Intriguing Travel Quotes

Satan’s breath be damned, the nasty beast is still in there.

Ancient Chinese believe that when you dream, your soul leaves your body and travels to dream world. In dream world, there is no time. No past, no present, no future. When you remember dreams, it is very important to interpret those dreams because dreams you remember are very important to your future.

Assemble the links
Piece by piece.
Then travel through time And earn your release.

Anything is possible on a train: a great meal, a binge, a visit from card players, an intrigue, a good night's sleep, and strangers' monologues framed like Russian short stories.

After lunch, they went for a walk around the island. The sun was out, but the wind was brisk, bringing a chill into their hands and faces. They arrived at the viewing point on the northwest corner of the island. The waves from the Atlantic crashed relentlessly against the rocks. They took a seat together on a large, smooth stone and gazed out at the sea and the barrier islands. Orla sat between Aideen and Dani. They all held hands. For a while, no words were spoken, but then Orla broke the silence. “What do ya’ think will happen to us in 2253?” she asked.

It's the same with books, you see mounds of them in bookshops and you want to read them all, or at least to have a taste of them. You think you could be missing out on something important, you see them and they intrigue you, they tempt you, they tell you how insignificant your life is and how tremendous it could be.

I will tell a thrilling tale of intrigue,” said Queen Noor. “So thrilling that you might think yourself to be in the presence of a fine, traveling storyteller.

In any case, there was only one tunnel, dark and lonely, mine, the tunnel in which I had spent my childhood, my youth, my whole life. And in one of those transparent lengths of the stone wall I had seen this girl and had gullibly believed that she was traveling another tunnel parallel to mine, when in reality she belonged to the broad world, to the world without confines of those who do not live in tunnels; and perhaps she had peeped into one of my strange windows out of curiosity and had caught a glimpse of my doomed loneliness, or her fancy had been intrigued by the mute language, the clue of my painting. And then, while I advanced always along my corridor, she lived her normal life outside, the exciting life of those people who live outside, that strange, absurd life in which there are dances and parties and gaiety and frivolity. And it happened at times that when I walked by one of my windows she was waiting for me, silent and longing (why was she waiting for me? why silent and longing?); but other times she did not get there on time, or she forgot about this poor creature hemmed in, and then I, with my face pressed against the glass wall, could see her in the distance, smiling or dancing carefree, or, what was worse, I could not see her at all and I imagined her in inaccessible or vile places. And then I felt my destiny a far lonelier one than I had imagined.

To the rocket scientist, you are a problem. You are the most irritating piece of machinery he or she will ever have to deal with. You and your fluctuating metabolism, your puny memory, your frame that comes in a million different configurations. You are unpredictable. You're inconstant. You take weeks to fix. The engineer must worry about the water and oxygen and food you'll need in space, about how much extra fuel it will take to launch your shrimp cocktail and irradiated beef tacos. A solar cell or a thruster nozzle is stable and undemanding. It does not excrete or panic or fall in love with the mission commander. It has no ego. Its structural elements don't start to break down without gravity, and it works just fine without sleep. To me, you are the best thing to happen to rocket science. The human being is the machine that makes the whole endeavor so endlessly intriguing.

This visit has compacted the court's quarrels and intrigues, trapped them in the small space within the town's walls. The travelers have become as intimate with each other as cards in a pack: contiguous, but their paper eyes blind.

Edward sat down on the bench and looked at the horses grazing behind the pasture fence. Even though horses weren’t needed at the vineyard anymore, he’d insisted that a team be kept here and work as they had done when he was the foreman of the vineyard. This affected the productivity of the farm, but he didn’t care. The horses had been a source of comfort for him, and he’d kept them here for this very moment.

Cameras give one person a thousand eyes. They take us light years away. Pictures introduce us to a million strangers. They let us travel to other planets. It's like teleporting. It's the magic that intrigues me.

Disgusting foods, as Madame de Pompadour discovered, do not arouse the senses. They only dull them. Seduction, as you know by now, for women starts with the ears and for men starts with the eyes and for both, travels directly to the stomach. Some say you need sweet murmurings in the ears, but I say laughter, intrigue and delicacies are more powerful.

You been going through my undies?" I asked. Bruiser's mouth twitched. " 'Cause all I got with me are the travel undies. The leather, silk, and lace stuff is all in the mountains." "You got leather undies?" Bruiser asked, intrigued. [...] I smiled, showing teeth. "Nope.

What hideous luck to be wretchedly stuck on this miserable blockading duty! What I need is a ship I can capture and strip to sequester my share of the booty. Oh, the treasure I’d net would remit all my debt and buy an estate with a gold coronet. Oh, captain who’s wise has his eye on the prize while he’s serving his country and King, oh sing, of a well-deserved rest in a well-feathered nest and the riches that duty can bring!

His interest in you is merely rebellion. You are different. Forbidden. Something he knows is wrong." Her dark eyes traveled over my features. "He sees beauty now, is lured by it, even though he knows what lies beneath is evil. So intriguing, this flirting with danger." She flicked a glance at the jar. "Pandora was the same way, you know? A deceptive package. The Greek writers called her Kalon Kakon, a beautiful evil. It won't be long before you destroy those around you, just like she did." My fists clenched hard. "And if that happens, Josephine, if I turn into a monster, I'll be coming for you first, and there isn't a damn thing you can do to stop me.

People generally forget the things they are ashamed of, but no one ever forgets an insult.

Noren noted the two tall Coelete warriors. “You travel in strange company, Alex. I have heard of the deeds of the Red Cameron and note your colours, but those two are from the stories our forefathers told of a tribe of tall warriors that live in the mountains in the north and who helped the early settlers of Erwick build our town.

Foras Road has a sordid reputation (…) Old crones sat in doorways, while their daughters were pushed out to earn money. It is intriguing that a society which is very covert with sexuality should be so straightforward about prostitution.

I wonder,” I said. “Perhaps you can meet with an accident on the road. Harwin and I can bring back the sad news that you died while we were traveling.” Gisele looked amused—and a little intrigued. “But wouldn’t you be expected to return with my corpse in tow?” “Not if you—fell off a cliff and drowned, and the water carried you away,” I said, improvising quickly. “Not if you were mauled by wolves andeaten .” “Oh, yes, do have me devoured by wild creatures.

