Love Galactic Quotes

A grin spread across her face. He'd not only come for her, he loved her enough to start a galactic war. How cool was that? Nothing says I love you like bloodshed and violence.

Living in the present moment is the recurring baptism of the soul, forever purifying every new day with a new you.

This is where I would've taken Daniel. I would've told him to write poetry about space rocks and impact craters. The sheer number of actions and reactions it's taken to form our solar system, our galaxy, our universe, is astonishing. The number of things that had to go exactly right is overwhelming. Compared to that, what is falling in love? A series of small coincidences that we say means everything because we want to believe that our tiny lives matter on a galactic scale. But falling in love doesn't even begin to compare to the formation of the universe. It's not even close

So, I may not be an expert on fathers, but I know that anyone who makes you feel less than worthy, especially someone who I believe is supposed to love and protect you, is not worth your effort.

As the combatant fell, she shouted, “This is Sparta!” Because obviously.

It’s the wild colour scheme that freaks me,” said Zaphod whose love affair with this ship had lasted almost three minutes into the flight, “Every time you try to operate on of these weird black controls that are labelled in black on a black background, a little black light lights up black to let you know you’ve done it. What is this? Some kind of galactic hyperhearse?

At this point, she would slap a nun for a ham sandwich.

Love and hell are alike in that respect; they are what you bring to them. The script is yours; only the props are furnished.

Snaps fell back onto his butt, staring at the seedlings with wide eyes. “Am I…a father?” “Sort of,” Beryl said. Zylar churred, amusement overwhelming him. Then Snaps lay down in front of the plants with a determined sound. “I will protect you, tiny green dirt dogs.

Before OkCupid profiles became mandated by the Galactic Government, the only way to find a mate was to self-induce brain-damage and beg strangers for sex in public. The fact that anyone ever achieved sexual congress during these dark times is a remarkable testament to man's will to survive.

I saw her simplicity, her ignorance, her childish unkindness, her unpretty anxious little face. She was not beautiful or brilliantly clever. How false it is to say that love is blind. I could even judge her, I could even condemn her, I could even, in some possible galactic loop of thought, make her suffer.

The Universe, as has been observed before, is an unsettlingly big place, a fact which for the sake of a quiet life most people tend to ignore. Many would happily move to somewhere rather smaller of their own devising, and this is what most beings in fact do. For instance, in one corner of the Eastern Galactic Arm lies the large forest planet Oglaroon, the entire "intelligent" population of which lives permanently in one fairly small and crowded nut tree. In which tree they are born, live, fall in love, carve tiny speculative articles in the bark on the meaning of life, the futility of death and the importance of birth control, fight a few extremely minor wars and eventually die strapped to the underside of some of the less accessible outer branches.

In 1955, a little more than four years after leaving a TV studio in Hollywood, signals bearing the first sound and images of the I Love Lucy show passed Proxima Centauri, the nearest star to our sun. A half-century later, a scene with Lucy disguised as a clown sneaking into Ricky’s Tropicana Night Club was 50-plus light-years, or about 300 trillion miles, away. Since the Milky Way is 100,000 light-years across and 1,000 light-years thick, and our solar system is near the middle of the galactic plane, this means in about AD 2450 the expanding sphere of radio waves bearing Lucy, Ricky, and their neighbors the Mertzes will emerge from the top and bottom of our galaxy and enter intergalactic space.

The sheer number of actions and reactions it’s taken to form our solar system, our galaxy, our universe, is astonishing. The number of things that had to go exactly right is overwhelming. Compared to that, what is falling in love? A series of small coincidences that we say means everything because we want to believe that our tiny lives matter on a galactic scale. But falling in love doesn’t even begin to compare to the formation of the universe. It’s not even close.

For instance, in one corner of the Eastern Galactic Arm lies the large forest planet Oglaroon, the entire “intelligent” population of which lives permanently in one fairly small and crowded nut tree. In which tree they are born, live, fall in love, carve tiny speculative articles in the bark on the meaning of life, the futility of death and the importance of birth control, fight a few extremely minor wars and eventually die strapped to the underside of some of the less accessible outer branches. In

it’s not love that makes the world go round, it’s inertia,

He’d save her life first and sort the rest out later.

They lay there, two starfish on a galactic beach, the lights twinkling and the pink and blue clouds hovering like distant nebulae.

