Hyena Sayings And Quotes

Entertaining a notion, like entertaining a baby cousin or entertaining a pack of hyenas, is a dangerous thing to refuse to do. If you refuse to entertain a baby cousin, the baby cousin may get bored and entertain itself by wandering off and falling down a well. If you refuse to entertain a pack of hyenas, they may become restless and entertain themselves by devouring you. But if you refuse to entertain a notion - which is just a fancy way of saying that you refuse to think about a certain idea - you have to be much braver than someone who is merely facing some blood-thirsty animals, or some parents who are upset to find their little darling at the bottom of a well, because nobody knows what an idea will do when it goes off to entertain itself.

You want to know what I'm afraid of? All right, I'll tell you. I'm afraid of men - yes, I'm very much afraid of men. And I'm even more afraid of women. And I'm very much afraid of the whole bloody human race. Afraid of them? Of course I'm afraid of them. Who wouldn't be afraid of a pack of damned hyenas? [...] And when I say afraid - that's just a word I use. What I really mean is that I hate them. I hate their voices, I hate their eyes, I hate the way they laugh. I hate the whole bloody business. It's cruel, it's idiotic, it's unspeakably horrible. I never had the guts to kill myself or I'd have got out of it long ago.

Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her. ORLANDO Forever and a day. ROSALIND Say “a day” without the “ever.” No, no, Orlando, men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock- pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more newfangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry. I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.

Outside I hopped into our vehicle, the taint of vampiric magic clinging to me like greasy smoke. “I feel soiled.” “Like walking into a room after a day of work, falling into bed, and realizing the sheets are covered in cold K-Y jelly,” Raphael said. I just stared at him. “With a funky smell,” he added. My Order conditioning failed me. “Ew.” Raphael grinned. “I‟m not even going to ask if that‟s happened to you.” I started the vehicle. “Has that happened to you?” “Yes.” Ew. “Where?” “In the bouda house. I was really tired and you‟ve seen that place: everything smells like sex . . .” “I don‟t want to know.” I peeled out of the parking lot. "So where are we going?” “To Spider Lynn‟s house. We‟re going to dig through her trash, and if that doesn‟t work, we‟ll do some breaking and entering.” Raphael frowned. “Do you know where she lives?” “Yes. I memorized the addresses of all the Masters of the Dead in the city. I have a lot of time on my hands.” He squinted at me, looking remarkably like a gentleman pirate from my favorite romance novels. “What else do you store in your head?” “This and that. I remember the first thing you ever said to me. You know, when you carried me from the cart into the tub so your mother could fix me.” “I imagine it was something very romantic,” he said. “Something along the lines of „I‟ve got you‟ or „I won‟t let you die.‟ “I was bleeding in the bathtub, trying to realign my bones, and my hyena glands voided from the pain. You said, „Don‟t worry, we have an excellent filtration system.‟” The look on his face was priceless. “That can‟t be the first thing.” “It was.” We drove in silence. “About the K-Y,” Raphael said. “I don‟t want to know!‟ “Once I washed it out of my hair—” “Raphael, why are you doing this?” “I want to make you go "Ew‟ again.” “Why in the world would you want to do that?” “It‟s an irrepressible male impulse. It just has to be done. As I was saying, once I washed it out—” “Raphael!” “No, wait, you‟ll like the next part.

If birds sing without worrying about who is listening to them, and monkeys dance without worrying about who is watching them, and hyenas laugh without worrying about who is mocking them, then you too must do what you do best without worrying about who is ridiculing you.

There are many peaceful ways to get rid of a fascist government and economic war against such a government is the best way amongst all these ways! And what is the economic war? It is to stop feeding the economy that feeds the fascist government, it is to take out your own individual brick from the wall of pro-government economy. Halt the food of the devil! Don’t forget that it is you who is feeding the hyena that bites you!

He's like a bunch of my friends: creative and talented and not doing shit. He's scared. I recognize it, cuz I'm scared, too. Doing shit is scary, waking up is scary, getting up every morning, looking in the mirror, and trying to like yourself is fucking hard. I get it. I keep telling him, "All you got to do is do!" I'm saying it over and over. "All you got to do is do!" I'm hugging him, telling him I love him. I woulda ran a busto with Brad.

