Mandrake Quotes

Beer has that Olympic medal color,” Rot replied, “but does it have a winning taste? I’d hardly call silver a champion flavor. No, I’ll stick to my red wine.

In March several of the Mandrakes threw a loud and raucous party in greenhouse three. This made Professor Sprout very happy. “The moment they start trying to move into each other’s pots, we’ll know they’re fully mature,” she told Harry.

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil’s foot. Teach me to hear the mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy’s stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. Decide what this is about Write a second verse yourself

Vladimir: What do we do now? Estragon: Wait. Vladimir: Yes, but while waiting. Estragon: What about hanging ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd give us an erection. Estragon: (highly excited). An erection! Vladimir: With all that follows. Where it falls mandrakes grow. That's why they shriek when you pull them up. Did you not know that? Estragon: Let's hang ourselves immediately!

There had been no more attacks since those on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, and Madam Pomfrey was pleased to report that the Mandrakes were becoming moody and secretive, meaning that they were fast leaving childhood.

Devil’s Wish A bowl of spells Swirls a mix Smoke and bubbles Seek the fix Young boy's eye And fever few Witches grass Some mandrake root

I thought I told you to stop doing that," he snapped. A thin-lipped mouth opened; the jutting chin and nose knocked together indignantly. "Do what?" "Taking on such a hideous appearance. I've just had my breakfast." A section of brow lifted, allowing an eyeball to roll forward with a squelching sound.The face looked unapologetic."Sorry, mate," it said. "It's just my job." "Your job is to destroy anyone entering my study without authority. No more, no less." The door guard considered. "True. But I seek to preempt entry by scaring trespassers away. To my way of thinking, deterrence is more aesthetically satisfying than punishment." Mr. Mandrake snorted. "Trespassers apart, you'll likely frighten Ms. Piper here to death." The face shook from side to side, a process that caused the nose to wobble alarmingly. "Not so. When she comes alone, I moderate my features. I reserve the full horror for those I consider morally vicious." "But you just looked that way to me!" "The contradiction being...?

Song Go, and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me, where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil’s foot, Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy’s stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be’est born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee, Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear Nowhere Lives a woman true, and fair. If thou find’st one, let me know, Such a pilgrimage were sweet, Yet do not, I would not go, Though at next door we might meet, Though she were true when you met her, And last, till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two, or three.

And sure enough,the youth in question was not his usual dapper self. His face was puffy, his eyes red and wild; his shirt(distressingly unbuttoned)hung over his trousers in sloppy fashion. All very out of charactar: Mandrake was normally defined by his rigid self-control. Somthing seemed to have stripped all that away. Well, the poor lad was emotionally brittle.He needed sympathetic handling. "You're a mess," I sneered "You've lost it big time. What's happened? All the guilt and self-loathing suddenly get to you? It can't just be that someone else called me, surly?

Song Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the devil's foot, Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee, Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me, All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear, No where Lives a woman true, and fair. If thou find'st one, let me know, Such a pilgrimage were sweet; Yet do not, I would not go, Though at next door we might meet; Though she were true, when you met her, And last, till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two, or three. —John Donne, 1572–1631

In a painful time of my life I went often to a wooded hillside where May apples grew by the hundreds, and I thought the sourness of their fruit had a symbolism for me. Instead, I was to find both love and happiness soon thereafter. So to me [the May apple] is the mandrake, the love symbol, of the old dealers in plant restoratives.

John Mandrake was an attractive young man, and the scent of power hung about him, sweet and intoxicating, like honeysuckle in the evening air.