The most splendid thing about the Amish is the names they give their towns. Everywhere else in America towns are named either after the first white person to get there or the last Indian to leave. But the Amish obviously gave the matter of town names some thought and graced their communities with intriguing, not to say provocative, appellations: Blue Ball, Bird in Hand, and Intercourse, to name but three. Intercourse makes a good living by attracting passers-by such as me who think it the height of hilarity to send their friends and colleagues postcards with an Intercourse postal mark and some droll sentiment scribbled on the back.

So that's how it was. Palaces, kings... and thugs like that, who, like locusts, move from one century to another.

Which world is more honest?

Her stomach rumbled, and Lily wondered how many calories her diplomacy had burned.

Beauty is skin-deep, young man.

How much do we lose because we are young and stupid?

Time doesn’t really heal all wounds. It just creates a layer of years over something that still pulses and bleeds. When someone cuts a piece out of your heart, it never heals.

Children should not repeat their parents’ mistakes, especially if their parents are around to warn them.

Lily believed that if you don’t take care of your own army, you are essentially taking care of someone else’s army.

She is learning toward me, animatedly asking questions, and he is a half step back. It happens three more times that night and many times over the next years. Usually it's the women who identify with me and ask the questions. It isn't the details of my travels that intrigue them; it's the fact that I am living a rich, fulfilling life. And I'm doing it without a man. For many women, my story awakens buried dreams or stimulates new ones.

There are some who believe that perfume is magic. The fragrance of a thing is its purest essence. And certain scents can awaken phantoms of past love, of sweetest reminiscence." "Phantoms?" Daisy repeated, intrigued, and the other girl replied impatiently. "He doesn't mean it literally, dear. Perfume can't summon a ghost. And it's not really magic. It's only a mixture of scent particles that travel to the olfactory receptors in your nose.

I learned to read at the age of five, in Brother Justiniano's class at the De la Salle Academy in Cochabamba, Bolivia. It is the most important thing that has ever happened to me. Almost seventy years later I remember clearly how the magic of translating the words in books into images enriched my life, breaking the barriers of time and space and allowing me to travel with Captain Nemo twenty thousand leagues under the sea, fight with d'Artagnan, Athos, Portos, and Aramis against the intrigues threatening the Queen in the days of the secretive Richelieu, or stumble through the sewers of Paris, transformed into Jean Valjean carrying Marius's inert body on my back.

We left the Bentley and Tim at a garage, and Alan and I travelled back to Brussels to hire a much less magnificent vehicle. When we picked Tim up the next morning, he told us that he’d spent the night in his room with a ‘bird’. Intrigued, we questioned him closely, and learned that he had been woken in the middle of the night by a strange, rather alarming noise and that when he had put the light on he had discovered a turkey vomiting on the mantelpiece. He’d thought of complaining but found that his phrase book did not cover this contingency.

Is coffee okay? I’ve run out of tea.” Arthur nodded and sat down on the sofa. Lucy leaped up and settled on his lap. He stroked her head and she looked up at him with her orange eyes. “Where’s next on your travels?” Mike said as he placed two steaming mugs on the table. “What’s the next charm you’re trying to trace?” “I don’t know. I’m intrigued by the paint palette. And I haven’t thought about my mother-in-law for years. Or perhaps I should just stop searching. It makes my head hurt.” “You should never give up,” Mike said. “Those charms on your bracelet could be lucky.

Let me advise you to commence at once observing for yourself. Don't trust what you are told in lectures, or read in books, but make the knowledge your own, by your own labors. Lectures and books will serve as guides and beacons, but the goals can only be reached by travelling the road yourself.

The faeries took no notice of my cry. No doubt they were used to lost travelers screaming for help. One of them grabbed me by my cloak and wrenched me painfully back and forth, like an animal wishing to drag me to the ground. But I did not need to call for Wendell again. He stepped out from behind a tree---or perhaps from the tree; I didn't see. He reached a hand out and snapped the neck of the faerie gripping me, which I had not expected, and I staggered back from both him and the crumpling body. He saw the mark on my neck, and his entire face darkened with something that seemed to go beyond fury and made him look like some feral creature. The faeries scattered like leaves, though they were too intrigued and too stupid to run. "Are you hurt?" "No." I don't know how I made myself speak. I have seen Wendell angry before, but this was something that seemed to surge through him like lightning, threatening to burn everything in its path. He moved his hand, and a hideous tree rose up from the snow, dark and terrifying, all thorns and knife-sharp branches. The boughs darted out, and he skewered the faeries on them. Once they were all immobilized, held squirming and screaming above the ground, he moved from one to the other, tearing them apart with perfect, calm brutality. Limbs, hearts, other organs I did not recognize scattered the snow. He did not rush, but killed them methodically while the others howled and writhed.

The Future is an illusion because, at the most fundamental level, Choice is an illusion. I am a believer in the theory, popular among physicists, that every time there is a Choice, the universe splits: both choices come to pass, but in now-separate universes. And so on, and on, with every choice of every particle, every atom, every molecule, every cell, every being, coming into being. In this universe of universes, everything happens, and every combination of things happens. Our universe is a mote of dust in an ever-growing dust-storm of possibilities, but each mote of dust in that storm is generating its own dust-storm of possibilities every instant, the motes of which in turn... But you get the general impression. Indeed to think of ourselves as single selves, and our universe as a single universe, is to be blinded, by the limitations of our senses and our consciousness, to the infinite-faceted truth: that we are infinite in a universe of universes that are each infinitely infinite..." "An intriguingly intricate view of the world," I said (...) Pat Sheeran nodded. "And it is astonishing how little practical difference it makes," he said. "All my other lives are as inaccessible to me as if they did not exist at all. No doubt in other universes I am a beggar, a revolutionary thinker, an academic, an accountant; a drinker, a thinker, a writer of books; I lose a freckle, gain a mole, shade off into men nothing like me at all; I have sons, fire guns, live forever, die too young. Whenever any particle in this universe changes state, I am split and travel in both directions, multiplied. But here I am, suffering the illusion of unity in this endlessly bifurcating moment. Yet sometimes, I wave my arms for the joy of creating a spray of universes." I said startled at the implications, “Though it may make no practical difference, the implications are nonetheless startling." "Indeed," said Pat Sheeran. "I had immediately to file all the fiction on my shelves under Non-Fiction. For it is an unavoidable corollary of this theory, that Fiction is impossible. For all novels are true histories of worlds as real as ours, but which we cannot see. All stories are possible, all histories have happened. I, billion-bodied, live a trillion lives every quantum instant. Those trillion lives branch out, a quintillion times a second, as every particle in every atom in each mote of dust on land, in sea, and sky, and space, and star, flickering in and out of being in the void, hesitates and decides its next stage. All tragedies, all triumphs, are mine, are yours." "It is a curious and difficult thing, to think that all is possible. No, probable. No, certain," I said, attempting to grasp the largeness of the thought."That nothing is improbable." "It is a comforting thought, some nights, to this version of me, now," said Pat Sheeran, and we roared on.