So I tell him about my empty plan To get revenge On the hyena Kanoro looks sad and says: 'Happiness should be your revenge, Kasienka. Happiness'. And though he is right, It makes me feel worse Because I do not know How to be happy

When my tantrum, which is what I call my TV set, flashes boobs and smiles in my face, and says everybody but me is going to get laid tonight, and this is a national emergency, so I've got to rush out and buy a car or pills, or a folding gymnasium I can hide under my bed, I laugh like a hyena.

In the library I search for a good book. We have many books, says Mrs. Rose, the librarian, and ALL of them are good. Of course she says that. It's her job. But do I want to read about Trucks Trains and Transport? Or even Horses Houses and Hyenas? In the fiction corner there are pink boks full of princesses and girls who want to be princesses and black books about bad boys and brave boys and brawny boys. Where is the book about a girl whose poems don't rhyme and whose Granny is fading? Pearl, says Mrs. Rose, the bell has rung. I go back to class empty-handed empty headed empty-hearted.

Ah, we've had so many masters, Swine or eagle, lean or fat one: Some were tiers, some hyenas, Still we fed this one and that one. Whether one is better than the other: Ah, one boot is always like another When it treads upon you. What I say about them Is we need no other masters: we can do without them! Yes, the wheel is always turning madly, Neither side stays up or down, But the water underneath fares badly For it has to make the wheel go round. (Ach, wir hatten viele Herren Hatten Tiger und Hyänen Hatten Adler, hatten Schweine Doch wir nährten den und jenen. Ob sie besser waren oder schlimmer: Ach, der Stiefel glich dem Stiefel immer Und uns trat er. Ihr versteht, ich meine Dass wir keine andern Herren brauchen, sondern keine! Freilich dreht das Rad sich immer weiter Dass, was oben ist, nicht oben bleibt. Aber für das Wasser unten heisst das leider Nur dass es das Rad halt ewig treibt.)

Lara Jean, can I ask you a question?” “You can ask me anything,” I say. “It’s about boys.” I try not to look too eager as I nod. Boys! So we’re here already. All right. “I’m listening.” “And you promise you’ll answer honestly? Sister swear?” “Of course. Come sit by me, Kitty.” She sits down next to me on the floor and I put my arm around her, feeling generous and warm and maternal. Kitty really is growing up. She looks up at me, doe-eyed. “Are you and Peter doing it?” “What?” I shove her away. “Kitty!” Gleefully she says, “You promised you’d answer!” “Well, the answer is no, you sneaky little fink. God! Get out of my room.” Kitty skips off, laughing like a mad hyena. I can hear her all the way down the hallway.

Describe the defeated ones,” said a merchant, when he saw that the Copt had finished speaking. And he answered: The defeated are those who never fail. Defeat means that we lose a particular battle or war. Failure does not allow us to go on fighting. Defeat comes when we fail to get something we very much want. Failure does not allow us to dream. Its motto is: “Expect nothing and you won’t be disappointed.” Defeat ends when we launch into another battle. Failure has no end; it is a lifetime choice. Defeat is for those who, despite their fears, live with enthusiasm and faith. Defeat is for the valiant. Only they will know the honor of losing and the joy of winning. I am not here to tell you that defeat is part of life; we all know that. Only the defeated know Love. Because it is in the realm of Love that we fight our first battles—and generally lose. I am here to tell you that there are people who have never been defeated. They are the ones who never fought. They managed to avoid scars, humiliations, and feelings of helplessness, as well as those moments when even warriors doubt the existence of God. Such people can say with pride: “I never lost a battle.” On the other hand, they will never be able to say: “I won a battle.” Not that they care. They live in a universe in which they believe they are invulnerable; they close their eyes to injustices and to suffering; they feel safe because they do not have to deal with the daily challenges faced by those who risk stepping out beyond their own boundaries. They have never heard the words “good-bye” or “I’ve come back. Embrace me with the fervor of someone who, having lost me, has found me again.” Those who were never defeated seem happy and superior, masters of a truth they never had to lift a finger to achieve. They are always on the side of the strong. They’re like hyenas, who eat only the leavings of lions. They teach their children: “Don’t get involved in conflicts; you’ll only lose. Keep your doubts to yourself and you’ll never have any problems. If someone attacks you, don’t get offended or demean yourself by hitting back. There are more important things in life.” In the silence of the night, they fight their imaginary battles: their unrealized dreams, the injustices to which they turned a blind eye, the moments of cowardice they managed to conceal from other people—but not from themselves—and the love that crossed their path with a sparkle in its eyes, the love God had intended for them, but which they lacked the courage to embrace. And they promise themselves: “Tomorrow will be different.” But tomorrow comes and the paralyzing question surfaces in their mind: “What if it doesn’t work out?” And so they do nothing. Woe to those who were never beaten! They will never be winners in this life.

