Lynx Quotes

She was not a lynx or a spider or even the Wraith. She was Inej Ghafa, and her future was waiting above.

...And, all at once, the moon arouse through the thin ghastly mist, And was crimson in color... And they lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom. And lay down at the feet of the demon. And looked at him steadily in the face.

I wanted to learn more of love- that is built not on the shifting sands of violent passion but on the steady rock of deep and abiding affection.

When I consider that the nobler animal have been exterminated here - the cougar, the panther, lynx, wolverine, wolf, bear, moose, dear, the beaver, the turkey and so forth and so forth, I cannot but feel as if I lived in a tamed and, as it were, emasculated country... Is it not a maimed and imperfect nature I am conversing with? As if I were to study a tribe of Indians that had lost all it's warriors...I take infinite pains to know all the phenomena of the spring, for instance, thinking that I have here the entire poem, and then, to my chagrin, I hear that it is but an imperfect copy that I possess and have read, that my ancestors have torn out many of the first leaves and grandest passages, and mutilated it in many places. I should not like to think that some demigod had come before me and picked out some of the best of the stars. I wish to know an entire heaven and an entire earth.

This is the one thing I hope: that she never stopped. I hope when her body couldn't run any farther she left it behind like everything else that tried to hold her down, she floored the pedal and she went like wildfire, streamed down night freeways with both hands off the wheel and her head back screaming to the sky like a lynx, white lines and green lights whipping away into the dark, her tires inches off the ground and freedom crashing up her spine.

She has a serene, glowing disposition. She looks at you and the rest of the world through the eyes of a lynx and is always mysterious, possibly because she always harbours those hidden laughs just beneath her lips. She’s always ready to laugh.

My youngest brother killed a lynx yesterday,” Rose said. “Apparently it came into his territory and left some spray marks. He skinned it, smeared himself in its blood, and put its pelt on his shoulders like a cape. And that’s how he came dressed for breakfast.” Cerise drank some beer. “My sister kills small animals and hangs their corpses on a tree, because she thinks she is a monster and she’s convinced we’ll eventually banish her from the house. They’re her rations. Just in case.” Rose blinked. “I see. I think we’re going to get along just fine, don’t you?” “I think so, yes.

Do you think I like sending out agents to do my dirty work? Do you think I get my thrills living vicariously? Do you think I don't know hurt? Do you think I don't know hurt? You don't know hurt, sister! I can't get off the mat to take down Lynx on my own-- but you can, and by God, you will--

You have got to stop with the severed body parts, he (Lynx) shouted as he righted himself. This is the twenty-first century, man. You don't have to do this barbaric shit. Buy a gun, put a bullet in them. Pop, pop, bad man goes down. Done.

When your opponent sees into your reasoning like a lynx, conceal your thoughts like an inky squid.

This is the one thing I hope: that she never stopped. I hope when her body couldn’t run any farther she left it behind like everything else that tried to hold her down, she floored the pedal and she went like wildfire, streamed down night freeways with both hands off the wheel and her head back screaming to the sky like a lynx, white lines and green lights whipping away into the dark, her tires inches off the ground and freedom crashing up her spine. I hope every second she could have had came flooding through that cottage like speed wind: ribbons and sea spray, a wedding ring and Chad’s mother crying, sun-wrinkles and gallops through wild red brush, a baby’s first tooth and its shoulder blades like tiny wings in Amsterdam Toronto Dubai; hawthorn flowers spinning through summer air, Daniel’s hair turning gray under high ceilings and candle flames and the sweet cadences of Abby’s singing. Time works so hard for us, Daniel told me once. I hope those last few minutes worked like hell for her. I hope in that half hour she lived all her million lives.

I'm not ashamed of my human or my lynx form. I wear clothes because people force me to. I don't need to put on a costume every morning to feel better about myself." -Jack

But even as she gave thanks, she knew that the rain was not enough. She wanted a storm – thunder, wind, a deluge. She wanted it to crash through Ketterdam’s pleasure houses, lifting roofs and tearing doors off their hinges. She wanted it to raise the seas, take hold of every slaving ship, shatter their masts, and smash their hulls against unforgiving shores. I want to call that storm, she thought. And four million kruge might be enough to do it. Enough for her own ship – something small and fierce and laden with firepower. Something like her. She would hunt the slavers and their buyers. They would learn to fear her, and they would know her by her name. The heart is an arrow. It demands aim to land true. She clung to the wall, but it was purpose she grasped at long last, and that carried her upwards. She was not a lynx or a spider or even the Wraith. She was Inej Ghafa, and her future was waiting above.

Every boy is a snake, is a lily Every pearl is a lynx, is a girl Sweet like harmony, made into flesh

A sound of cornered animal fear and hate and surrender and defiance, that if you ever trailed a coon or cougar or lynx is like the last sound the treed and shot and falling animal makes as the dogs get him, when he finally doesn’t care about anything, but himself and his dying

Schoolteachers teach what they and others know. Forest teachers - bear, wolf, lynx, beaver, bird, every flower and tree - teach us how to live, love, and grow.

8 April 1891 The obscenity of nostrils and mouths; the ignominious cupidity of smiles and women encountered in the street; the shifty baseness on every side, as of hyenas and wild beasts ready to bite: tradesmen in their shops and strollers on their pavements. How long must I suffer this? I have suffered it before, as a child, when, descending by chance to the servant's quarters, I overheard in astonishment their vile gossip, tearing up my own kind with their lovely teeth. This hostility to the entire race, this muted detestation of lynxes in human form, I must have rediscovered it later while at school. I had a repugnance and horror for all base instincts, but am I not myself instinctively violent and lewd, murderous and sensual? Am I any different, in essence, from the members of the riotous and murderous mob of a hundred years ago, who hurled the town sergeants into the Seine and cried, 'String up the aristos!' just as they shout 'Down with the army!' or 'Death to the Jews!

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;—lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah, nutbrown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!—'Tis no sport for peasants.