Its history is an especially rich and intriguing one for women: the great salons of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries gave women an intellectual influence and freedom; in the nineteenth century, for the bohemian and the flâneuse pleasure and revolution were a seductive mix; in the mid-twentieth century, Paris spelled freedom for Simone de Beauvoir who set the standard for contemporary feminism in her exhilarating The Second Sex.

In the novel Janus Equation, writer G. Spruill explored one of the harrowing problems with time travel. In this tale a brilliant mathematician whose goal is to discover the secret of time travel meets a strange, beautiful woman, and they become lovers, although he knows nothing about her past. He becomes intrigued about finding out her true identity. Eventually he discovers that she once had plastic surgery to change her features. And that she had a sex change operation. Finally, he discovers that “she” is actually a time traveler from the future, and that “she” is actually himself, but from the future. This means that he made love to himself. And one is left wondering, what would have happened if they had had a child? And if this child went back into the past, to grow up to become the mathematician at the beginning of the story, then is it possible to be your own mother and father and son and daughter?

This is a consistent theme in stories about traveling to the future: Things are always worse when you get there. And I suspect this is because the kind of writer who’s intrigued by the notion of moving forward in time can’t see beyond their own pessimism about being alive. People who want to travel through time are both (a) unhappy and (b) unwilling to compromise anything about who they are. They would rather change every element of society except themselves.

Did you know you used to need a travel agent to book a multi-city trip with five stops? Did you know it used to take up to forty-eight hours to book a five-stop trip? Did you know it used to take up to five days to receive a price quote for a five-stop trip? Imagine, if for the first time ever, you could plan and book a five-stop trip yourself, without ever having to use a travel agent? Imagine if you could get your own price quotes for a multi-stop trip? Imagine if you could do all the above in less than an hour? You don’t have to imagine it; we’ve created it. It’s called Indie.

The gnarled pine, I would have said, touch it. This is China. Horticulturalists around the world have come to study it. Yet no one has ever been able to explain why it grows like a corkscrew, just as no one can adequately explain China. But like that tree, there it is, old, resilient, and oddly magnificent. Within that tree are the elements in nature that have inspired Chinese artists for centuries: gesture over geometry, subtlety over symmetry, constant flow over static form. And the temples, walk and touch them. This is China. Don't merely stare at these murals and statues. Fly up to the crossbeams, get down on your hands and knees, and press your head to the floor tiles. Hide behind that pillar and come eye to eye with its flecks of paint. Imagine that you are the interior decorator who is a thousand years in age. Start with a bit of Tibetan Buddhism, plus a dash each of animism and Taoism. A hodgepodge, you say? No, what is in those temples is an amalgam that is pure Chinese, a lovely shabby elegance, a glorious new motley that makes China infinitely intriguing. Nothing is ever completely thrown away and replaced. If one period of influence falls out of favor, it is patched over. The old views still exist, one chipped layer beneath, ready to pop through with the slightest abrasion. That is the Chinese aesthetic and also its spirit. Those are the traces that have affected all who have traveled along China's roads.

It was in Cleveland that Magic Slim became the most successful pornographic film producer in America. His training center was a key link in a human trafficking supply chain stretching from the former Soviet Republics in Eastern Europe to the United States. Trafficking accounts for an estimated $32 billion in annual trade with sex slavery and pornographic film production accounting for the greatest percentage. The girls arrived at Slim’s building young and naive, they left older and wiser. This was a classic value chain with each link making a contribution.  Slim’s trainers were the best, and it showed in the final product. Each class of girls was judged on the merits. The fast learners went on to advanced training. They learned proper etiquette, social skills and party games. They learned how to dress, apply makeup and discuss world events.  Best in-class were advertised in international style magazines with code words. These codes were known only to select clients and certain intermediaries approved by Slim. This elaborate distribution system was part of Slim’s business model, his clients paid an annual subscription fee for the on-line dictionary. The code words and descriptions were revised monthly.  An interested client would pay an access fee for further information that included a set of professional  photographs, a video and voice recordings of the model addressing the client by name.  Should the client accept, a detailed travel itinerary was submitted calling for first class travel and accommodation.  Slim required a letter of understanding spelling out terms and conditions and a 50% deposit. He didn’t like contracts, his word was his bond, everyone along the chain knew that. Slim's business was booming.

I know many souls that toss and whirl and pass, but none there are that intrigue me more than the Souls of White Folk. Of them I am singularly clairvoyant. I see in and through them. I view them from unusual points of vantage. Not as a foreigner do I come, for I am native, not foreign, bone of their thought and flesh of their language. Mine is not the knowledge of the traveler or the colonial composite of dear memories, words and wonder. Nor yet is my knowledge that which servants have of masters, or mass of class, or capitalist of artisan. Rather I see these souls undressed and from the back and side. I see the working of their entrails. I know their thoughts and they know that I know. This knowledge makes them now embarrassed, now furious. They deny my right to live and be and call me misbirth! My word is to them mere bitterness and my soul, pessimism. And yet as they preach and strut and shout and threaten, crouching as they clutch at rags of facts and fancies to hide their nakedness, they go twisting, flying by my tired eyes and I see them ever stripped,—ugly, human.

Kenny’s career trajectory had been a frenetic scramble, with personality conflicts, professional counseling, and extended periods of unemployment along the way. At Wharton, his devotion to studying was legendary. If a subject intrigued him, he’d work seventy-two hours at a clip, with a laser focus that could bend the world’s edges. School was a sanctuary where he chased ideas like rabbits down into whatever random, circuitous holes they traveled. In retrospect, he should’ve stayed for his PhD and become an academic, worn open-collared shirts, comfortable shoes. Instead, he listened to Janine and went high-ticket corporate, only to discover that he wasn’t cut out for the real world. Out here, smart people were made to repeat the same simple tasks over and over until all their intelligence drained out. Out here, Kenny couldn’t get traction. His attention wandered, his already poor listening skills deteriorated. He lost track of time. Missed deadlines.