She found his hesitant possessiveness adorable, because while he felt those things, he never tried to stop her from doing whatever she wanted. And she could eat his sweet vulnerability with a spoon.

It’s a very fine line indeed, and a seductive message at its core: God loves some of us, and is coming for us—and he’ll destroy everything and everyone we don’t like. It’s a great galactic game of “Just wait until your Father gets home!

See, you stand on your own,” he whispered in my ear. “You do not need me, but I wish only to be your ear when you need to release your fears and doubts, your hand when you need strengthening, your guard when you cannot hold on your own, and your heart when you are too far gone to pull yourself free.” Tahk turned me to face him. “I will always be here, lovely. When you feel all is lost, and you are alone, I will be right here. Let me stand for you in your time of need. It is a gift, not a weakness.

The shadow of your cheekbones Amidst the moonless sky The constellations shape your face The stars, your contoured lines Galactic eyes stare into mine Entranced, I trace your face Lost inside the orbit Of star-crossed, twisted fate Outlined in the exosphere The diamond studded abyss Your stellar silhouette Has left my soul eclipsed.

In this sub-species [of science fiction] the author leaps forward into an imagined future when planetary, sidereal, or even galactic travel has become common. Against this huge backcloth he then proceeds to develop an ordinary love-story, spy-story, wreck-story, or crime-story. This seems to me tasteless. Whatever in a work of art is not used is doing harm. The faintly imagined, and sometimes strictly unimagineable, scene and properties, only blur the real theme and distract us from any interest it might have had.

Ode to the Beloved’s Hips" Bells are they—shaped on the eighth day—silvered percussion in the morning—are the morning. Swing switch sway. Hold the day away a little longer, a little slower, a little easy. Call to me— I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock right now—so to them I come—struck-dumb chime-blind, tolling with a throat full of Hosanna. How many hours bowed against this Infinity of Blessed Trinity? Communion of Pelvis, Sacrum, Femur. My mouth—terrible angel, ever-lasting novena, ecstatic devourer. O, the places I have laid them, knelt and scooped the amber—fast honey—from their openness— Ah Muzen Cab’s hidden Temple of Tulúm—licked smooth the sticky of her hip—heat-thrummed ossa coxae. Lambent slave to ilium and ischium—I never tire to shake this wild hive, split with thumb the sweet- dripped comb—hot hexagonal hole—dark diamond— to its nectar-dervished queen. Meanad tongue— come-drunk hum-tranced honey-puller—for her hips, I am—strummed-song and succubus. They are the sign: hip. And the cosign: a great book— the body’s Bible opened up to its Good News Gospel. Alleluias, Ave Marías, madre mías, ay yay yays, Ay Dios míos, and hip-hip-hooray. Cult of Coccyx. Culto de cadera. Oracle of Orgasm. Rorschach’s riddle: What do I see? Hips: Innominate bone. Wish bone. Orpheus bone. Transubstantiation bone—hips of bread, wine-whet thighs. Say the word and healed I shall be: Bone butterfly. Bone wings. Bone Ferris wheel. Bone basin bone throne bone lamp. Apparition in the bone grotto—6th mystery— slick rosary bead—Déme la gracia of a decade in this garden of carmine flower. Exile me to the enormous orchard of Alcinous—spiced fruit, laden-tree—Imparadise me. Because, God, I am guilty. I am sin-frenzied and full of teeth for pear upon apple upon fig. More than all that are your hips. They are a city. They are Kingdom— Troy, the hollowed horse, an army of desire— thirty soldiers in the belly, two in the mouth. Beloved, your hips are the war. At night your legs, love, are boulevards leading me beggared and hungry to your candy house, your baroque mansion. Even when I am late and the tables have been cleared, in the kitchen of your hips, let me eat cake. O, constellation of pelvic glide—every curve, a luster, a star. More infinite still, your hips are kosmic, are universe—galactic carousel of burning comets and Big Big Bangs. Millennium Falcon, let me be your Solo. O, hot planet, let me circumambulate. O, spiral galaxy, I am coming for your dark matter. Along las calles de tus muslos I wander— follow the parade of pulse like a drum line— descend into your Plaza del Toros— hands throbbing Miura bulls, dark Isleros. Your arched hips—ay, mi torera. Down the long corridor, your wet walls lead me like a traje de luces—all glitter, glowed. I am the animal born to rush your rich red muletas—each breath, each sigh, each groan, a hooked horn of want. My mouth at your inner thigh—here I must enter you—mi pobre Manolete—press and part you like a wound— make the crowd pounding in the grandstand of your iliac crest rise up in you and cheer.