As far back as Yossarian could recall, he explained to Clevinger with a patient smile, somebody was always hatching a plot to kill him. There were people who cared for him and people who didn't, and those who hated him were out to get him. They hated him because he was Assyrian. But they couldn't touch him, he told Clevinger, because he had a sound mind in a pure body and was as strong as an ox. They couldn't touch him because he was Tarzan, Mandrake, Flash Gordon. He was Bill Shakespeare. He was Cain, Ulysses, the Flying Dutchman; he was Lot in Sodom, Deirdre of the Sorrows, Sweeney in the nightingales among trees. He was miracle ingredient Z-247. He was - Crazy!" Clevinger interrupted, shrieking. "That's what you are! Crazy!" "immense. I'm a real slam-bang, honest-to-goodness, three-fisted humdinger. I'm a bona fide Supraman." "Superman?" Clevinger cried. "Superman?" Supraman," Yossarian corrected.

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot, Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till Age snow white hairs on thee, Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me, All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear, No where Lives a woman true and fair.

The tinker in his burial tree was a wonder to the birds. The vultures that came by day to nose with their hooked beaks among his buttons and pockets like outrageous pets soon left him naked of his rags and flesh alike. Black mandrake sprang beneath the tree as it will where the seed of the hanged falls and in spring a new branch pierced his breast and flowered in a green boutonnière perennial beneath his yellow grin. He took the sparse winter snows upon what thatch of hair still clung to his dried skull and hunters that passed that way never chanced to see him brooding among his barren limbs. Until wind had tolled the thinker's bones and seasons loosed them one by one to the ground below and his bleached and weathered brisket hung in that lonesome wood like a bone birdcage.

Old is the tree and the fruit good, Very old and thick the wood. Woodman, is your courage stout? Beware! the root is wrapped about Your mother's heart, your father's bones; And like the mandrake comes with groans.

Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?” It was Professor McGonagall, and her mouth was the thinnest of thin lines. “We were — we were —” Ron stammered. “We were going to — to go and see —” “Hermione,” said Harry. Ron and Professor McGonagall both looked at him. “We haven’t seen her for ages, Professor,” Harry went on hurriedly, treading on Ron’s foot, “and we thought we’d sneak into the hospital wing, you know, and tell her the Mandrakes are nearly ready and, er, not to worry —” Professor McGonagall was still staring at him, and for a moment, Harry thought she was going to explode, but when she spoke, it was in a strangely croaky voice. “Of course,” she said, and Harry, amazed, saw a tear glistening in her beady eye. “Of course, I realize this has all been hardest on the friends of those who have been … I quite understand. Yes, Potter, of course you may visit Miss Granger. I will inform Professor Binns where you’ve gone. Tell Madam Pomfrey I have given my permission.” Harry and Ron walked away, hardly daring to believe that they’d avoided detention. As they turned the corner, they distinctly heard Professor McGonagall blow her nose. “That,” said Ron fervently, “was the best story you’ve ever come up with.

Not so fast, my pussy-visaged friend!

Love is a gift. Mine comes in a box that’s shaped like a coffin.

I’m Mandrake,” he said, smiling his nonthreatening crooked smile at all of them. “Sundew’s fiancé.

So, Mr. Mandrake, what is it you plan to do with me this evening?” I asked haughtily. “I presume,” he said, playing along, “that I will start with feeding you proper and then proceed with more…pestiferous acts.” I smiled through the confusion. I’d have to look up that word later.

Our weaponry was not dropped onto our laps one morning. It is not manna from Sinai’s skies. Since Agincourt, the White man has refined & evolved the gunpowder sciences until our modern armies may field muskets by the tens of thousands! Aha!’ you will ask, yes, ‘But why us Aryans? Why not the Unipeds of Ur or the Mandrakes of Mauritius?’ Because, Preacher, of all the world’s races, our love—or rather our rapacity—for treasure, gold, spices & dominion, oh, most of all, sweet dominion, is the keenest, the hungriest, the most unscrupulous! This rapacity yes, powers our Progress; for ends infernal or divine I know not. Nor do you know, sir. Nor do I overly care. I feel only gratitude that my Maker cast me on the winning side.