Your curse still isn't really broken. The castle and everyone in it have been forgotten. No one remembers this place. You could find all les charmantes and bring them here. Bring them home. And get yourself... uncursed." "Hmmm," Rosalind said, thinking. "Not bad. It's an odd idea, considering this is the place we almost came to our end... but it's intriguing. Yes, I like it. Go find everyone and bring them home. Really, it's the least you could do after what your parents did." Maurice might have given Rosalind a little frown at that last bit, but she shrugged. The Beast blinked. "Go... find them? Me?" "Yes. Why not?" Belle said with a smile, reading his thoughts. "You would have to actually go out into the world that you've been watching for so long in your magic mirror." "With you," the Beast said without missing a beat. "I could do anything, with you." Belle grinned and started to answer... ... and then saw Maurice and Rosalind, who were both watching her to see what she would do. Belle had a family again. She had a mother- the most interesting, perplexing mother in the world- whom she had just met. There was too much to ask her, to talk about. But this was finally her chance to go out on those adventures she had always dreamed of. Abandoned Greek islands, the hearts of never-before-seen forests, even Paris and Rome.... They would travel the world looking for reclusive charmantes to bring home. Who knew what they might see!

The arrangement fell to pieces at the beginning of the eighteenth century, with the disastrous hetmanate of that most un-Cossack of Cossacks – Ivan Mazeppa. Suave and subtle, famous for his love affairs and his deft hand at political intrigue, Mazeppa was an even unlikelier rebel than Khmelnytsky. Born into a noble Orthodox family in Polish-ruled ‘right-bank’ Ukraine, he was schooled at a Jesuit college in Warsaw before entering the court of King Jan Kazimierz as a gentleman-in-waiting. Keen to create a cadre of Ruthenian nobles loyal to the crown, Kazimierz sent him to study in Holland before putting him to work on diplomatic errands to the left-bank hetmanate. In 1663 the promising young favourite suddenly left Cracow and joined the Polish-ruled Cossacks on the western bank of the Dnieper. Legend – as embroidered by everyone from Byron to Tchaikovsky – has it that he had been discovered in bed with the wife of a neighbour, who stripped him naked and sent him galloping off into the steppe on the back of a wild horse. Whatever the truth, Mazeppa spent the next few years travelling back and forth to the Crimean khanate as the Polish Cossacks’ envoy. In 1674, journeying home from one of these missions, he was captured by the Zaporozhians and turned over to the rival left-bank hetmanate as a spy. At this

Old Babylonian Period. Thanks substantially to the royal archives from the town of Mari, the eighteenth century BC has become thoroughly documented. As the century opened there was an uneasy balance of power among four cities: Larsa ruled by Rim-Sin, Mari ruled by Yahdun-Lim (and later, Zimri-Lim), Assur ruled by Shamshi-Adad I, and Babylon ruled by Hammurapi. Through a generation of political intrigue and diplomatic strategy, Hammurapi eventually emerged to establish the prominence of the first dynasty of Babylon. The Old Babylonian period covered the time from the fall of the Ur III dynasty (c. 2000 BC) to the fall of the first dynasty of Babylon (just after 1600 BC). This is the period during which most of the narratives in Ge 12–50 occur. The rulers of the first dynasty of Babylon were Amorites. The Amorites had been coming into Mesopotamia as early as the Ur III period, at first being fought as enemies, then gradually taking their place within the society of the Near East. With the accession of Hammurapi to the throne, they reached the height of success. Despite his impressive military accomplishments, Hammurapi is most widely known today for his collection of laws. The first dynasty of Babylon extends for more than a century beyond the time of Hammurapi, though decline began soon after his death and continued unabated, culminating in the Hittite sack of Babylon in 1595 BC. This was nothing more than an incursion on the part of the Hittites, but it dealt the final blow to the Amorite dynasty, opening the doors of power for another group, the Kassites. Eras of Mesopotamian History (Round Dates) Early Dynastic Period 2900–2350 BC Dynasty of Akkad 2350–2200 BC Ur III Empire 2100–2000 BC Old Babylonian Period 2000–1600 BC Go to Chart Index Eras of Egyptian History (Round Dates) Old Kingdom 3100–2200 BC First Intermediate Period 2200–2050 BC Middle Kingdom 2050–1720 BC Second Intermediate Period 1720–1550 BC Hyksos 1650–1550 BC Go to Chart Index Palestine: Middle Bronze Age Abraham entered the Palestine region during the Middle Bronze Age (2200–1550 BC), which was dominated by scattered city-states, much as Mesopotamia had been, though Palestine was not as densely populated or as extensively urbanized as Mesopotamia. The period began about the time of the fall of the dynasty of Akkad in Mesopotamia (c. 2200 BC) and extended until about 1500 BC (plus or minus 50 years, depending on the theories followed). In Syria there were power centers at Yamhad, Qatna, Alalakh and Mari, and the coastal centers of Ugarit and Byblos seemed to be already thriving. In Palestine only Hazor is mentioned in prominence. Contemporary records from Palestine are scarce, though the Egyptian Story of Sinuhe has Middle Bronze Age Palestine as a backdrop and therefore offers general information. Lists of cities in Palestine are also given in the Egyptian texts. Most are otherwise unknown, though Jerusalem and Shechem are mentioned. As the period progresses there is more and more contact with Egypt and extensive caravan travel between Egypt and Palestine.

Intriguing. Illuminating. An investing primer on some of the most notable role on Maui. Anyone who has been on the island 24 hours will find this a handy guide. Maui Time Weekly I could not put it down. John T., Maui Friends of the Library.

The first intimation of a new romance for a woman of the court was the arrival at her door of a messenger bearing a five-line poem in an unfamiliar hand. If the woman found the poem sufficiently intriguing, the paper it was written on suitable for its contents and mood, and the calligraphy acceptably graceful, her encouraging reply—itself in the form of a poem—would set in motion a clandestine, late-night visit from her suitor. The first night together was, according to established etiquette, sleepless; lovemaking and talk were expected to continue without pause until the man, protesting the night’s brevity, departed in the first light of the predawn. Even then he was not free to turn his thoughts to the day’s official duties: a morning-after poem had to be written and sent off by means of an ever-present messenger page, who would return with the woman’s reply. Only after this exchange had been completed could the night’s success be fully judged by whether the poems were equally ardent and accomplished, referring in image and nuance to the themes of the night just passed. Subsequent visits were made on the same clandestine basis and under the same circumstances, until the relationship was either made official by a private ceremony of marriage or ended. Once she had given her heart, a woman was left to await her lover’s letters and appearances at her door at nightfall. Should he fail to arrive, there might be many explanations—the darkness of the night, inclement weather, inauspicious omens preventing travel, or other interests. Many sleepless nights were spent in hope and speculation, and, as evidenced by the poems in this book, in poetic activity. Throughout the course of a relationship, the exchange of poems served to reassure, remind, rekindle or cool interest, and, in general, to keep the other person aware of a lover’s state of mind. At the same time, poetry was a means of expressing solely for oneself the uncertainties, hopes, and doubts which inevitably accompanied such a system of courtship, as well as a way of exploring other personal concerns.