And yet, even while they baffled him, they aroused within his heart a feeling he had never known before. When- which was not often, but sometimes happened- they burst into tears of utter frustration or despair, their tiny disappointments seemed to him more tragic than Man’s long retreat after the loss of his Galactic Empire. That was something too huge and remote for comprehension, but the weeping of a child could pierce one to the heart. Alvin had met love in Diaspar, but now he was learning something equally precious, and without which love itself could never reach its highest fulfillment but must remain forever incomplete. He was learning tenderness.

Nowhere is it the same place as yesterday. None of us is the same person as yesterday. We finally die from the exhaustion of becoming. This downward cellular jubilance is shared by the wind, bugs, birds, bears and rivers, and perhaps the black holes in galactic space where our souls will all be gathered in an invisible thimble of antimatter. But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Yes, trees wear out as the wattles under my chin grow, the wrinkled hands that tried to strangle a wife beater in New York City in 1957. We whirl with the earth, catching our breath as someone else, our soft brains ill-trained except to watch ourselves disappear into the distance. Still, we love to make music of this puzzle.

No. Every time I’ve seen you reach out and love someone, take your hand and put it on a broken person’s arm and encourage them with your words, kiss me on the cheek and make me feel like the most important person in the universe, play a game with your little brother while you could be doing something else – that’s holy. Those moments when we’re together and we sink into that weird little world where it’s just the two of us and we almost feel like we’re glowing with love and then some vibrating entity that feels older than the sea filters in and hums between us – that’s religion. That’s us rising above our humanity – transcending the genre – and reaching a higher level, a galactic level. That’s love. That’s God. That’s grace. That’s majesty. And you love, Summer, so you’re God.” He laughed again, quieter this time. “To me, at least.

Genar-Hofoen found himself wondering again about the trade-off between skill-honing and distraction that took place in the development of any species likely to end up as one of those in play in the great galactic civilisation game. The Culture’s standard assessment held that the Affront spent far too much time hunting and not nearly enough time getting on with the business of being a responsible space-faring species (though of course the Culture was sophisticated enough to know that this was just its, admittedly subjective, way of looking at things; and besides, the more time the Affront spent dallying in their hunting parks and regaling each other with hunting tales in their carousing halls, the less they had for rampaging across their bit of the galaxy being horrible to people). But if the Affront didn’t love hunting as much as they did, would they still be the Affront? Hunting, especially the highly cooperative form of hunting in three dimensions which the Affront had evolved, required and encouraged intelligence, and it was generally - though not exclusively - intelligence that took a species into space. The required mix of common sense, inventiveness, compassion and aggression required was different for each; perhaps if you tried to make the Affront just a little less enraptured by hunting you would only be able to do so by making them much less intelligent and inquisitive. It was like play; it was fun at the time, when you were a child, but it was also training for when you became an adult. Fun was serious.

Hey, Gwen. How’s it going?” he asked. “Good, Martin,” she replied. “How are you today?” “Fine. I’m fine. I gotta say though, this meeting, with all of these motions being raised and seconded, I feel like I’m in one of the Star Wars prequels.” “I know!” Gwen enthused. She proceeded to go on at length about how much she loved the Star Wars prequels, and how particularly the parts set in the Galactic Senate gave all of the events much more of a sense of gravitas. Martin drank his coffee as quickly as he could and tried to pretend the conversation wasn’t happening.

Look, it’s not love that makes the world go round, it’s inertia,

You try to predict movements by drawing on patterns in nature. Yes, of course, the mathematical properties of tree rings, sunflower seeds, the limbs of galactic spirals. I learned this. I loved the cross harmonies between nature and data. You taught me this. You made this form of analysis horribly and sadistically precise. But you forgot something along the way." "What?" "The importance of the lopsided. The thing that's skewed a little. You were looking for balance - beautiful balance, equals parts, equal sides, I know this. I know you.

Before OkCupid profiles became mandated by the Galactic Government, the only way to find a mate was to self-induce brain damage and beg strangers for sex in public. The fact that anyone ever achieved sexual congress during these dark times is a remarkable testament to man’s will to survive.

