Isis Bride Quotes

One way to ruin your life is to have dreams bigger than your abilities.

Dust. You forget about the dust. It hangs over the landscape like a ragged curtain. It scratches your throat. The air tastes of sulphur, saltpetre, cordite, burning rubber and burning oil from the pipelines and wells sabotaged by ISIS to disrupt aerial surveillance.

As we trace the myth of the Goddess through her salvific guides, we are aware of a cohesive set of metaphors that suggest a family likeness, as though a great mirror has shattered, prismatically retaining the original image. Indeed, the way which wisdom appears in the Bible is by means of "reflective mythology"-not the representation of an actual myth, but by a theological appropriation of mythic language and patterns that have been repackaged from the pagan models. With the Goddesses Demeter and Isis, the myth of the Goddess takes on a greater urgency that resonates to our contemporary spiritual response to the Divine Feminine: we find a common theme of loss and finding, of seeking for pieces of the shattered mirror of the beloved. Only when the divine daughter or husband is found and reconstituted can earth function again. Kore and Osiris are lost and found again, but they cannot be reconstituted entirely as they were. It is with our own search for the Goddess. In the period of loss, exile, or death, something transformative has happened. In each of these saving stories, it is the urgency of love the enduring patience of the seeker that restores the beloved. These are the prime qualities of Sophia that remind us always that, though we do not see her face clearly because she is veiled or disguised, the Goddess accompanies us wherever we go.

These female fighters believe that ISIS fighters are afraid of them because they will not be permitted to enter paradise if they are killed by a woman.

Lies corrode like rust.

We find in silence and body language the shadow of truth.

If you pile lie upon lie the pile gets so high the truth is obscured.

Liars are the acid that eats at the foundations of public life and democracy.

Liars are chameleons that take on any colour.

There is no such thing as fate. We are born, we live, we die. We invent meaning to make life tolerable.

Forgive me, Sophia. I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just coming over to apologize for hurting you during the, er, ceremony.” “It’s all right.” She looked down at the ground, feeling awkward all over again when she remembered the strange sensations that had flooded her body during the Luck Kiss. “No, it’s not. I drew your blood and for that I must beg your forgiveness.” He sounded formal again, just as he had when he was talking to the priestess. “The gift of blood must be freely given—never taken or forced.” “The…the gift of blood?” She looked up at him uncertainly. “Is that some kind of Kindred ceremony?” He looked uncomfortable. “It is part of the mating ritual of the Blood Kindred. And since you have made it abundantly clear you have no wish to be called as a bride, I shouldn’t have taken your blood.” “So if you did call a bride that would be part of it—of your relationship, I mean? You’d always be…biting her?” She couldn’t help looking at his fangs again and feeling glad they were still small. “Only when we made love,” Sylvan assured her as though that made it all right. Sophie felt her stomach do a slow forward flip but she tried not to show her dismay. “That’s…uh interesting.” “And off the point.” Sylvan frowned, as though irritated with himself. “What I’m trying to say is, please accept my apologies and my best wishes for your health and happiness. I truly did not mean to bite you.” “It’s…I know it was an accident but…” She wanted to ask him more. Wanted to know why his fangs had grown when he kissed her. It wasn’t just his fangs that grew, whispered a little voice in her head and a wave of embarrassment swept over her. “Yes?” Sylvan looked at her earnestly but she shook her head. “It’s okay,” she mumbled, not meeting his eyes. “Seriously, I’m fine. Let’s just…leave it at that.” “I appreciate your willingness to put the incident behind us but I need to examine the wound.” “Why?” Sophie asked. “I know you’re a doctor…er medic but—” “I need to know how serious the injury I inflicted was.” He looked so stern that she tilted her chin up to allow the examination. “It’s not bad at all. See?” she pointed at her bottom lip which, to tell the truth, was still pretty sore. Sylvan cupped her cheek in one hand and leaned forward, studying her hurt lip. For some reason Sophie’s face got hot at the gentle touch and she had to close her eyes. What is he looking for? What’s taking so long? She wished he would hurry up and finish the examination. His hand was so warm and the feel of his skin on hers made her nervous. “Is…is everything all right?” she asked at last. “It appears to be.” He sounded cautiously relieved. “I nicked you pretty badly but I don’t think you got any of my essence.” “Your what?” She opened her eyes to see him looking at her intently. Blushing, she looked quickly away. “My essence. It’s…never mind. You should recover normally.” His voice dropped. “I would offer to heal it for you but I don’t think you’d care for my method of healing.” “What do you mean?