Although the collection of known mathematical structures is large and exotic, and even more remain to be discovered, every single mathematical structure can be analyzed to determine its symmetry properties, and many have interesting symmetry. Intriguingly, one of the most important discoveries in physics has been that our physical reality also has symmetries built into it: for example, the laws of physics have rotational symmetry, which means that there's not special direction in our Universe that you can call "up." They also appear to have translation (sideways shifting) symmetry, meaning that there's no special place that we can call the center of space. Many of these spaces just mentioned have beautiful symmetries, some of which match the observed symmetries of our physical world. For example, Euclidean space has both rotational symmetry (meaning that you can't tell the difference if the space gets rotated) and translational symmetry (meaning that you can't tell the difference if the space gets shifted sideways). The four-dimensional Minkowski space has even more symmetry: you can't even tell the difference if you do a type of generalized rotation between the space and time dimensions-and Einstein showed that this explains why time appears to slow down if you travel near the speed of light, as mentioned in the last chapter. Many more subtle symmetries of nature have been discovered in the last century, and these symmetries form the foundations of Einstein's relativity theories, quantum mechanics, and the standard model of particle physics.

The Sun Boat (or Sun Barque) is the great ship the gods used to travel between the worlds; it was called: The Boat of a Million Years. An intriguing ancient reference to a migratory transaction that is also found in the heritage of the Star Families!

With the Revolution of 1688, and more so since the Hanover succession, came the destructive system of continental intrigues, and the rage for foreign wars and foreign dominion; systems of such secure mystery that the expenses admit of no accounts; a single line stands for millions.

I took on an adaptation of a book called Gossamer. The author played with the hero quest and growing up stuff in some really intriguing ways.

Hello, ladies, I’m your uncle Devlin. Has Westhaven scared you witless with his fuming and fretting?” This fellow looked to be great fun, with a nice smile and kind green eyes. “Mama and Papa didn’t say anything about getting uncles for Christmas,” Amanda observed, but she was smiling back at the big uncle. The biggest uncle—they were all as tall as Papa. “Well, that’s because we’re a surprise,” the other dark-haired fellow said. “I’m your uncle Valentine, and we have an entire gaggle of aunties waiting out in the coach to spoil you rotten. Westhaven here is just out of sorts because Father Christmas gave him a headache for being naughty yesterday.” “I was not naughty.” The other two uncles thought this was quite funny, judging by their smiles. “There’s your problem,” said Uncle Devlin. “I’m thinking it’s a fine day for a pair of ladies to join their aunts for a ride in the traveling coach.” Uncle Gayle—it didn’t seem fair to call him by the same name as Fleur’s puppy—appeared to consider this. “For what purpose?” “To keep the peace. Emmie and I never haul out our big guns around the children,” said Uncle Devlin, which made no sense. “Do you like to play soldiers?” Fleur asked. Amanda appeared intrigued by the notion. She was forever galloping up hills and charging down banisters in pursuit of the French. Uncle Devlin’s brows knitted—he had wonderful dark eyebrows, much like Papa’s. “As a matter of fact, on occasion, if I’ve been an exceedingly good fellow, my daughter lets me join her in a game of soldiers.” “I’m not exactly unfamiliar with the business myself,” said Uncle Valentine. “I excel at the lightning charge and have been known to take even the occasional doll prisoner.” “Missus Wolverhampton would not like being a prisoner,” Fleur said, though Uncle Valentine was teasing—wasn’t he?” “Perhaps you gentlemen can arrange an assignation to play soldiers with our nieces on some other day,” Westhaven said. He sounded like his teeth hurt, which Fleur knew might be from the seasonal hazard of eating too much candy. “You can play too,” Fleur allowed, because it was Christmas, and one ought to be kind to uncles who strayed into one’s nursery. “We’ll let you be Wellington,” Amanda added, getting into the spirit of the day. “Which leaves me to be Blucher’s mercenaries,” Uncle Devlin said, “saving the day as usual.” “Oh, that’s brilliant.” Uncle Valentine wasn’t smiling now. “Leave your baby brother to be the infernal French again, will you? See if I write a waltz for your daughter’s come out, St. Just.” Uncle Gayle wasn’t frowning quite so mightily. In fact, he looked like he wanted to smile but was too grown-up to allow it. “Perhaps you ladies will gather up a few soldiers and fetch a doll or two. We’re going on a short journey to find your mama and papa, so we can all share Christmas with them.” Fleur noticed his slip, and clearly, Amanda had too—but it was the same slip Amanda had made earlier, and one Fleur was perfectly happy to let everybody make. Uncle Gayle had referred to their papa’s new wife not as their stepmama, but as their mama. What a fine thing that would be, if for Christmas they got a mama again for really and truly. Amanda fetched their dolls, Fleur grabbed their favorite storybook, and the uncles herded them from the nursery, all three grown men arguing about whose turn it was to be the blasted French. ***

More than fifty years have passed since the flask experiments by Stanley Miller and Harold Urey rekindled the primordial soup hypothesis for the origin of life. Scientists now realize, however, that generating miniscule amounts of a few amino acids is irrelevant to the origin of life because the chemicals in Miller and Urey’s experiment were exposed to neither oxygen nor ultraviolet light. The fact that Earth never possessed measurable quantities of prebiotics (see p. 73) and that the universe appears devoid of reservoirs for life’s fundamental chemical building blocks (see p. 74) also argues for the famed experiment’s irrelevance. As far back as 1973, a deep sense of frustration over any possible naturalistic explanation for life’s origin on Earth or anywhere else within the vast reaches of interstellar space led Francis Crick (who shared the Nobel Prize for the discovery of the double helix nature of DNA) and Leslie Orgel (one of the world’s preeminent origin-of-life researchers) to suggest that intelligent aliens must have salted Earth with bacteria about 3.8 billion years ago.[24] This suggestion, however intriguing or bizarre, fails to answer the question of where the aliens might have come from. It also contradicts evidence that shows intelligent life could not have arrived on the cosmic scene any sooner than about 13.7 billion years after the cosmic origin event. The implausibility of interstellar space travel also remains an intractable problem. Ruling out a visit by aliens from a planetary system far, far away narrows the reasonable options down to one: Something or Someone from beyond the physics and dimensions of the universe, who is not subject to them, placed life and humanity in the only location in the universe at the only time in cosmic history where and when such creatures could survive and thrive.