Others praise ceremonial Magic, and are supposed to suffer much Ecstasy! Our asylums are crowded, the stage is over-run! Is it by symbolizing we become the symbolized? Were I to crown myself King, should I be King? Rather should I be an object of disgust or pity. These Magicians, whose insincerity is their safety, are but the unemployed dandies of the Brothels. Magic is but one's natural ability to attract without asking; ceremony what is unaffected, its doctrine the negation of theirs. I know them well and their creed of learning that teaches the fear of their own light. Vampires, they are as the very lice in attraction. Their practices prove their incapacity, they have no magic to intensify the normal, the joy of a child or healthy person, none to evoke their pleasure or wisdom from themselves. Their methods depending on a morass of the imagination and a chaos of conditions, their knowledge obtained with less decency than the hyena his food, I say they are less free and do not obtain the satisfaction of the meanest among animals. Self condemned in their disgusting fatness, their emptiness of power, without even the magic of personal charm or beauty, they are offensive in their bad taste and mongering for advertisement. The freedom of energy is not obtained by its bondage, great power not by disintegration. Is it not because our energy (or mind stuff) is already over bound and divided, that we are not capable, let alone magical? 

Let’s go home,” she said. He arched his brows. “Already? I thought you would want to stay for a while.” Dark eyes flashed. “No, I want to take you home where women can’t stare at you like hyenas after a baby chick.” He laughed-loudly, which caught a fair bit of attention. “Surely I’m more threatening than a chick?” She smiled, ruining her petulant expression. “A puppy perhaps.” Grey stepped closer so that their torsos touched. It was totally improper behavior, but the gossips already had so much to talk about, one more thing would hardly matter. “Is that all you want to take me home for? To protect me?” Her gaze turned coy. “I received the newest edition of Voluptuous today. I thought I might read to you.” Was it just him or had the temperature in the room suddenly climbed ten degrees. “Let’s go.” He grabbed her by the hand and started weaving their way toward the door. People stopped hi to say hello, and he was forced to speak to them rather than be as rude as he wanted. A good fifteen minutes passed before he and Rose finally made it to the entrance of the ballroom, only to have Vienne La Rieux descend upon them. “Monsieur et Madame le Duc!” she cried, clasping her hands together in front of her breast-abundantly displayed above a peacock-colored gown that must have cost a small fortune. “Finally, you leave my club together, non?” Grey winked at her. “At last, madam. But we may want a room again someday.” The French woman grinned, delighting in Rose’s obvious embarrassment. “Mais oui! An anniversary present, Your Grace. On the house.” He thanked her and bade her farewell. “She knew?” Rose’s tone was incredulous as they made their way closer to the exit. “How could she know?” Grey shrugged. “The woman seems to know deuced near everything that happens here.