Well,” Lynx said once the man was dead. “That was…uneventful.” “You’re as fickle as an old woman,” Zeus told Lynx. “One minute too much carnage, the next not enough.

Kalaj would say, "I've got the eyes of a lynx, the memory of an elephant, the instincts of a wolf ..." "... and the brain of a tapir," would interrupt his nemesis, the Algerian.

I’m Lynx fucking Kade. I don’t get brushed off. In fact, I have a waiting list of females who want to have their chance with me. I have to admit, I’m turned on even more now.

Snowfall?” Lynx said after a moment. “Are you — did I break you?” She reached out and tapped lightly on Snowfall’s forehead.

Down through the druid wood I saw Wildman join with Cleaver Creek, put on weight, exchange his lean and hungry look for one of more well-fed fanaticism. Then came Chichamoonga, the Indian Influence, whooping along with its banks war-painted with lupine and columbine. Then Dog Creek, then Olson Creek, then Weed Creek. Across a glacier-raked gorge I saw Lynx Falls spring hissing and spitting from her lair of fire-bright vine maple, claw the air with silver talons, then crash screeching into the tangle below. Darling Ida Creek slipped demurely from beneath a covered bridge to add her virginal presence, only to have the family name blackened immediately after by the bawdy rollicking of her brash sister, Jumping Nellie. There followed scores of relatives of various nationalities: White Man Creek, Dutchman Creek, Chinaman Creek, Deadman Creek, and even a Lost Creek, claiming with a vehement roar that, in spite of hundreds of other creeks in Oregon bearing the same name, she was the one and only original...Then Leaper Creek...Hideout Creek...Bossman Creek...I watched them one after another pass beneath their bridges to join in the gorge running alongside the highway, like members of a great clan marshaling into an army, rallying, swelling, marching to battle as the war chant became deeper and richer.

Parents sat gloomy and still, like rows of turnips in a grocer's box. Their little criminals sat with them, tapping LOLs on their phones, or milled in the yard outside stinking of Lynx and taut nonchalance. Solicitors strode in and out in a twist of slacks and briefcases.

Hey, Catnip,” says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he thought I’d said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me. I finally had to kill the lynx because he scared off game. I almost regretted it because he wasn’t bad company. But I got a decent price for his pelt.

She was beautiful and lithe, with soft skin the color of bread and eyes like green almonds, and she had straight black hair that reached to her shoulders, and an aura of antiquity that could just as well have been Indonesian as Andean. She was dressed with subtle taste: a lynx jacket, a raw silk blouse with very delicate flowers, natural linen trousers, and shoes with a narrow stripe the color of bougainvillea. ‘This is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,’ I thought, when I saw her pass by with the stealthy stride of a lioness, while I waited in the check-in line at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris for the plane to New York.

Play the music that best describes you Make the music that comes from your Heart.

We are all walking in a world of shadows, whether we recognise it or not.

La más antigua y poderosa emoción de la humanidad es el miedo, y la clase más antigua y poderosa de miedo es el temor a lo desconocido

lynx

The world is always ready to be amazed, but the self, that lynx-eyed monitor, sees all the subterfuges, all the cut corners, and is not deceived.

You look tired,” Lynx said after a little while. “That’s treason, and no, I don’t,” Snowfall snapped.

Home. the word always had air quotes around it in her mind. She'd done what she could to make her flat cozy, filling it with art, books, ornate lanterns, and a Persian carpet as soft as lynx fur. And of course there were her angel wings taking up one whole wall. But there was no help for the real emptiness; its close air was stirred by no breath but her own. When she was alone, the empty place within her, the missingness, as she thought of it, seemed to swell. Even being with Kaz had done something to keep it at bay, though not enough. Never enough.

This isn't real dancing," Thomas shouted to Lynx in disappointment. "They're just jumping around like the floor is too hot, and waving their arms like they're under attack by biting insects.

We went too far when we put on the fur of lynxes, Of weasels trapped in winter when they’ve lost their tan; We went too far when we let the fox assist us To warm the hide that houses the soul of Man. The reek of the leopard and the stink of the inky cat Striped handsomely with white, are in the concert hall; We sleekly writhe from under them, and are above all that; But, the concert over, back into our pelts we crawl.

You are a useless minion,” Snowfall observed. “Frieeeeeend,” Lynx enunciated clearly before edging away and burying herself farther into the sand. Her voice came sleepily over the dune. “The word you’re looking for is friend.

Lynx stood and raced to the camp. “Attend to our injured!” She unsheathed a machete and made for Hare’s killer. Heron grabbed her wrist. “Wait. He’s still conscious.” “Then he will feel my machete,” she replied, voice like ice.

But the Wild is the Wild, and motherhood is motherhood, at all times fiercely protective whether in the Wild or out of it; and the time was to come when the she-wolf, for her grey cub's sake, would venture the left fork, and the lair in the rocks, and the lynx's wrath.

She spotted a cluster of ice structures below them, along the cliff that overlooked the ocean here. “What’s that?” “One of the outer villages,” Lynx said. “Where-the-Terns-Fly, I think.” “I should royally decree that all IceWing villages must have one-word names,” Snowfall said grumpily.

Oh, Snowfall realized. Because she’s listening to our thoughts. I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR MY THOUGHTS, NIGHTWING! HERE’S ONE FOR YOU: I THINK YOUR ENTIRE TRIBE IS A BUNCH OF MALEVOLENT FIRE-SNORTING TOADS! Moon jumped slightly, gave Snowfall a wounded look, and followed Winter and Lynx off into the meadow.