As a professional speaker, Susanne travels all over the country and practically lives on airplanes. One day as she entered security to board yet another flight, she was struck by the poise, posture, and gestures of the man in front of her in line. As a communications expert, she observed his excellent presentation with appreciation and awe. The gentleman was dressed impeccably in a crisp white shirt and well-fitted suit and he sported a new haircut. She watched him as he removed his flawless leather belt, his gold money clip, and well-polished shoes. (And of course, he had Listerine in a baggie to ensure fresh breath!) The care with which he dismantled was impressive. His poised and fluid movements were deliberate and respectful of his personal possessions. As he regrouped and proceeded down the concourse, she was struck by how his stance and carriage intrigued and impressed her. His projection of elegance created a presence of pride and dignity. He left a remarkable impression.

He didn't like to fly--the noise and vibration gave him a headache--but, as with anything new, he was excited by the strangeness of it. The disjuncture intrigued him: stepping through a door in one place, sitting still for a few hours, then stepping out a thousand miles away. It seemed to him a very American mode of travel, even more so than the car, not simply going farther faster, but eliminating any temporal experience of the journey, skipping over whole sections of the country, the sole focus on arriving, with the help of expensive and arcane technologies, at one's destination, except of course, when one didn't--a thought brought on by his own instinctive disbelief and the bumpiness of the flight.

Talking Dog One day, while driving in the country, a man noticed a sign that said “Talking Dog for Sale.”  The sign pointed to a farm house off the road just a bit.  The man’s interest was piqued so he pulled off the road and headed up to the farm house. When he got there and inquired about the talking dog, the farmer told him the talking dog was around the back of the farm house.  The farmer said the man was welcome to go in back and talk with the dog. The man was in a serious state of disbelief, because he knew dogs couldn’t talk.  Still he was very curious so he headed around to the backyard. In the backyard the man noticed a poodle that quickly came up to him.  The man thought to himself, “Hmmm poodles are supposed to be smart dogs.” “Can you really talk?” the man asked the poodle. “I sure can,” replied back the poodle. “Wow,” exclaimed the man.  Wanting to hear more he asked, “So what’s your story?” “I discovered I could talk when I was very young,” said the poodle.  “I knew I had a real gift so I thought I should do something about it.  I joined the CIA and became one of their very best spies.  I was sent on many secret missions.  I traveled all around the world and was involved in many interesting and intriguing cases. I even helped save the life of the President on two occasions. After eight years I got tired of all the jetting around and decided to retire.  I was given several awards for all my achievements and a gala dinner, attended by many important people, was held in my honor.  I was given a full government pension and brought to this farm to enjoy the rest of my life.” After hearing all this, the man was astounded.  He quickly went back to the farmer and said, “I want that dog!  I will buy it at any price.  How much do you want for that dog?” “Ten dollars,” was the farmer’s reply. “Ten dollars?” the man said in disbelief.  “That dog is amazing, why on earth would you sell it for so little?” “Because he’s a big liar; he didn’t do any of those things!

sobered, nodded awkwardly, and acted like he wanted to speak, but didn’t. He turned to a laptop, gave it a command. The screens on the wall displayed what looked at first glance like a collage of images. At center was a photograph Acadia had recently taken of Alex Cross’s house from across Fifth Street. Dotted lines traveled from various windows in the house out to pictures of Dr. Alex, his wife, his grandmother, his daughter, and his younger son. Set off to one side was a framed picture of Damon, Alex Cross’s older son, seventeen and a student at a prep school in western Massachusetts. Digital lines went out from each portrait, linked to images of schools, police stations, churches, grocery stores, and various friends. There were also lines connecting each member of Cross’s family to calendar and clock icons. “He uses mind-mapping software and an Xbox 360 with Kinect to make it work,” Acadia explained. “It’s interactive, Marcus. Just stand in front of the camera and point to what you want.” Intrigued now, Sunday stepped in front of the screens and the Kinect camera. He pointed at the photograph of Cross. The screen instantly jumped to a virtual diary of the detective’s recent life, everything from photographs of Bree Stone, to his kids, to his white Chevy sedan and his best friend, John Sampson, and Sampson’s wife, Billie. Sunday pointed at the calendar, and the screens showed a chronological account of everything he had seen Cross do in the prior month.

Hal particularly enjoyed drawing and painting as he traveled. He took postcard-sized art paper and, while waiting in an airport or taking a private moment in the home of a generous host, would capture a scene of an intriguing place or person. On a long trip, Kathy and the children might receive one of these original postcards in the mail. Upon his return home, Hal would send a similar custom-made thank-you note to his host. He found drawing and painting not only diverting but spiritually uplifting and even revelatory.

Legends speak of a primeval Pacific homeland called "Hiva" from which the first inhabitants of Easter Island came--a homeland that also fell victim to the "mischief of Uoke's lever" and was "submerged under the sea." What is particularly intriguing about all this, because of its resonance with the Seven Sages--the Apkallu--spoken of in Mesopotamian antediluvian traditions, and with the Seven Sages of the Edfu Building Texts, who sought out new lands in which to recreate the drowned and devastated world of the gods, is that the Seven Sages--"king's sons, all initiated men"--are also said to have been instrumental in the original settlement of Easter Island. Exactly as was the case with the Apkallu, who laid the foundations of all the future temples of Mesopotamia, and with the Edfu Sages who traveled the length and breath of Egypt establishing the sacred mounds on which all future pyramids and temples were to be built, the first task of the Seven Sages from Hiva after their arrival on Easter Island was 'the construction of stone mounds.