Speech in the Sportpalast Berlin, January 30, 1942 They say, “you sail on your KdF ships; we cannot allow them to land here; that would corrupt our laborers.” Now, why would that corrupt their laborers? I cannot see why. The German laborer has worked more than ever before; why should he not have a rest? Is it not a joke when today the man in the White House says, “we have a program for the world, and this program for the world will give man freedom and the right to work.” Mr. Roosevelt-open your eyes! We have already done this in Germany a long time ago. Or when he says that the sick ought to be taken care of. Please leave the garden of our party program-this is National Socialist teaching and not yours, Sir! This is heresy for a democrat. Or when he says, “we want laborers to have a vacation.” It is a little late to want this, since we have already put this into practice. And we would be much further along now if Mr. Roosevelt had not interfered. Or when he says, “we want to increase prosperity for the masses of laborers, too.” All these things are in our program! He might have seen them through, if he had not started the war. After all, we did all this before the war. No, these capitalist hyenas do not have the slightest intention of doing this. They see us as a suspicious example. And now, in order to lure their own people, they have to get in on our party program and fish out a few sentences, these poor bunglers. And even that they do imperfectly. We had a world unanimously against us here. Of course, not only on the right, but also on the left. Those on the left feared: “What are we going to do, if this experiment succeeds and he actually makes it and eliminates the housing problem? What if he manages to introduce an educational system based on which a talented boy, no matter who his parents are, can attain God knows what position? And, he is capable of doing it, he is already making a Reich protector out of a former farmhand. What if he really introduces an old-age pension scheme covering the whole Volk? What if he truly secures a right to vacations for the whole Volk, since he is already building ships? And he is bringing all this up to an ordered and secured standard of living. What are we going to do? We live by the absence of this. We live by this and, therefore, we must fight National Socialism.” What the others have accomplished-that, our comrades were best able to see in Russia. We have been in power for nine years now. Bolshevism has been there since 1917, that is, almost twenty-five years. Everyone can judge for himself by comparing this Russia with Germany. The things we did in these nine years. What does the German Volk look like, and what have they accomplished over there? I do not even want to mention the capitalist states. They do not take care of their unemployed, because no American millionaire will ever come into the area where they live, and no unemployed man will ever go to the area where the millionaires live. While hunger marches to Washington and to the White House are organized, they are usually dispersed en route by the police by means of rubber truncheons and tear gas. Such things do not exist in authoritarian Germany. We deal with such problems without such things-rubber truncheons and tear gas.

So I tell him about my empty plan To get revenge On the hyena Kanoro looks sad and says: 'Happiness should be your revenge, Kasienka. Happiness'.

I would rather be the tail of a lion than be the head of a hyena.

Gary—” says Tariq. “Oh, cram it,” I say. “We’re not gonna do it, because, as I have already explained several times, it can’t be done. Anyway, Charity’s not NatSec. And even if she was, they can’t drop a crowbar on you for fantasizing. Although, now that I think about it, they probably can drop a crowbar on you for knowing that your girlfriend got out of Hagerstown alive. Charity—you’re not NatSec, are you?” She laughs again. Her giggle is sweet, but she laughs like a hyena. I find it doesn’t bother me, though, as long as I stay focused on what it does to her breasts.

She is nearly as hungry as fire, which is the hungriest thing on land.” “It is?” Pidge said, wondering about wolves with sharp teeth and hyenas and jackals, whose very nature seemed to be hunger. “You may say it is. Haven’t you ever seen flames licking their red lips as they consume all before them? Fire is so hungry that the more it is fed, the bigger its appetite grows. Other things can be gratified, but not fire. And the sea is all this and more.” “Do you really mean that Hannah is nearly that hungry?” Brigit asked, disbelieving. “I do. And signs on it, because of her appetite she is nearly as strong as water.” “Water?” Brigit said, her voice rising in scorn. “Water isn’t strong.” “I don’t believe you’re serious but if you are, you’re wrong. Water is so strong, it can wear away rocks and shift mountains. Don’t you know well, that one man can tame a horse but it takes hundreds or even thousands to spancel water? If a country was a person, the rivers and streams would be its veins with all its life’s blood in them. Even when it is harnessed it is never tamed. It can light up cities and turn wheels and if it gets free and throws itself at a town, it can wipe out life like chalk on a slate. It can do all of that; but the sea can do all that, and more.