Look, Pa, look!” Laura said. “A wolf!” Pa did not seem to move quickly, but he did. In an instant he took his gun out of the wagon and was ready to fire at those green eyes. The eyes stopped coming. They were still in the dark, looking at him. “It can’t be a wolf. Unless it’s a mad wolf,” Pa said. Ma lifted Mary into the wagon. “And it’s not that,” said Pa. “Listen to the horses.” Pet and Patty were still biting off bits of grass. “A lynx?” said Ma. “Or a coyote?” Pa picked up a stick of wood; he shouted, and threw it. The green eyes went close to the ground, as if the animal crouched to spring. Pa held the gun ready. The creature did not move. “Don’t, Charles,” Ma said. But Pa slowly walked toward those eyes. And slowly along the ground the eyes crawled toward him. Laura could see the animal in the edge of the dark. It was a tawny animal and brindled. Then Pa shouted and Laura screamed. The next thing she knew she was trying to hug a jumping, panting, wriggling Jack, who lapped her face and hands with his warm wet tongue. She couldn’t hold him. He leaped and wriggled from her to Pa to Ma and back to her again. “Well, I’m beat!” Pa said. “So am I,” said Ma. “But did you have to wake the baby?

Look, Pa, look!” Laura said. “A wolf!” Pa did not seem to move quickly, but he did. In an instant he took his gun out of the wagon and was ready to fire at those green eyes. The eyes stopped coming. They were still in the dark, looking at him. “It can’t be a wolf. Unless it’s a mad wolf,” Pa said. Ma lifted Mary into the wagon. “And it’s not that,” said Pa. “Listen to the horses.” Pet and Patty were still biting off bits of grass. “A lynx?” said Ma. “Or a coyote?” Pa picked up a stick of wood; he shouted, and threw it. The green eyes went close to the ground, as if the animal crouched to spring. Pa held the gun ready. The creature did not move. “Don’t, Charles,” Ma said. But Pa slowly walked toward those eyes. And slowly along the ground the eyes crawled toward him. Laura could see the animal in the edge of the dark. It was a tawny animal and brindled. Then Pa shouted and Laura screamed. The next thing she knew she was trying to hug a jumping, panting, wriggling Jack, who lapped her face and hands with his warm wet tongue. She couldn’t hold him. He leaped and wriggled from her to Pa to Ma and back to her again. “Well, I’m beat!” Pa said. “So am I,” said Ma. “But did you have to wake the baby?” She rocked Carrie in her arms, hushing her. Jack was perfectly well. But soon he lay down close to Laura and sighed a long sigh. His eyes were red with tiredness, and all the under part of him was caked with mud. Ma gave him a cornmeal cake and he licked it and wagged politely, but he could not eat. He was too tired. “No telling how long he kept swimming,” Pa said. “Nor how far he was carried downstream before he landed.” And when at last he reached them, Laura called him a wolf, and Pa threatened to shoot him. But Jack knew they didn’t mean it. Laura asked him, “You knew we didn’t mean it, didn’t you, Jack?” Jack wagged his stump of a tail; he knew.

And what enriched me while reading Adorno, for example, lay not in what I read but in the perception of myself while I was reading. I was someone who read Adorno! And in this heavy, intricate, detailed, precise language whose aim was to elevate thought ever higher, and where every period was set like a mountaineer’s cleat, there was something else, this particular approach to the mood of reality, the shadow of these sentences that could evoke in me a vague desire to use the language with this particular mood on something real, on something living. Not on an argument, but on a lynx, for example, or on a blackbird or a cement mixer.

They were the cars at the fair that were whirling around her; no, they were the planets, while the sun stood, burning and spinning and guttering in the centre; here they came again, Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto; but they were not planets, for it was not the merry-go-round at all, but the Ferris wheel, they were constellations, in the hub of which, like a great cold eye, burned Polaris, and round and round it here they went: Cassiopeia, Cepheus, the Lynx, Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, and the Dragon; yet they were not constellations, but, somehow, myriads of beautiful butterflies, she was sailing into Acapulco harbour through a hurricane of beautiful butterflies, zigzagging overhead and endlessly vanishing astern over the sea, the sea, rough and pure, the long dawn rollers advancing, rising, and crashing down to glide in colourless ellipses over the sand, sinking, sinking, someone was calling her name far away and she remembered, they were in a dark wood, she heard the wind and the rain rushing through the forest and saw the tremours of lightning shuddering through the heavens and the horse—great God, the horse—and would this scene repeat itself endlessly and forever?—the horse, rearing, poised over her, petrified in midair, a statue, somebody was sitting on the statue, it was Yvonne Griffaton, no, it was the statue of Huerta, the drunkard, the murderer, it was the Consul, or it was a mechanical horse on the merry-go-round, the carrousel, but the carrousel had stopped and she was in a ravine down which a million horses were thundering towards her, and she must escape, through the friendly forest to their house, their little home by the sea.

And proceeded past Trevor Williams, former hunter, seated before the tremendous heap of all the animals he had dispatched in his time: hundreds of deer, thirty-two black bear, three bear cubs, innumerable coons, lynx, foxes, mink, chipmunks, wild turkeys, woodchucks, and cougars; scores of mice and rats, a positive tumble of snakes, hundreds of cows and calves, one pony (carriage-struck), twenty thousand or so insects, each of which he must briefly hold, with loving attention, for a period ranging from several hours to several months, depending on the quality of loving attention he could muster and the state of fear the beast happened to have been in at the time of its passing.

les chiens montent la garde au cas où des sirènes sortiraient du trou pour se jeter sur moi. Je suis empereur d'une berge, seigneur de mes chiots, roi des Cèdres du Nord, protecteur des mésanges, allié des lynx et frère des ours. Je suis surtout un peu gris parce que après deux heures d'abattage de bois, je viens de m'envoyer un fond de vodka.

I Lie and that's the Truth

White bones, dry veins, and melted skin. Holy hell. Who writes shit like that?

Homero, más que ningún otro, nos ha enseñado a todos el arte de forjar mentiras de manera adecuada

It will be a compromise, but that's what the marriage often is

A man condemns himself to failure if he thinks that he won't succeed.

Ugh, men. I gave him a perfectly good orgasm and now he’s cranky.