They couldn't him because he was Tarzan, Mandrake, Flash Gordon. He was Bill Shakespeare. He was Cain, Ulysses, the Flying Dutchman; he was Lot in Sodom, Dreirdre of the Sorrows, Sweeney in the nightingales among trees. He was miracle ingredient Z-247.

Dandelion spoke first; elaborately, fluently, colourfully and volubly, embellishing his tale with ornaments so beautiful and fanciful they almost obscured the fibs and confabulations. Then the Witcher spoke. He spoke the same truth, and spoke so dryly, boringly and flatly that Dandelion couldn’t bare it and kept butting in, for which the dwarves reprimanded him. And then the story was over and a lengthy silence fell. 'To the archer Milva!' Zoltan Chivay cleared his throat, saluting with his cup. 'To the Nilfgaardian. To Regis the herbalist who entertained the travellers in his cottage with moonshine and mandrake. And to Angoulême, whom I never knew. May the earth lie lightly on them all. May they have in the beyond plenty of whatever they were short of on earth. And may their names live forever in songs and tales. Let’s drink to them.

Ben had never seen another hotel quite like The Mandrake. The valets were all dressed like Roman Centurions, the Doorman was dressed like Caesar, and the bellmen all had dark blue business suits and Donald Trump wigs.

A sand trap is like a politician in its duality. It represents two opposing viewpoints. You see, it was designed to trap your ball. So it exists to have balls land in it. But it was also designed to be avoided. So it also exists to not have balls land in it. This is the beauty of golf. The game of golf is a Zen koan in action.

They couldn’t touch him because he was Tarzan, Mandrake, Flash Gordon. He was Bill Shakespeare. He was Cain, Ulysses, the Flying Dutchman; he was Lot in Sodom, Deirdre of the Sorrows, Sweeney in the nightingales among trees.

The owner of The Mandrake Hotel and Resort is a man called Rot, a billionaire like Bill Gates, only nerdier. 
 Rot Kugelschreiber isn’t the name he was born with. No, the name on his birth certificate is Dark Jar Tin Zoo. He chose that penname because in German it means Red Pen—and a Red Pen is mightier than a Red Sword, which in turn is mightier than a Rothschild. 
 Most of the time he goes by Rot, but occasionally he reverts back to Dark Jar Tin Zoo.

You have the maturity of a ferret on amphetamines,

At last, he was being decisive once again. Playing for the highest stakes, shrugging off the inertia of the last few years. He felt almost as he had done as a child, thrilling in the audacity of his actions. That was how it had often been before politics and the stultifying role of John Mandrake had closed in on him. And he no longer wished to play that part.

Nevertheless" you've seen a strawberry that's had a struggle; yet was, where the fragments met, a hedgehog or a star- fish for the multitude of seeds. What better food than apple seeds - the fruit within the fruit - locked in like counter-curved twin hazelnuts? Frost that kills the little rubber-plant - leaves of kok-sagyyz-stalks, can't harm the roots; they still grow in frozen ground. Once where there was a prickley-pear - leaf clinging to a barbed wire, a root shot down to grow in earth two feet below; as carrots from mandrakes or a ram's-horn root some- times. Victory won't come to me unless I go to it; a grape tendril ties a knot in knots till knotted thirty times - so the bound twig that's under- gone and over-gone, can't stir. The weak overcomes its menace, the strong over- comes itself. What is there like fortitude! What sap went through that little thread to make the cherry red!

Well, if it’s so easy, Kitty demanded hotly, “how come the magicians haven’t stopped it?” The Djin gave a cold smile, “Because it would require personal bravery. They never do anything themselves. They rely on us the whole time. Mandrake gives me an order and I obey. He sits at home and I go out and suffer. That’s the way it works.

Nicia: God send him the plague! Timoteo: Why? Nicia: So he'll get it!

Dark Jar Tin Zoo’s face is sallow, his cheeks sunk in, and he looks like Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” only less colorful.

Are you trying to call me strange, Mandrake?” I pout playfully. He nods. “Your strange is what makes you sensational to me.