A familiar name entered the authors’ conversation about interstellar distances: “Carl Sagan has pointed out,” Hynek said, “that ‘the average distance between the stars in our galaxy is a few light years. Light, faster than which nothing physical can travel, takes years to traverse the distances between the nearest stars. Space vehicles take that long at the very least.’ “Well, how do we know?” Hynek retorted. “I mean how do we know how fast thought travels? The solution may lie in the parapsychological realm; the means of getting information I mean.”10 In what may be the most fascinating element of the book, Hynek talked at length about how teaching astronomy at Northwestern had given him new insights into the UFO enigma: There is a certain disenchantment with science in general among people. This doesn’t extend to astronomy . . . In so many new ways astronomy continues to capture and expand people’s imaginations, particularly the imaginations of young people . . . I know that particularly the kids are intrigued by two series of things these days: From the questions we get at the observatory and in the high schools I talk to, and in freshman classes, the main question areas are the black holes, quasars, and pulsars, and UFOs, bunched together. That is what grabs them. And so, to that extent, both astronomy and UFOs are expanding imagination and consciousness.11

Space travel also elongates the spine, causing a temporary increase of up to 3 inches in height!

the imagination of the world. Since then, dozens of similar books and short stories have followed, and feature films with time travel themes remain extremely popular. It’s clear that the idea of time travel pushes our buttons in a significant way. It’s an idea that is just too intriguing an idea to ignore. What is also difficult to ignore are the real life cases of normal everyday people reporting strange encounters with slips, shifts and spontaneous journeys in time. It is also fascinating to note that as modern physics advances, a realization is developing to suggest that time travel may be something that is real and possible, and may already be happening. The idea of time travel also straddles the fringe theories of New Agers all the way over to hard-nosed science. The world’s greatest scientists such as Stephen Hawking and Michio Kaku, are equally enamoured with time travel as is the common man on the street. Support for the possibility that time travel is real runs across a broad spectrum of human thought. Add to this the obvious fact that time travel is a highly entertaining concept – and you get a subject of endless fascination. We hope readers found this book to be an interesting and worthy contribution to time travel fact and

The suspicion that European travellers in the Indian Ocean in the sixteenth century may from time to time have stumbled across charts and maps containing the remnants of a lost geography (perhaps even the maps of Marinus of Tyre, said to have been superior to those of Ptolemy) is intriguingly enhanced by the first of Alfonso de Albuquerque's two letters. It introduces a 'piece of a map' that Albuquerque has acquired in his travels in the Indian Ocean and that he is sending to King Manuel. The fragment, he explains, is not the original but was 'traced' by Francisco Rodrigues from: 'a large map of a Javanese pilot, containing the Cape of Good Hope, Portugal and the land of Brazil, the Red Sea and the Sea of Persia, the Clove islands [effectively a world map, therefore], the navigation of the Chinese and the Gores [an unidentified people, thought by some to be the Japanese, or the inhabitants of Taiwan and the Ryukyu archipelago] with their rhumbs and direct routes followed by the ships, and the hinterland, and how the kingdoms border on each other. It seems to me, Sir, that this was the best thing I have ever seen, and Your Highness will be very pleased to see it; it had the names in Javanese writing, but I had with me a Javanese who could read and write.

The settings for my books are places that intrigue me and have a particular style and flavour. I am fortunate that I have travelled so I know the essence of a city or a country

On his own admission, Gerald was an extremely handsome man.95 He had known Baldwin for a number of years and the Archbishop was very fond of him.96 His conversation was brilliant and he must have been a gay travelling-companion. He was intrigued by every place they visited, and familiar with quite a few of them. His personal enthusiasms seem to have had no limit: local history, local topography, folklore, animals of all sorts, clothing, language, weapons and warfare, religious houses, food, weather, demoniacal possession, mountain scenery, forests covered by the sea, silver mines, quicksands, genealogies, music.

All of a sudden, thoughts of the past flitted through Lily’s mind and scratched at her heart.

All of a sudden, thoughts of the past flitted through Lily’s mind and scratched at her heart. My father. My mother. Alex… Has he forgotten me already? The countess frowned. This was not the time for such thoughts.

Lily held onto the edge of her desk to keep herself from screaming. She breathed in and breathed out. You’re a surgeon. A surgeon never panics during an operation.

Her new world had no telephones, internet or indoor plumbing. The customs were bloody and the laws were harsh. A man who tried to hurt a child faced a horrifying death. Women were not allowed to fight, because it wasn’t women’s work. Men were supposed to kill and die. That was what they knew. In the world she had come from, everything was convenient, people felt safe most of the time, and if anyone died protecting a child it was likely to be a woman. Which world is more honest?

An intelligent woman’s gratitude is a thing very much worth having…

Princess Anna was never more than a few steps away from him. He was beginning to feel like a besieged castle. The man should be the arrow, and the woman should be the target. Here, however, it seemed that the target was flying around trying to run into the arrow. There was something wrong about it.

It was horrible to watch a man being tortured. She felt like something inside her own soul was cracking, something that would never heal.

You can’t keep her down, and you won’t get away with it.

Why couldn’t his stupid wife sit at home and work on her embroidery? What was all this nonsense about slave traders and thievery?

My lady, your mercy in this matter is beyond what I can understand. Adulteresses must be chased from their villages.

Machiavelli writes that a conspiracy without any coconspirators is not a conspiracy. It’s just a crime. This is also basic legal principle. If you kill someone by yourself, in the heat of the moment, it’s murder. If you meticulously plan it with someone else beforehand, that’s conspiracy. Lee Harvey Oswald almost certainly assassinated John F. Kennedy by himself. What he hoped would happen as a result is unclear. John Wilkes Booth conspired not only to assassinate Abraham Lincoln, but working with Lewis Powell and George Atzerodt also aimed to assassinate Andrew Johnson and William Seward. It was a coordinated attempt by Confederate sympathizers to usurp the United States government. It’s not simply a single crime, but a crazed, desperate effort to turn back the tide of a lost war. In his definitive book on the subject of strategy, Lawrence Freedman writes that “combining with others often constitutes the most strategic move.” By definition, the first move in the act of a conspiracy is the assemblage of allies and operators: your coconspirators. Someone to do your bidding, to work with you, someone you can trust, who agrees with you that there’s a problem, or is willing to be paid to agree with the sentiment that it’s about time someone, somebody did something about this. Each hand doesn’t need to know what the other is doing, but there needs to be more than one set. Thus, Thiel’s vague idea to do something about Gawker is concretized into conspiracy on April 6, 2011. It began unremarkably, when Thiel traveled to Germany to speak at a conference and had dinner with a student he’d met on a tour of a university a few years before. Peter arrives, driven in a black S-class Mercedes, the same model he has idling outside with a driver, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, wherever he is in the world.