The strange fortune of my lynx brought him to live in an artificial environment, a human community utterly foreign to him. His isolation from his natural, complex wilderness habitat is grievous and unnatural. But his aloofness, his aloneness, is the truth of his own nature. He retains that nature, brings it among us unchanged. He brings us the gift of his indestructible solitude.

You thought yourself the lynx, your claws gladly sheathed, but always, should you need them, they would extend from the tufted fur and velvet-soft paws to slash at any foe. But you are not the lynx. You are the caterpillar, transformed into a beautiful butterfly whose wings glitter with promse and whose touch helps the flower grow." Uluenia closed Desidora's hand. "But you have lost your jaws.

The image that stands before you whilst standing in front of the mirror is unique therefore what you are, who you are and what you stand for cannot be quantified nor measured in simple terms your beyond valuable

I went on writing reviews for the newspaper, and critical articles crying out for a different approach to culture, as even the most inattentive reader could hardly fail to notice if he scratched the surface a little, critical articles crying out, indeed begging, for a return to the Greek and Latin greats, to the Troubadours, to the dolce stil nuovo and the classics of Spain, France and England, more culture! more culture! read Whitman and Pound and Eliot, read Neruda and Borges and Vallejo, read Victor Hugo, for God’s sake, and Tolstoy, and proudly I cried myself hoarse in the desert, but my vociferations and on occasions my howling could only be heard by those who were able to scratch the surface of my writings with the nails of their index fingers, and they were not many, but enough for me, and life went on and on and on, like a necklace of rice grains, on each grain of which a landscape had been painted, tiny grains and microscopic landscapes, and I knew that everyone was putting that necklace on and wearing it, but no one had the patience or the strength or the courage to take it off and look at it closely and decipher each landscape grain by grain, partly because to do so required the vision of a lynx or an eagle, and partly because the landscapes usually turned out to contain unpleasant surprises like coffins, makeshift cemeteries, ghost towns, the void and the horror, the smallness of being and its ridiculous will, people watching television, people going to football matches, boredom navigating the Chilean imagination like an enormous aircraft carrier. And that’s the truth. We were bored. We intellectuals. Because you can't read all day and all night. You can't write all day and all night. Splendid isolation has never been our style...

That was the night he got up and went to the boys' division; perhaps he was looking for his history in the big room where all the boys slept, but what he found instead was Dr. Larch kissing every boy a late good night. Homer imagined then that Dr. Larch had kissed him like that, when he'd been small; Homer could not have imagined how those kisses, even now, were still kisses meant for him. They were kisses seeking Homer Wells. That was the same night that he saw the lynx on the barren, unplanted hillside—glazed with snow that had thawed and then refrozen into a thick crust. Homer had stepped outside for just a minute; after witnessing the kisses, he desired the bracing air. It was a Canada lynx—a dark, gunmetal gray against the lighter gray of the moonlit snow, its wildcat stench so strong Homer gagged to srnell the thing. Its wildcat sense was keen enough to keep it treading within a single leap's distance of the safety of the woods. The lynx was crossing the brow of the hill when it began to slide; its claws couldn't grip the crust of the snow, and the hill had suddenly grown steeper. The cat moved from the dull moonlight into the sharper light from Nurse Angela's office window; it could not help its sideways descent. It traveled closer to the orphanage than it would ever have chosen to come, its ferocious death smell clashing with the freezing cold. The lynx's helplessness on the ice had rendered its expression both terrified; and resigned; both madness and fatalism were caught in the cat's fierce, yellow eyes and in its involuntary, spitting cough as it slid on, actually bumping against the hospital before its claws could find a purchase on the crusted snow. It spit its rage at Homer Wells, as if Homer had caused its unwilling descent. Its breath had frozen on its chin whiskers and its tufted ears were beaded with ice. The panicked animal tried to dash up the hill; it was less than halfway up when it began to slide down again, drawn toward the orphanage against its will. When it set out from the bottom of the hill a second time, the lynx was panting; it ran diagonally uphill, slipping but catching itself, and slipping again, finally escaping into the softer snow in the woods— nowhere near where it had meant to go; yet the lynx would accept any route of escape from the dark hospital. Homer Wells, staring into the woods after the departed lynx, did not imagine that he would ever leave St. Cloud's more easily.

Your short understanding, your clipped mind, your hollow heart, will make more of mankind than it has the power to become. Make of a man what you will, yet he cannot be more than this I say to you, with the leave of all pure women: a human is conceived in sin, nourished with impure, unspeakable feculence in the maternal body, born naked and smeared like a beehive; a mass of refuse, a churn of filth, a dish for worms, a stinkhouse, a repulsive washtub, a rancid carcass, a mildewed crate, a bottomless sack, a perforated pocket, a bellows, a rapacious maw, a reeking flagon of urine, a malodorous pail, a deceptive marionette-show, a loamy robber’s den, an insatiably slaking trough, a painted delusion. Let recognise who will: every human created to completion has nine holes in his body; out of all these there flows such repellent filth that nothing could be more impure. You would never see human beauty, if you had the eyes of a lynx, and your gaze could penetrate to the innards; you would shudder at the sight. Strip the dressmaker’s colouring from the loveliest of ladies, and you will see a shameful puppet, a hastily withering flower, a sparkle of little durance and a soon decomposing clod of earth! Show me a handful of beauty of all the belles who lived a hundred years ago, excluding those painted on the wall, and you shall have the Kaiser’s crown! Let love flow away, let grief flow away! Let the Rhine run its course like other waters, you wise lad from Assville!

Truth: I realised there is no escaping reality but dreaming changes the perception of what it was to what it can become C’mon now dream on dream big dream slow dream bright Let your dreams flow let them take flight Only your dreams alone can and will always show you the light

I know you’re lying but I can’t say you are because you’re the queen but maybe you should just admit it because my eyebrows are so onto you.” “Well, you were doing that nothing very vigorously,” Lynx said. “So I wondered. You know. A whole lot of vigorous nothing before breakfast.” “Maybe I have had breakfast,” Snowfall observed. “You wouldn’t know, since you’ve been asleep half the morning.” “I do know that you have not,” Lynx said, “because I asked your guards and they said you’ve been out here for ages, doing battle with either your own claws or an invisible shark.