A frond curled around her arm, and it dit feel like vegetation, not flesh. Kerr is a sentient plant? So freaking cool.

Give me time to leave with Snaps. It will make your overture more compelling if you do it when he can verify that I’m elsewhere.” “Like I’m doing it behind your back.” “What does my dorsal side have to do with anything?” “Never mind.

You’re so unhappy. But the ancient grove has promised it will not be long.” How did Kurr communicate with these ancestor trees anyway? It felt entirely unhinged to hang a whole plan on the whispered promises of elderly arboreal advisors, but hell, once she got abducted and decided to roll with it since it was better than her old life, did she really need to draw the line at listening to venerable vegetation? “Well, if the trees said so…” 

Also, I’ve been meaning to explain this to you. When I show my teeth, it’s not a display of power or dominance. I’m smiling. It means I’m amused or happy.” “Truly?” That astonished him. He never would have made that connection on his own. “Would it trouble you not to clarify this to others? It makes you less imposing.” “Uh, sure. They can keep thinking it’s a scary battle face, I don’t mind.” “Thank you, Terrible One.” “What did I say about working on your endearments?” she snapped. Zylar processed the reaction, but he didn’t understand her outrage. “It is a compliment. You will behold many fearsome competitors in the Choosing, but I do not believe anyone can best you.” “It’s a cultural thing, I get that. But if you want to put a smile on my face, call me sweetheart or baby or…” She stopped talking, likely reading his horror. “Why would I comment on the delectable nature of your organs?” Zylar shuddered delicately. “It’s even worse to infantilize you.” She tilted her head. “Shit, since you put it that way, now I don’t like those options either. Then…just use my name, okay?” “Yes, Beryl. That I will do gladly.” He set off again, pleased with how readily they’d reached a sensible compromise. “What does your name mean?” “It’s a mineral found on Earth. A gemstone, to be precise. The best known types are emerald and aquamarine, but I’m honestly glad my mom didn’t get more specific.” “These gemstones are valuable, yes?” “Some of them. Why?” Ignoring the question, Zylar churred in satisfaction. “You are well named, my unexpected treasure.” “I…thanks.” She ducked her head, and the color of her cheeks shifted, darkening with what looked like it might be an injury. “Are you well enough to compete?” he asked. “We’ll find out.

As they closed the distance to his private quarters, he contemplated the problem, but before he came to any conclusions, he heard shouting. “Hey! Hey! Hey!” “So that’s what Snaps is saying when he barks,” Beryl said in a thoughtful tone. “It sounds as if he has important news.” Zylar hurried ahead, entering with haste due to the urgency of Snaps’s cry. “Finally!” Snaps said. “I’ve been saying ‘hey’ forever and nobody came.” Beryl knelt beside him and scratched the top of his head. “Sorry, buddy. I’m here now. What’s the problem?” “I’m bored! I’m so bored! I smelled everything in here so many times and—” “You want to go out?” Beryl guessed. “I peed where I’m supposed to. There’s nothing to eat, nothing to dig, nothing to chew. So bored!” Zylar had no idea what could suffice as an entertainment device, but Beryl turned to him with a look he couldn’t interpret. “I need something that could work as a collar and leash. Otherwise he might get excited and run off.” “You wish to fit him with movement-restraining devices?” At least, that was how the translator presented her request. If only he could be sure that meanings were ported accurately. Sometimes he found Beryl’s questions so baffling. “Something like that. A rope would do.

They reached the garden, and Beryl turned to him. “Is it safe for him to play on his own here?” “Define safe.” “No dog-eating plants, he can’t open the doors and run away, that sort of thing.” “I can disable to the motion-sensing feature on the entrance,” Zylar said, doing so as he offered. “And there are no aggressive botanical lifeforms cultivated here. Those are contained in the secure greeneries.” Beryl’s eyes widened. “You’re growing attack petunias somewhere?” “I don’t understand.” “Never mind.” She knelt and put her hands on Snaps’s face, so the fur-person had to look at her. “Don’t eat anything in here. You understand? It might make you sick.” “Eat nothing. Smell everything. I got it!” Snaps said. “Can I dig?” “It’s probably fine. Just don’t hurt the plants.” She pulled the cord off him, setting him free to explore, while Zylar tried to understand why Snaps wanted to dig. “I have nothing to bury,” Snaps said sadly, then he bounded off.