Isaac Asimov assures me it’s a rational universe, predicated on sanity and order. Yeah? Well, tell me about God. Tell me who He is, why He allows the foulest hyenas of our society to run amuck while decent men and women cower in terror behind Fox locks and Dictograph systems. Tell me about Him. Equate theology with the world in which we live, with William Calley and Kitty Genovese and the people who keep their kids out of school because the new textbooks dare to say Humans are clever descendants of the Ape. No? Having some trouble? Getting ready to write me a letter denouncing me as the Antichrist? “God in his infinite wisdom,” you say? Faith, you urge me? I have faith…in people, not Gods. But perhaps belief is not enough. Perhaps doubt serves the cause more honestly, more boldly.

The Hebrew for the words “wild animals” and “hyenas” are not readily identifiable,[10] so the ESV translators simply guessed according to their anti-mythical bias and filled in their translations with naturalistic words like “wild animals” and “hyenas.” But of these words, Bible commentator Hans Wildberger says,   “Whereas (jackals) and (ostriches), mentioned in v. 13, are certainly well-known animals, the creatures that are mentioned in v. 14 cannot be identified zoologically, not because we are not provided with enough information, but because they refer to fairy tale and mythical beings. Siyyim are demons, the kind that do their mischief by the ruins of Babylon, according to [Isaiah] 13:21. They are mentioned along with the iyyim (goblins) in this passage.[11]

Nostrils flared, ears pricked, Gabriel asks me if people can mate with animals. I say it hardly ever happens. He frowns, fur and skin and hooves and slits and pricks and teeth and tails whirling in his brain. You could do it, he says, not wanting a single orifice of the universe to be closed to him. We talk about elephants and parakeets, until we are rolling on the floor, laughing like hyenas. Too late, I remember love—I backtrack and try to slip it in, but that is not what he means. Seven years old, he is into hydraulics, pulleys, doors which fly open in the side of the body, entrances, exits. Flushed, panting, hot for physics, he thinks about lynxes, eagles, pythons, mosquitoes, girls, casting a glittering eye of use over creation, wanting to know exactly how the world was made to receive him.

I've been waiting for you to use your gavel all evening, Your Honor." God, please, no! Those were the last words on earth Vansh ever, ever, wanted to hear his oldest sister say to her judge husband. Ever. Yash, who was generally not the sort of guy who snorted with laughter, snorted with laughter so violently that Nisha and Neel jumped apart like someone had fired a cannon. Nisha's hands pressed into her face. "No. No. Nononono. What the hell are you all doing here?" "Not waiting for Neel to use his gavel, that's for sure," Yash said, still howling like a hyena. Which, to be fair, Vansh was doing as well. Nisha charged at Yash. Neel grabbed her around her waist. As a circuit court judge (with a gavel), Neel obviously saw enough crazy shit on a daily basis that he was entirely unfazed by any Raje family shenanigans. He held Nisha in check while laughing into her hair, and in the end she broke down and started laughing too, embarrassed though the laughter was. "If either one of you tells anyone, I'm going to chop you into little pieces and pass you through a mulch shredder," their sister threatened. "Who let her watch Fargo?" Vansh asked, and Neel looked heavenward.

It was times like this that Wang was especially proud of her Chinese heritage. She learned how to keep her temper in check, from her parents. My dad used to say, “Hyenas laugh, baboons scream, and fools raise their voices in anger.

How in the hell was I going to file a claim saying a demonic cow had mangled my ride?