Wynter's Pass was a picturesque region in the north of Vohlfhein, where the Bleak Hills eventually collapsed into the Frozen Sea. From the back of Mr. Buckles, who had been on a slow trot since sunrise, Monch watched the light glisten off of the frozen branches of the evergreens. As the sun warmed the frozen ground, sending the evening's frost into retreat, Monch absorbed the splendor of it all and wondered how expensive the local real estate must be around here. He then contemplated attempting to find an agent that would represent his interests well. "This land is such a spectacular wonder," the Lion of Ahriman declared. "It would be very much sought after if they could just do something about the bears, the White Orts, the wolves, the bloodthirsty cannibals, the snow manapés, the frost wizards, the northern bandit gangs, the dire lynxes, the similarly sounding but not related pygmy bloodthirsty cannibals, the demon possessed yaks, the dead-soul animated trees, the..." Monch paused for a moment. "It just occurred to me that this land is really not safe at all. It seems almost everything in it wants to kill me," the Templar admitted.

The Buried Bishop’s a gridlocked scrum, an all-you-can-eat of youth: ‘Stephen Hawking and the Dalai Lama, right; they posit a unified truth’; short denim skirts, Gap and Next shirts, Kurt Cobain cardigans, black Levi’s; ‘Did you see that oversexed pig by the loos, undressing me with his eyes?’; that song by the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl booms in my diaphragm and knees; ‘Like, my only charity shop bargains were headlice, scabies, and fleas’; a fug of hairspray, sweat and Lynx, Chanel No. 5, and smoke; well-tended teeth with zero fillings, revealed by the so-so joke — ‘Have you heard the news about Schrodinger’s Cat? It died today; wait — it didn’t, did, didn’t, did…’; high-volume discourse on who’s the best Bond … Sartre, Bart Simpson, Barthes’s myths; ‘Make mine a double’; George Michael’s stubble; ‘Like, music expired with the Smiths’; and futures all starry; fetal think-tankers, judges, and bankers…power and money, like Pooh Bear and honey, stick fast — I don’t knock it, it’s me; and speaking of loins, ‘Has anyone told you you look like Demi Moore from Ghost?’; roses are red and violets are blue, I’ve a surplus of butter and Ness is warm toast.

Je ne crois pas que les animaux sauvages puissent être heureux ou même joyeux quand ils sont adultes. C'est la vie avec les hommes qui a dû faire naître cette faculté chez les chiens. J'aimerais savoir pourquoi nous agissons sur eux comme une drogue. C'est peut-être le chien qui est responsable de la folie de grandeur de l'homme. Même à moi, il m'est arrivé de penser que je devais avoir quelque chose de particulier, quand je voyais Lynx défaillir de joie en me regardant. Mais je n'avais rien d'exceptionnel, bien sûr ; Lynx était tout simplement fou des hommes comme tous les chiens.

Do you know, when I stepped through that gate I felt as though I had walked into a new world...something quite different from anything I had known before. I felt that something tremendously dramatic was happening and because it was all so quiet and in a way ordinary that made it rather sinister.

Something suddenly charged at them across the sand, shrieking alien syllables. Snowfall spun toward it, drawing her knives, and was a tail flick away from throwing them when she realized the attacker was a tiny dragonet. Like, really tiny. It skidded to a stop with a terrified yelp, staring up at her glittering weaponry. Big, black-rimmed eyes blinked in a warm golden face. Her four wings were a little more shimmery and thinner than most of the others, and her scales alternated in black and yellow stripes. The dragonet burst into tears. “Oh, well done, Your Majesty,” Lynx whispered to Snowfall. “Excellent self-defense.

The spruce is sculpted by the elements, bottlebrush scrawny, topiaryed by the weather. This boreal forest stretches over eight thousand miles in an unbroken line around the circumference of the globe: 30 percent of the world’s tree cover, four million square miles, the planet’s single largest biome. A broad, evergreen brushstroke that encircles the north, running through North America, Scandinavia, Siberia, marking the band of the subarctic. Forests of moose, of lynx, of bear. Forests of thimbleberry, strawberry, nagoonberry, lowbush cranberry, highbush cranberry, watermelon berry, bunchberry, crowberry, huckleberry, blueberry, cloudberry, bearberry, salmonberry. Forests home to many of the world’s remaining hunter-gatherer societies, summers of wildfires and perpetual light, and winters of fifty below.

from,’ like, seriously.” Lynx tilted her head and studied Snowfall for a moment as though she were a palm tree that had suddenly sprouted in the middle of the Ice Palace. “They’ll be all right now that they’re here,” she said finally. “Let me see that ring.” Snowfall grudgingly held out her talons, and Lynx gripped the ring between her claws. She pulled and wiggled it and tried sliding her claws under it and yanked some more, until Snowfall finally got fed up and snatched her arm back. “Well, YOU’RE no use,” Snowfall hissed. “No surprise there.” She dunked her claws in the water again. But now Lynx looked worried, which meant she was about to get very annoying. “It’s really not moving at all,” she said. “Snowfall … was that ring from the Forbidden Treasury? Is it animus-touched?” Snowfall frowned and shook a piece of seaweed off her tail. “Yes. But it doesn’t work.

Miraculously, some animals survived at the zoo and many escaped across the bridge, entering Old Town while the capital burned. People brave enough to stand by their windows, or unlucky enough to be outside, watched a biblical hallucination unfolding as the zoo emptied into Warsaw's streets. Seals waddled along the banks of the Vistula, camels and llamas wandered down alleyways, hooves skidding on cobblestone, ostriches and antelope trotted beside foxes and wolves, anteaters called out hatchee, hatchee as they scuttled over bricks. Locals saw blurs of fur and hide bolting past factories and apartment houses, racing to outlying fields of oats, buckwheat, and flax, scrambling into creeks, hiding in stairwells and sheds. Submerged in their wallows, the hippos, otters, and beavers survived. Somehow the bears, bison, Przywalski horses, camels, zebras, lynxes, peacocks and other birds, monkeys, and reptiles survived, too.