Though they had been gone maybe half an hour, according to her internal time clock, Snaps still went wild when they walked in, prancing around their legs with exclamations of “Welcome, welcome! I’m so glad you’re here! Welcome! Gosh! Welcome!” Dogs were fucking great. 

It was probably only a few intervals, though it seemed longer with Ryzven lurking and radiating impatience. At last Beryl and Kurr returned, markedly cleaner and fresher, and he heard Beryl telling the Greenspirit about the garden. His human hurried toward him, though her steps slowed when she spotted Ryzven nearby. Snaps squirmed in Zylar’s arms, so he set him down after checking the cord looped around his neck. Beryl reached for the leash as she eyed Ryzven, but she didn’t address him. Instead, she knelt and spoke nonsense words to the fur-person while rubbing him all over with her grabbers. Kurr filled the awkward silence with a stiff, formal greeting. “Honor to your kith and kin, renowned Ryzven. I am Kurr.” “A pleasure! Everyone who has been following the Choosing knows who you are, esteemed Greenspirit.” While Zylar would be pleased if Ryzven forgot his business with Beryl while dallying with Kurr, he doubted he’d be so lucky. And as Beryl rose, Ryzven turned to her, making sure she got the full impact of his rare colors. He even puffed out his thorax a little, and Beryl let out a breath, a sound Zylar identified as annoyance. She said something the translator couldn’t process. “I came to congratulate you on your—” Before Ryzven could finish his pompous sentence, Snaps ambled forward, lifted a leg, and eliminated on him. “I don’t like him,” Snaps said. “Beryl doesn’t like him. Let’s go!” “So sorry about that,” Beryl said in a flat tone. “Snaps is nervous around strangers.” Zylar had heard sincerity from her many times before, and on this occasion, she wasn’t remotely apologetic. In fact, her eyes were twinkling and she seemed to be having a hard time restraining herself from making the battle face, which she’d said indicated amusement or enjoyment. “You should clean that up,” he told Ryzven, who was sputtering incoherent outrage. Most likely, he would live to regret all of this, but it felt so good to get the best of his arrogant nest-mate for once that he didn’t even look back when Beryl grabbed his claw and led him toward the exit. It occurred to him that she was leading him like Snaps, only by the limb instead of using a cord, but it would have lessened the impact of their departure if he mentioned as much. Once they reached the public corridors, Kurr finally said, “I hope we have not given serious offense. I am…fearful.” The Greenspirit must know Ryzven’s reputation well. He wouldn’t accept such a humiliation without striking back. “Do not let it lessen your satisfaction in what you’ve achieved today. I will apologize more fully another time.” “Why would you apologize for something Snaps did?” Beryl cut in. “If anyone’s going to make amends, it should be me. Though for the record, I said ‘sorry’ already.” “It was insincere,” Kurr noted. Beryl stared for a long moment, then said, “That’s fair.” She took a step closer to the two of them and added in a whisper, “So when I apologize sincerely, I probably shouldn’t let on that I told Snaps to pee on him? I mean, theoretically.” The Greenspirit emitted a shocked rustling sound while Zylar simply could not contain his glee. He churred louder than he ever had in his life. “Truly? That’s what you said that the translator could not comprehend?” Then Beryl did show her fearsome aspect, displaying all her teeth. “I will neither confirm nor deny those allegations.” “Confirmed,” said Snaps. “I was promised extra snacks.” Still delighted with his intended, Zylar led the way to the garden, wondering how he should reward Beryl for improving his life in every conceivable way. 

love

O, constellation of pelvic glide—every curve, a luster, a star. More infinite still, your hips are kosmic, are universe—galactic carousel of burning comets and big Big Bangs. Millennium Falcon, let me be your Solo. O, hot planet, let me circumambulate. O, spiral galaxy, I am coming for your dark matter.

Even if the main guy in a story was riddled with flaws, he eventually got his head straight, realized he loved the main woman, and everything worked out. I’d embrace those glorious two words ‘the end’, close the book, place it back on a shelf, and move onto the next story.

Sometimes the loneliness was overpowering. Not just the immediate loneliness of living in a huge house on my own, loved ones far away, but a more abstract, galactic isolation, like a leaking boat bobbing in open water, no anchor or land in sight. I might sink, or just float farther out, and I wasn't sure which was worse.

Terrible One, I’m most willing to receive affection from you in whatever form you wish to bestow it. If I find the delivery method strange, I believe I can adapt.” “Then hold still.