If I say the bad news, I can win applause over the planet: Man is the scourge of the planet, and he was born a scourge, just a few thousand years ago. But the news I am bringing is much different: Man was NOT born a few thousand years ago and he was NOT born a scourge. For this news I am condemned. Man was born MILLIONS of years ago, and he was not more a scourge than lions and hawks or squids. He lived AT PEACE with the world…for MILLIONS of years. That doesn’t mean he was a saint. That doesn’t mean he walked the earth like a buddha. It means he lived as harmlessly as a hyena or a shark or a rattlesnake. It is not MAN who is the scourge of the world. It’s a single culture. One culture out of hundreds of thousands of cultures. OUR culture. We don’t have to change HUMANKIND in order to survive. We only have to change a single culture. It is not an easy task, but it is not an impossible one. Here is my good news: WE ARE NOT HUMANITY. Can you feel the liberation in these words? I’m sure they seem bizarre, whisper them to yourself. I want you to understand what these four words are. They are a summary of all that was forgotten during the Great Forgetting. I mean that quite literally. At the end of the Great Forgetting, when the people of our culture began to build civilization in earnest, those four words were unthinkable. We forgot that we are a single culture and came to think of ourselves as humanity itself. All the intellectual and spiritual foundations of our culture were laid by people who believed absolutely that we are humanity itself. Socrates believed it. Plato believed it. Buddha believed it. Confucius believed it. Moses, Hesus, Thomas Aquinas, Copernicus, Hume, Marx, Kant, they all believed it. Why would it be such a bad thing if we were humanity? If we were humanity itself, then all the terrible things we say about humanity would be true- and that would be very bad news. If we were humanity itself, then all our destructiveness would belong not to one misguided culture but to humanity itself. But we are not humanity. We are just one culture, out of hundreds of thousand that lived their vision on this planet and had a song. It is not humanity that needs changing, it is just us.

Ah, we've had so many masters, Swine or eagle, lean or fat one: Some were tiers, some hyenas, Still we fed this one and that one. Whether one is better than the other: Ah, one boot is always like another When it treads upon you. What I say about them Is we need no other masters: we can do without them! Yes, the wheel is always turning madly, Neither side stays up or down, But the water underneath fares badly For it has to make the wheel go round. (Ach, wir hatten viele Herren Hatten Tiger und Hyänen Hatten Adler, hatten Schweine Doch wir nährten den und jenen. Ob sie besser waren oder schlimmer: Ach, der Stiefel glich dem Stiefel immer Und uns trat er. Ihr versteht, ich meine Dass wir keine andern Herren brauchen, sondern keine! Freilich dreht das Rad sich immer weiter Dass, was oben ist, nicht oben bleibt. Aber für das Wasser unten heisst das leider NurL dass es das Rad halt ewig treibt.)

So the distinction between people was caused by the great god, and the Bushmen, who want only to be left in peace, do not compete in issues which they cannot win. They are only frightened by other peoples and hope to be spared their attention. Kung Bushmen call all strangers zhu dole, which means “stranger” but, literally, “dangerous person”; they call all non-Bushmen zo si, which means “animals without hooves,” because, they say, non-Bushmen are angry and dangerous like lions and hyenas. But Kung Bushmen call themselves zhu twa si, the harmless people. Twa means “just” or “only,” in the sense that you say: “It was just the wind” or “It is only me.

Stop following me.” “Am I not a gentleman, obligated to see his lady home?” “If you laugh at me one more time, I swear I won’t be responsible for what I do.” Raven became aware of the slinking figures then, the burning eyes following her. Her heart nearly stopped, then began to pound. “Fine!” She whirled around and glared at him. “This is great! Just great, Mikhail. Call in the wolves to eat me alive. I find the idea so ‘you.’ So logical.” He bared his white gleaming teeth at her like a hungry predator and laughed softly, teasingly. “It is not the wolves that would find you delicious.” Raven picked up a broken branch and flung it at him. “Stop laughing, you hyena. This is not funny. Your arrogance is enough to make me want to throw up.” It took every ounce of self-control she had not to laugh. The beast was far too charming for his own good. “Your American colloquialisms are very colorful, little one.” She threw another branch, and then followed it up with a small rock. “Someone needs to teach you the lesson of a lifetime.” She looked like a beautiful little spitfire, all sparks and flame. Mikhail drew in his breath slowly, carefully. She was his, all fire and fury, all independence and courage, all heated passion. She melted his heart with it, entered his soul with her soft laughter. He felt it in her mind, although she was being extremely careful not to allow him to see it. “And you think you are the one to do this thing?” he teased. Another rock came flying at his chest. He caught it easily, and deliberately polished it before dropping it to the forest floor, all the while his dark eyes holding her gaze captive. “Do you think I’m afraid of your wolves?” she demanded. “The only big bad wolf around here is you. Call all your wolves. Go ahead.” She glared into the secret, dark interior of the forest. “Come and get me. What did he say to you about me?” Mikhail pried her fingers loose from the branch she held like a club, allowing it to fall. He curved an arm around her slender waist, brought her small, soft body up against his much larger, rock-hard frame. “I told them you tasted like warm honey.” He whispered the words with his black velvet sorcerer’s voice. Turning her in his arms, he cupped her small, beautiful face in his hands. “Where is all that marvelous respect a man as powerful as myself deserves?