The only thing the English have left is their past.

In order to be yourself you have to deconstruct the puzzle of who you were to become who you were meant to be.

Most men are a confusion of half-truths and vanity, of something lost and never completed.

The path of destiny isn’t a straight line. It is curved, chaotic, often hidden, and there are endless forks where you make the decisions that lead you to yourself.

Dreams are visions of where you want to go. Who you want to be. Life isn’t what it is. It’s what it can be.

Life isn’t what it is. It’s what it can be.

When trees are treated as a commodity, cutting them down is good for business. When people are a commodity, enslaving them, exploiting them and underpaying them is good for business. When everything is a commodity, the landscape grows barren, and the earth turns to dust.

Money attracts money like a magnet. It doesn’t trickle down. It is sucked up.

Those who live in fear of failure slowly but inevitably fail.

Everything that ever was always will be and is always present to discover if you have the will to look beyond surface appearances.

To the public, they were either naive jihadi brides or calculating monsters. But most of the women in this book were neither passive nor predatory, and trying to pin down their degree of agency seemed to be only one line of inquiry, and certainly not the most revealing. Some collaborated or acted knowingly; some were so young that, despite the outward appearance of deliberate choice, they were not mature enough to exercise anything approaching adult judgement.

How you live your life is a question of choices. You must do your best to make the right ones and make sure you fix it when you don’t.

It is a curse not speaking languages and in a broken world more important than ever before.

Two Englishmen meeting for the first time instantly seek the differences between them, the doubts and reservations, the message in the other’s accent.

Not all the young women recruited to holy war had their feet caned by the moral police. There were those who held the canes.

Each community lives by its own rules in a disconnected, parallel universe. Integration is like a ghost people speak of but no one ever sees.

The extra mile is a lot longer than the rest.

Time is fixed and time is flexible. It is an invention by man and the curse of man. We all need more time.

The world only stays in balance when good people do what’s right.

We cannot construct equality. We can create fairness.

A few words in a stranger’s language reminds us of our shared humanity.

On the security circuit in the Middle East, reputation is everything. If you don’t know someone, they’re probably not worth knowing.

The grating cry of the muezzin from the mosques at sunrise wakes people from their sleep and puts them on edge for the rest of the day.

You can never trust a spy. Even your own.

Killing another human being is not something you get used to. It takes away their life and subtracts something from your own, a fine layer of your humanity.

It doesn’t matter how many bombs we drop on the Middle East, how many children are mutilated and killed, the jihadis like the phoenix will rise from the ashes and the refugees and asylum seekers will keep coming. Once they have seen on their mobile phones the way we live, they will look out across their deserts and wastelands and make the journey west.

The one thing the English can’t stand is someone getting above themselves.

Every jihadi bride who wants to come home is proof that Islamic State is a failure.

The past is like a tattoo. Your life changes, but the tattoo is still there to remind you who you were and you forget who you are.

Time is like an aeroplane after take off. It is always moving and only goes in one direction.

The past is dust. It disappears behind us. There is no way back.

Traditions have got a lot to answer for. They lose their meaning and we cling on to something that does more harm than good.

Patience isn’t a gift. It is learned.

Wars are remembered when those who were there would rather forget.

If we are one world then the only patriotism can be for the world.

Sixty seconds is a long time on the battlefield.