He was about to rush out and start a frantic search when Snaps bounded into their quarters. Quivering, he knelt and put a claw gently on the fur-person’s head. “I’m very glad to see you,” he said. “Now that is a proper welcome for a good boy,” said Snaps.

Certainly, I’ve never seen anyone with such a fearsome aspect.” “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” she demanded. “Did it not sound like one?” He seemed puzzled,

Are you…proposing to me?” “Yes, Terrible One. You are the most hideous mate anyone ever brought back to Barath, and so you will drive all predators away from our nest with ease.” He churred again, a soothing sound, actually. “Thanks? But you need to work on the endearments.” She glanced at the dog, who cocked his head at her. “What do you think, boy?” “Go,” said Snaps.

Fuck it,” Beryl said. “Out-bonding it is. Let’s see where this goes.

Zylar could not possibly have understood the female correctly. Her words registered as: Copulation! Let’s join and find out how this works.

She wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or Zylar, but they both answered at the same time. “Positive,” and “Absolutely certain.” Maybe her heart fluttered a little. For damn sure, her alien hadn’t meant to steal her, but he was dead set on keeping her.

Come on. How bad could it be?” That was a rhetorical question, but nobody had explained that concept to dogs because he answered, “They could eat us. Burn us. Or put us in cages. Not all at once.” “Thanks.” “I’m here to help,” said Snaps.

Is there anything I can do to ease your path?” Zylar paused then, waiting for her reply.

Zylar froze. Somehow he must have set off her predatory instincts. “I’m happy to hear that, but why are you grappling me?

If you had to be abducted by aliens, it was good to wind up with one who respected your boundaries and preferences.

It was a deeply inhuman embrace, but something about the contact soothed her regardless, because it came from a friend.

Oliver Wendell loved his free speech, particularly at 3:00 a.m.

Quinn, I know next to nothing about love, but when I look at you, my world stops.

Zylar could not predict what medicine would make her better. Maybe healing would require art, music, or simply the solace of time. Whatever it took, he would help her surmount this tragedy.

Mate? Did he just refer to me as his mate? A grin spread across her face. He’d not only come for her, but he loved her enough to start a galactic war. How cool was that?

MISPLACEMENT OF BEINGS" September 11, 2011 at 3:24 PM THERE ARE GODS OF SPORTS(MICHAEL JORDAN) THERE ARE GODS OF MUSIC (MICHAEL JACKSON) AND THERE ARE EVEN GODS OF WAR (AMERICA) "THIS IS NECESSARY" THIS GALACTIC COSMIC UNIVERSE IS CONSTANTLY EXPANDING, AND EVOLVING MORE AND MORE STARS ARE BEING BIRTH TO ANNOUNCE THEIR EXISTENCE FOR WE ARE ALL APART OF THIS NEVER ENDING PROCESS IN WHICH WE CALL LIFE WEATHER WE ARE AWARE OF THIS OR NOT WE ARE ALL, AS SPACE CAN BE DEFINE AS THE DNA OF GOD WE ARE THE INTELLECT OF THE COMPLETE SOURCE IN WHICH WE AS LIGHT BEING SHOULD EXPRESS THIS KNOWLEDGE BUT THE FACT THAT SOME STILL WILL NOT EXPRESS OR IS AFRAID OF WHAT THEY MIGHT LOOSE IS IS A STRIKING TO ONES HEART KNOW WHO YOU ARE....LOVE,TRUTH,PROSPERITY

We won’t always be free to travel wherever we will. We won’t always be able to take the time to attend elaborate parties. We won’t always have the chance to dance with the ones we love… So dance now.

At the age of fifteen, during the winter when she’d discovered smashball, romance, and her parents’ profound imperfections, Mon Mothma had decided to devote her life to studying history; decided to turn her back on her family’s political dynasty and to spend her days in a cramped study reading thousand-year-old diaries and letters and cargo manifests until her eyes burned. She would be detective, coroner, and philosopher all at once, examining means and motive and cause of death for entire civilizations. She hadn’t become a historian, of course. By the next summer, Mon’s moment of rebellion had been forgotten. Inertia and family pressures and a genuine love of governance had returned her to the road to politics. She’d gone on to become a senator (far too young, she thought now) and scrabbled for votes and smiled and kept her head above water until she’d learned how to play the game for real.