The Black Clouds He had trudged through tangles and trailed in steeps for two days scratching his face and extremities into blood. The sun was near to setting and he was not able to overcome the plumb rocks. He had hunger collywobles in his stomach. “Tomorrow I will easily reach the troops…” – he entered a familiar cave with these thoughts and emptying the pockets full of mushrooms picked on the road burnt a flame. He took from the internal pocket a flat bottle of moonshine and swallowed – it removed the fatigue and helped him to rid himself of remorse. He felt stick in his mouth – “As is, I have drunk of bile and smell like lathery horse…» His tousled beard hid all light lines on his face making him more terrible. His large shoulders and brawny arms proved him as a strong person. He almost had no neck – as though, his head was stuck into shoulders. His old and narrow dress fitted close to his body – under it he had military officer’s shirt. Although he avoided twists and turns of war, he was accustomed to the smell of blood and death – he was bright, fearless and volitional like a real fighter. “I could become a good fighter,” – he was sure in it and sometimes expressed this thought loudly watching the fighting troops. Besides everything, the war is ugly also because of the fact that pillagers not wasting the time pillage the dead fighters. When the fights get calm, the Sun illuminates the naked corpses – it is qiute common phenomenon. The most of people think that this action is done by the winner figthers. But they are wrong because the day-time heroes cannot turn into night hyenas. This action is done by pillagers wearing military dress and hang around the attacking troops and, some of them do it with entire family in horse carts. He also was fed by the war – he also wandered following the troops like dark shadow and emtied the dead fighters’ pockets. He often sold the robbed things to fighters. His accomplices robbed in dream even own fellow travellers. But he was more compassionate and never robbed the wounded fighters thinking that it would moderate his sins. He never took the dead figthers’ dress but emptied only their pockets. But the pillagers following him stripped the dead fighters naked. “Thy say that there is a lame necrophiliac pillager among them raping the dead people.” Once, checking the laying fighter’s pockets he saw that the fighter is alive but his leg is torn off and suspended on the skin. Sitting close he started to frankly speak to the fighter consoling him. The fighter asked him to cut his leg off and bury it. He implicitly fulfilled the fighter’s request; coming to consciousness in the evening the fighter cheerfully said that his leg called him to the beyond. At that moment he tried to think about the world above but immediately shook his hand thinking «That’s load of rubbish!» The fighter died in the night and, taking the fighters ring off his finger, he put into sack. The fighters didn’t think about them in the heat of the battle. However, if the fighter caught any of them they unreservedly killed them. Once he always was near to death – however, he could save his life saying that he was carrying the army’s battle to the troops and furthermore, tearfully implored a little reward from officer. Coming back, he emptied his killed accomplices’ pockets ad collected a lot of money and valuables. He hated retreating troops. “Troops should either self-destruct or destroy the enemies!" Rivers of blood, ditches full of human corpses, mothers’ tears – all of these notions were nonsensical rot in his comprehension. Both the victory and defeat also were considered by him as nonsense – he was interested only in trophies. The days when he succeeded to collect rich trophies he could neither sleep in nights nor eat for sake of protecting the robbed values from pillagers but it didn’t weaken him. He willingly studied information about bloody wars and was mostly amazed by the fight of Waterloo: «It