HA,” Snowfall snorted. “I only have, like, seven non-magical weapons on me. We need THOUSANDS of weapons to drive these dragons away!” Lynx glanced down at her claws, as if she’d only just noticed that those were the only weapons she’d brought. “Really? Seven weapons?” “Yes, of course!” Snowfall said. She pointed to the spear on her back. “Spear.” Then to the knives in the sheaths at her wrists. “Knife, knife.” Then to the sheaths under her wings, the concealed pockets of her chain mail armor, and the pouch around her neck. “Knife, knife, throwing stars, poison.” She didn’t mention the other three hidden weapons, just in case Lynx was actually working for Crystal or the NightWings or had her own ulterior motives and was maybe planning to attack Snowfall as soon as she had her away from the castle unprotected. Well, ha ha, Snowfall had foiled her with those five guards! And the extra secret weaponry. And the totally being onto her!

From the same twelfth-century bestiary, we learn that the hedgehog is covered with spikes and curls itself into a ball for protection; that the fox is a 'fraudulent and ingenious animal' that plays dead in order to catch its prey; that cranes move about in military formation; that the serpent called 'basilisk' can with the power of its glance; that the lynx's urine turns into a precious stone; that lions are compassionate and courageous, and that the eyebrows and manes offer a clue to their disposition. Finally, many (but not all) entries go on to draw a moral or make a theological point on the basis of the animal description. The hedgehog is an example of prudence, the crane of courtesy and responsibility. The fox is employed as a type of the devil, who entices carnal man through fraudulent behavior. And the male lion, breathing life into its stillborn offspring after three days, represents God the Father raising Christ from the dead.

I told such a man the other day that I had got a Canada lynx here in Concord, and his instant question was, “Have you got the reward for him?” What reward? Why, the ten dollars which the State offers. As long as I saw him he neither said nor thought anything about the lynx, but only about this reward. “Yes,” said he, “this State offers ten dollars reward.” You might have inferred that ten dollars was something rarer in his neighborhood than a lynx even, and he was anxious to see it on that account. I have thought that a lynx was a bright-eyed, four-legged, furry beast of the cat kind, very current, indeed, though its natural gait is by leaps. But he knew it to be a draught drawn by the cashier of the wildcat bank on the State treasury, payable at sight. Then I reflected that the first money was of leather, or a whole creature (whence pecunia, from pecus, a herd), and, since leather was at first furry, I easily understood the connection between a lynx and ten dollars, and found that all money was traceable right back to the original wildcat bank.

No child of mine will ever have to be separated from their loved ones," Byron said, his voice like ice. Power flowing off him, and there was no mistake that right there and then, a war sounded great to the shark. "I will see you dead before I have you touch my grandchild" The situation might have escalated and a battle might have begun right then and there, but suddenly, Sterling got a strange expression on his face. It was a look of smug satisfaction, as if he knew something they did not. "Very well, Mr. Cunningham. But there will come a time when you will take your words back.

Who can say how long the eye of the vulture or the lynx requires to grasp the totality of a landscape, or whether in a comprehensive instant the seemingly inexhaustible confusion of detail falls upon their eyes in an ordered and intelligible series of distances and shapes, where the last detail is perceived in relation to the corporate mass? It may be that the hawk sees nothing but those grassy uplands, and among the coarse grasses, more plainly than the field itself, the rabbit or the rat, and that the landscape in its entirety is never seen, but only those areas lit, as it were with a torch, where the quarry slinks, the surrounding regions thickening into cloud and darkness on the yellow eyes. Whether the scouring, sexless eye of the bird or beast of prey disperses and sees all or concentrates and evades all saving that for which it searches, it is certain that the less powerful eye of the human cannot grasp, even after a life of training, a scene in its entirety. No eye may see dispassionately. There is no comprehension at a glance. Only the recognition of damsel, horse on fly and the assumption of damsel, horse or fly; and so with dreams and beyond, for what haunts the heart will, when it is found, leap foremost, blinding the eye and leaving the main of Life in darkness.

I thought you didn’t trust animus magic and wearing this was a terrible idea,” Snowfall said accusingly. “I’m still right about that,” Lynx said, “but as long as you’re stuck with it, we should figure out what it’s trying to tell us.” “It’s not trying to tell me anything!” Snowfall protested. “It’s a ring! An inanimate object! With no agenda or feelings! Except maybe smugness. You’re very smug,” she snapped at the opal. “Arrgh, Snowfall, tell me what you saw!” Lynx lashed her tail, sending up gusts of sand. “Something happening back in the Ice Kingdom? Something that’s going to happen?” “No!” Snowfall barked. “Nothing useful! Nothing about my tribe or my problems! Nothing important at all! If this is stupid MAGIC, then it’s REALLY STUPID magic! Why would I, queen of the IceWings, need to know about all the inner emotions of a bunch of rainbow dragons from a completely irrelevant continent that I’ll never see?” “Inner emotions?” Lynx asked. “Like — you could feel what the SilkWings were feeling?” “First I was one of those sad-snouts,” Snowfall said, pointing up the beach. “Her name is Atala. Total tragedy face. And then last night I was some RANDOM dragon named Tau who is stuck back over there and freaking out. Why would I need to see that? It’s not like I can do anything to help her!” Not that she would have, even if she could! She wasn’t going to invite MORE invasive, strange-looking dragons here!

