with the Catholic clergyman Heinrich Kramer’s Malleus Maleficarum (Hammer of the Witch). The latter was a how-to manual on finding and prosecuting witches, who, it alleged, were able to copulate with the devil, steal men’s penises, wreck ships, ruin crops, eat babies, turn men into frogs, shed no tears, cast no shadow in the sun, have hair that could not be cut, and pretty much anything considered to be “devilish” and “wicked.

She killed her sons first. Hammering a long fence nail through each of their hearts. Then, taking an ax, she methodically beheaded each one of her brothers-in-law. Going out to the pens, she drove the livestock into the barn, bolting it shut, and while the goat kids and spring lambs panicked and brayed, she put all the buildings to flame.

hear my name, drifting on the wind. Slowly, I turn a glance over my shoulder and wipe a half-frozen tear from my cheek. In the pale light of early morning, one of the bodies moves. With his long, dark hair and shredded tunic, the Witch Collector pushes his hulking form to his knees. He struggles to stand, but after a long moment, his body unfurls, shoulders rolling back, feet spread wide, hands fisted like hammers at his sides. A cold wind snaps through the ravine, and a funnel of snowflakes whirls around Alexus, whipping through his hair and tunic. Behind him, a mist rolls into the gorge, slipping around him. It takes the shape of a man—or perhaps something more than a man. Whatever or whoever it is, it’s standing a few feet away from the Witch Collector. From within the mist, white wolves emerge with predatory grace and howl like they mean to wake the dead. And the earth rumbles.

Let me see your face.” “They can smell your fire, Thibault. They can’t see it, but they can smell it. They will sniff her out. Unless I get to her beforehand.” I grit my teeth. “Face. First.” He flips me over, and it takes a moment, but his face registers. If he was a boy when he left, and if he knew me, I have long forgotten him. But I do recognize him. The red-haired Eastlander I faced in Hampstead Loch. The warrior with the bloodless blade who stared me down and rode the other way. “The name’s Rhonin.” He glances up, only his eyes, his sharp gaze scanning the ravine. A heartbeat later, he raises a meaty fist and meets my stare. “Sorry about this, but I’m doing you a favor.” Above him, that odd and silent silver lightning splits the red sky. Then his fist comes down like a hammer, and my world goes black.

It's time to rise,' the voice said, still gently guiding her upward, and the light became brighter still. 'She's waiting for you.' Soon enough she felt the prickling sensation of her limbs awakening, felt that awful heartbeat again, felt the hair hanging in her face, felt the blood crusted around her nostrils and mouth. As she surfaced she let out a quiet, agonized sob but did not open her eyes. 'You're alive,' said the woman's voice, rising an octave in relief. Angrboda felt a calloused hand gently lift her chin, and she felt almost comforted by the touch. She tried dimly to connect the voice with a person. The other woman's fingers moved across her face to the side of her head, to softly brush aside the hair from the bloody crater at the witch's temple, where Thor's hammer had hit home. The woman let out a strangled gasp and a stream of curse words at the sight of it, and Angrboda's brain suddenly put a name to the voice: Skadi.

Are any of the people who come to see you not insane?” Winky said. “I’m beginning to think not.

She cursed my next door neighbour to sleep all night and love DIY! Now he’s up all day hammering and I can’t sleep!” “Hold on, Tom—your neighbour loved DIY and slept all night before he met the Prime Witch, didn’t he?” “Err … come to think of it, you might be right.” “What did she do to him then?” “Oh, I remember! She cursed him with stinky armpit funk. No, hang on, he had that before too, didn’t he? Let’s see here, what was it she did …?

Nothing warms the heart like a rifle and a full load of ammo,

Well, when you grow tired of being what you’re not, go and have fun and celebrate life, hammering metal into shape. In time, you’ll discover that it will give you more than pleasure, it will give you meaning.’ ‘How do I follow this tradition you spoke of?’ I asked. ‘As I said, through symbols,’ he replied. ‘Start doing what you want to do, and everything else will be revealed to you. Believe that God is the Mother and looks after her children and never lets anything bad happen to them. I did that and I survived. I discovered that there were other people who did the same but who are considered to be mad, irresponsible, superstitious. Since time immemorial, they’ve sought their inspiration in nature. We build pyramids, but we also develop symbols.

The gods help those who help themselves.” There was also another traditional Roman saying: the gods are on the side of the stronger.

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the world faiths have one thing in common: all of them are vehicles for the transmission of virtue across the centuries. Yes, humans and institutions have failed to live up to the standards of their faiths again and again, but it does not mean the faiths are themselves completely worthless.

to kill a witch, carve a heart in a tree and hammer a nail in a little further each day for a week. * She fought me when I put on my boots and opened the front door. We both knew the black alder leaning sideways into the bedroom window. For six days I carved her heart in the bark and hammered my nail inside, then went to the outhouse and emptied my guts. The sicker I got, the less I saw of her and the happier Mr. Rishner was with me. He came home at night whistling, kissed my cheek when I met him at the door.