The essayist and investor Paul Graham, a peer and rival of Peter Thiel’s, has charted the trajectory of a start-up, with all its ups and downs. After the initial bump of media attention, the rush of excitement from the unexpected success, Graham says that the founders enter a phase where the novelty begins to wear off, and they quickly descend from their early euphoria into what he calls the “trough of sorrow.” A start-up launches with its investments, gets a few press hits, and then smacks right into reality. Many companies never make it out of this ditch. “The problem with the Silicon Valley,” as Jim Barksdale, the former CEO and president of Netscape, once put it, “is that we tend to confuse a clear view with a short distance.” Here, too, like the founders of a start-up, the conspirators have smacked into reality. The reality of the legal system. The defensive bulwark of the First Amendment. The reality of the odds. They have discovered the difference between a good plan and how far they’ll need to travel to fulfill it. They have trouble even serving Denton with papers. Harder has to request a 120-day extension just to wrap his head around Gawker’s financial and corporate structure. This is going to be harder than they thought. It always is. To say that in 2013 all the rush and excitement present on those courthouse steps several months earlier had dissipated would be a preposterous understatement. If a conspiracy, by its inherent desperation and disadvantaged position, is that long struggle in a dark hallway, here is the point where one considers simply sitting down and sobbing in despair, not even sure what direction to go. Is this even possible? Are we wrong? Machiavelli wrote that fortune—misfortune in fact—aims herself where “dikes and dams have not been made to contain her.” Clausewitz said that battle plans were great but ultimately subject to “friction”—delays, confusion, mistakes, and complications. What is friction? Friction is when you’re Pericles and you lay out a brilliant plan to defend Athens against Sparta and then your city is hit by the plague.

He was the leader of the Prophet David’s army,’ said the Sheikh. ‘David had him killed so that he could marry Nebi Uri’s beautiful wife. Two angels, Mikhail and Jibrael, appeared and asked David why he needed an extra wife when he already had ninety-nine others. You know this story?’ ‘Yes. I think we Christians know Nebi Uri as Uriah the Hittite.’ It was an unlikely tangle of tales: a medieval Muslim saint buried in a much older Byzantine tomb tower had somehow been confused with the Biblical and Koranic Uriah; perhaps the saint’s name was Uriah, and over the passage of time his identity had been merged with that of his scriptural namesake. More intriguing still was the fact that in this city, long famed for the shrines of its Christian saints, the Muslim Sufi tradition had directly carried on from where Theodoret’s Christian holy men had left off. Just as the Muslim form of prayer, with its bowings and prostrations, appears to derive from the older Syriac Christian tradition that I had seen performed at Mar Gabriel, and just as the architecture of the earliest minarets unmistakably derives from the square late-antique Syrian church towers, so the roots of Islamic mysticism and Sufism lie with the Byzantine holy men and desert fathers who preceded them across the Near East. Today the West often views Islam as a civilisation very different from and indeed innately hostile to Christianity. Only when you travel in Christianity’s Eastern homelands do you realise how closely the two religions are really linked. For the former grew directly out of the latter and still, to this day, embodies many aspects and practices of the early Christian world now lost in Christianity’s modern Western incarnation. When the early Byzantines were first confronted by the Prophet’s armies, they assumed that Islam was merely a heretical form of Christianity, and in many ways they were not so far wrong: Islam accepts much of the Old and New Testaments, and venerates both Jesus and the ancient Jewish prophets. Certainly if John Moschos were to come back today it is likely that he would find much more that was familiar in the practices of a modern Muslim Sufi than he would with those of, say, a contemporary American Evangelical. Yet this simple truth has been lost by our tendency to think of Christianity as a Western religion rather than the Oriental faith it actually is. Moreover the modern demonisation of Islam in the West, and the recent growth of Muslim fundamentalism (itself in many ways a reaction to the West’s repeated humiliation of the Muslim world), have led to an atmosphere where few are aware of, or indeed wish to be aware of, the profound kinship of Christianity and Islam.

It took quantum theory … to reconcile how both ideas could be true: photons and other subatomic particles—electrons, protons, and so forth—exhibit two complementary qualities; they are, as one physicist put it, “wavicles.” To explain the idea … physicists often used a thought experiment, in which Young’s double-slit demonstration is repeated with a beam of electrons instead of light. Obeying the laws of quantum mechanics, the stream of particles would split in two, and the smaller streams would interfere with each other, leaving the same kind of light- and dark-striped pattern as was cast by light. Particles would act like waves.311 In 1961, this idea was actually tested with electrons, and it worked as expected. Elementary particles, chunks of stuff like little billiard balls, behave like waves, provided that you aren’t looking. This can be demonstrated easily even if you shoot a single photon one at a time through a double-slit apparatus.312 However—and this is the frosting on the quantum measurement problem—those very same chunks of stuff behave like particles when you do look at them. Technically, the process of looking is called gaining “which-path” information, in which you learn which path a photon took as it traveled through the double-slit apparatus. To repeat: If you know that it goes through the left slit or the right slit, typically determined using a detector placed behind each slit, then the photon will behave like a particle. But if you don’t know, then it will behave like a wave. Assumptions The experiment we conducted took advantage of this intriguing effect. It was based on two assumptions: (A) If information is gained—by any means—about a photon’s path as it travels through two slits, then the quantum wavelike interference pattern, produced by photons traveling through the slits, will “collapse” in proportion to the certainty of the knowledge obtained. (B) If some aspect of consciousness is a primordial, self-aware feature of the fabric of reality, and that property is modulated by us through capacities we enjoy as attention and intention, then focusing human attention on a double-slit system may extract information about the photon’s path, and in turn that will affect the interference pattern.

It was a scary prospect indeed, not least for the many millions of Muslims around the world who had no desire whatsoever to be ruled by a mad mullah in Syria. Rarely a day went by without the news of the civil war in that country, the daily murders and executions, or of atrocities committed by these Wahhabi psychopaths. Having already travelled widely in the Islamic world, I was more intrigued than ever to find out more about what made presumably normal young men and women leave their homes to go and fight for a barbaric organisation, hell bent on the destruction of the Western world.

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This is a story about how ideas are born, and how they die. It is also a story about how they survive. It is about how ancient stories linger, and divine whispers persist. It is about how religions change and change again, as they travel, and age, and spread into other lands, and other ages. It is about how long memory is, and how short. It is about what was, and what might have been.

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