Prince Wen-hui’s cook, Ting, was cutting up an ox. Every touch of his hand, every ripple of his shoulders, every step of his feet, every thrust of his knees, every cut of his knife, was in perfect harmony, like the dance of the Mulberry Grove, like the chords of the Lynx Head music. Well done! said the prince. How did you gain such skill? Putting down his knife, Ting said, I follow the Tao, Your Highness, which goes beyond all skills. When I first began cutting up oxen, all I could see was the ox. After three years, I had learned to look beyond the ox. Nowadays I see with my whole being, not with my eyes. I sense the natural lines, and my knife slides through by itself, never touching a joint, much less a bone. A good cook changes knives once a year: he cuts. An ordinary cook changes knives once a month: he hacks. This knife of mine has lasted for nineteen years; it has cut up thousands of oxen, but its blade is as sharp as if it were new. Between the joints there are spaces, and the blade has no thickness. Having no thickness, it slips right through; there’s more than enough room for it. And when I come to a difficult part, I slow down, I focus my attention, I barely move, the knife finds its way, until suddenly the flesh falls apart on its own. I stand there and let the joy of the work fill me. Then I wipe the blade clean and put it away. Bravo! cried the prince. From the words of this cook, I have learned how to live my life.

Sorry,” said Ron, wrenching Harry back out of the brambles, “but the name’s been jinxed, Harry, that’s how they track people! Using his name breaks protective enchantments, it causes some kind of magical disturbance — it’s how they found us in Tottenham Court Road!” “Because we used his name?” “Exactly! You’ve got to give them credit, it makes sense. It was only people who were serious about standing up to him, like Dumbledore, who ever dared use it. Now they’ve put a Taboo on it, anyone who says it is trackable — quick-and-easy way to find Order members! They nearly got Kingsley —” “You’re kidding?” “Yeah, a bunch of Death Eaters cornered him, Bill said, but he fought his way out. He’s on the run now, just like us.” Ron scratched his chin thoughtfully with the end of his wand. “You don’t reckon Kingsley could have sent that doe?” “His Patronus is a lynx, we saw it at the wedding, remember?” “Oh yeah . . .” They moved farther along the hedge, away from the tent and Hermione. “Harry . . . you don’t reckon it could’ve been Dumbledore?” “Dumbledore what?” Ron looked a little embarrassed, but said in a low voice, “Dumbledore . . . the doe? I mean,” Ron was watching Harry out of the corners of his eyes, “he had the real sword last, didn’t he?” Harry did not laugh at Ron, because he understood too well the longing behind the question. The idea that Dumbledore had managed to come back to them, that he was watching over them, would have been inexpressibly comforting. He shook his head. “Dumbledore’s dead,” he said. “I saw it happen, I saw the body. He’s definitely gone. Anyway, his Patronus was a phoenix, not a doe.” “Patronuses can change, though, can’t they?” said Ron. “Tonks’s

Follow my lead," De murmured. "We will head for the hills to the west, as far from this battle as our horses can take us." He freed one of the horses from the chariot and guided it to Luce. The horse was stunning, black as coal, with a diamond-shaped white patch on its chest.De helped Luce into the saddle and held up the king's halberd in one hand and a crossbow in the other.Luce had never fired or even touched a crossbow in her life,and Lu Xin had only used one once,to scare a lynx away from her baby sister's crib.But the weapon felt light in Luce's hand,and she knew if it came down to it,she could fire it. De smiled at her choice and whistled for his horse. A beautiful brindle mare trotted over.He hopped onto its back. "De! What are you doing?" an alarmed voice called from the line of the horses. "You were to kill the king! Not mount him on one of our horses!" "Yes! Kill the king!" a chorus of angry voices called. "The king is dead!" Luce shouted, silencing the soldiers. The feminine voice behind the helmet brought gasps from all of them. They stood frozen, uncertain whether to raise their weapons. De drew his horse close to Luce's. He took her hands in his.They were warmer and stronger and more reassuring than anything she'd ever felt. "Whatever happens,I love you.Our love is worth everything to me." "And to me," Luce whispered back. De let out a battle cry,and their horses took off at a breakneck pace. The crossbow nearly slipped out of Luce's grasp as she lurched forward to clutch the reins. Then the rebel soldiers began to shout. "Traitors!" "Lu Xin!" De's voice rose above the shrillest cry,the heaviest horse's hoof. "Go!" He raised his arm high, pointing toward the hills.

Olya “Lynx” Federov sat in the cockpit of her fighter. The Lightning-class attack craft that formed the mainstay of the Confederation’s fighter corps were sleek and powerful. The pilots of the fleet almost universally loved the design, save for one factor. The cockpits were too small, too cramped. But Federov didn’t care. She was slight in build, barely forty-five kilograms, and not much taller than a meter and a half. Her body was lithe, flexible. She’d wanted to be a dancer when she was younger, until she’d seen a squadron of fighters putting on a show on the vid. Flight had captured her imagination that day, and her life became a relentless pursuit of a slot at the Academy, one which saw success three days after her nineteenth birthday, when she received her billet in the following year’s class

Writing this book afforded me the opportunity to find out and to honor these creatures in stories and in science. I’m grateful to all the grizzly bears, wolves, wolverines, cougars, lynx, and jaguars who live along the Carnivore Way for your big lessons about wildness and why it matters in our rapidly changing world. Long may you run. This

The vultures came in shifts, sentinels to the requiem. The topmost ridges were first to welcome the daylight. A falcon swooped through the valley, scattering its benediction. I was mesmerized by the sentry duty of the carrion birds. They watched to see that all was well on earth: that death took its allotted share of animals and in return left provisions. Below, on the steep slopes that chamfered the gorge, the yaks grazed. Lying in the long grasses, cold, calm and watchful, Léo studied every crag through his binoculars. I was less conscientious. Patience has its limits, and I had come to the end of mine when we reached the canyon. I was busy assigning each animal a rung on the social ladder of the kingdom. The snow leopard was the regent; her status reinforced by her invisibility. She reigned, and therefore had no need to show herself. The prowling wolves were knavish princes; the yaks, richer burghers, warmly attired; the lynxes were musketeers; the foxes country squires; the blue sheep and the wild donkeys were the general populace. The raptors represented the priests, hieratic masters of the heavens and of death. These clerics in plumed livery were not against the idea that things might bode ill for us.

I am air. I am wind. I am stealthy like a cat. A wild lynx of the forest.

Or take for example the mystery of the coon cats, huge tailless cats with gray coats barred with black, which is why they are called coon cats. They are wild; they live in the woods and are very fierce. Once in a while a native brings in a kitten and raises it, and it is a pleasure to him, almost an honor, but coon cats are rarely even approximately tame. You take a chance of being raked or bitten all the time. These cats are obviously of Manx origin, and even interbreeding with tame cats they contribute taillessness. The story is that the great ancestors of the coon cats were brought by some ship’s captain and that they soon went wild. But I wonder where they get their size. They are twice as big as any Manx cat I ever saw. Could it be that they bred with bobcat or lynx? I don’t know. Nobody knows.

Sables from Pechora, and white and dun fox, and the pelts of white wolves, and bearskins. From Siberia, red and black fox and the white fur of squirrels. Lynx and ermine. Wolverine, marten and beaver. What once lived and breathed and hunted through forest and snowfield piled now in stalls, fifty small skins between boards, sold as a timber.

The shadow towered, from the snake to a shape with tufted ears laid flat, a lynx.

There had been a ship. There had been a captain who agreed to take her to the Americas if she would stay in his cabin and warm his bed on the journey. He’d been a bit lonely, and she’d been so desperately lonely that she’d agreed. He was kind enough and, she learned later that afternoon, a lynx shifter who loathed water but had needed a career with ever-changing personnel so that no one would discover the fact that he never seemed to age either.

The boys and Lark disappeared into the trees. “My youngest brother killed a lynx yesterday,” Rose said. “Apparently it came into his territory and left some spray marks. He skinned it, smeared himself in its blood, and put its pelt on his shoulders like a cape. And that’s how he came dressed for breakfast.” Cerise drank some beer. “My sister kills small animals and hangs their corpses on a tree, because she thinks she is a monster and she’s convinced we’ll eventually banish her from the house. They’re her rations. Just in case.” Rose blinked. “I see. I think we’re going to get along just fine, don’t you?” “I think so, yes.

Here is my vision of the true justice, the justice of nature: the zoos opened, predators unleashed by the dozens, hundreds … four thousand hungry wolves rampaging on streets of these hive cities, elephants and bison stampeding, the buildings smashed to pieces, the cries of the human bug shearing through the streets as the lord of beasts returns. Manhattan, Moscow, Peking reduced to ruins overgrown by vines and forest, the haunt of the lynx and coyote again. The great cesspool slums, Calcutta, Nairobi, all the fetid latrines of the world covered over by mudslides, overgrown with thick jungle, this is justice.

Snowfall lifted the opal to eye level and hissed at it. How could fire not work? “Don’t tell Lynx,” she said to Luna. “Uh … sure,” Luna agreed. “You’re welcome.” “For what?” Snowfall snapped and stomped away.

Bad guys didn’t take Christmas holiday, apparently.

I've never met a woman so beautiful and innocent, yet so skillful she steals your mind. I'm afraid you're going to be unforgettable." -Lynx

Cole stiffened in fury. "That good for nothing bitch! If I ever get my hands on her again, I'll..." Lynx grabbed Cole by the front of his shirt and yanked him to his feet. He delivered several blows into Cole's face and gut with lightening speed and forceful strength. "I'll kill you if you even think about her in passing," Lynx warned ominously at Cole's threat. -Cole & Lynx

Does killing become easier, as natural as a reflex?" she pressed. "Not to me, I've set out to intentionally take only one man's life." He flattened his back against the cool stones, bending his knee and placing the bottom of his boot on the post near his other knee. He remained impassive as he chewed on a blade of sweetgrass. "Who? Why?" she asked when he didn't expound. "Perhaps I'll tell you one day, if you hang around." He glanced at her, a half-grin curling up one side of his inviting mouth. -Calinda & Lynx

He groaned in mounting desire. "You're a dangerous woman, Calinda Braxton," he murmured hoarsely. "So are you, Lynx Cardone," she replied in a strained voice as she pushed away from him, fighting to regain control of herself. He caught her face between his hands, drilling his smoldering gaze into her matching one. "I want you, Cal," he stated simply. -Lynx & Calinda

I ain't never known you to fight over a woman, Cardone," Clint remarked. "This one I will." -Clint & Lynx

You can't leave problems behind when they're inside your head." -Lynx

Get a room at the hotel," he added, grinning roguishly. "I apologized for my error, but I could lose control of myself again," he hinted, rolling to his side and propping on his left elbow to observe her. "Error? You call what you did a simple error?" she demanded sarcastically, emerald eyes narrowed in outrage and distress. "My first one," he informed her, as if shocked himself, then chuckled at her expression. "I guess I'm not perfect after all," he added. Incensed, Calinda snapped. "You're despicable!" "I've been called worse," he casually parried her insult. "You are," she added, gritting her teeth at her helpless position. -Lynx & Calinda

Get your hands off me," she commanded faintly, grimacing. "People don't order Billy Bonnet around," he snapped at her. "What's you name?" he demanded forcefully. "You arrogant brute! Leave me alone. Can't you see I'm hurt and sick?" she panted breathlessly. "Don't pain me none," Billy retorted as if utterly insensitive. "Please, Mister Bonnet," Cal entreated softly. "Please, what?" Billy taunted, his mood becoming larkish. "Please take your filthy hands off my wife before I put a slug in your miserable hide," Lynx warned icily from behind him. -Calinda, Billy, & Lynx

Next time we meet, my flame-haired beauty, my chivalrous promise will be worthless. Rest assured, we will meet again." -Lynx (in a note to Callie)

I've never shot any man who didn't demand it, one way or another." -Lynx

Get out of my room. It's late, and I'm not dressed for company." She knew she should put on her robe, but she didn't move. "I'm not company, and you're wearing more tonight than the last time I saw you. We need to talk, Callie." -Calinda & Lynx