She would have pointed out that Sundew had a duty to marry Mandrake and raise superpowered danger-babies to destroy their enemies.

You must come in to me; for I have hired you with my son’s mandrakes.

arnica for pains and bruises, mandrake for sleeplessness, and pennyroyal, a flowering mint, for unwanted pregnancy. For dysentery, egg whites and boiled milk. For fainting spells, a tablespoon

Fredrick gazed into the deep blue eyes of Jackson for a few seconds before answering. “I’d like the best room in the hotel.”
 “We have hundreds of rooms here, and all of them are the best.”
 “How can they all be number one? Only one can be number one.”
 “Ah, this is true. And this is false. What’s the best to you may be worst to someone else. Since every room here is completely different, each room is number one to someone, even if that same room is number two to someone else.”


MARSYAS:        Beware! Easily trips the big word "dare." Each man's an Œdipus, that thinks He hath the four powers of the Sphinx, Will, Courage, Knowledge, Silence. Son, Even the adepts scarce win to one! The Thoughts—they fall like rotten fruits. But to destroy the power that makes These thoughts—thy Self? A man it takes To tear his soul up by the roots! This is the mandrake fable, boy!

Three things. Three things are all I’ll ever ask of you. Never lie to me, never say anything you don’t mean, and always give me your pleasure. It’s the only things I’ll ever want. ~Grayson Mandrake

Rot figured why be a little fish in a big pond, or a big fish in a little pond, when you could be a fisherman in a boat on any pond drinking beer and living life the way God intended. Rot was deeply religious.

Hopefully, this is a durable remission.” Durable. This isn’t the first time he’s used the word. Boy, do I miss the days of them saying cured. Those were the good, unrealistic times. Am I to be durable now? Cancer will be splashed across me like juice onto tile, only to be wiped away, then again splashed and again wiped away.

Until this moment Chloris and Mandrake had wished above all things for the assurance that Alleyn would take charge. Now that, with a certain crispness and a marked change of manner, he had actually done so, each of them felt an icy touch of apprehension. They had set in motion a process which they were unable to stop. They were not yet nervous for themselves but instinctively they moved a little nearer to each other. They had called in the Yard.

Merewyn was a little more rational. “Perhaps we should whisper amongst ourselves and make them wonder what we speak of?” Blaise wagged his eyebrows at her before he pulled her into his arms. “Works well for me. Put your arms around my neck, and I’ll breathe in your ear.” Varian put the blade of his sword between them. “You can whisper from there.” Blaise appeared appalled. “What are you? An old maid?” “I promised her my protection.” The mandrake shook his head. “You’re gay, aren’t you?” Varian raised the blade to rest against Blaise’s Adam’s apple. He carefully pressed it close. Not so much that it drew blood, but enough to let him know that he wasn’t amused. “Or not.” Varian used the blade to push him away from Merewyn. His gaze met hers, and he felt the heat of his desire for her all the way through his body. At the moment, he wished he were gay. Then she wouldn’t tempt him so. “Or not. Definitely or not.

Well, too bad, she thought defiantly. I’m not letting go now. I’m not ever letting go of her again. If this is it, all our truth spilled over the table, then this is my truth: I choose Willow. Even if she is a SapWing, and not Mandrake. MOM.

The slime looked about for Mandrake. If things were bad for me, they weren’t too sunny for him either. To my astonishment, I saw him standing at a table with Kitty Jones. It was the Kitty Jones bit that was astonishing, not the table. Though it was very nicely polished.

As their eyes became accustomed to the light, the girls were startled to see the figure in front of them. Hunched over, wearing a dark cloak, was an old man. His long, white hair straggled over his shoulders, his skin was covered with grey whiskers and one of his eyes, hooded, drooped below the other bulging one. His mouth hung open and his yellowed teeth did nothing to stop his rank breath pervading the air.

Julius Tallow gave Nathaniel an unctuous smile. “That’s the kind of servant you need, Mandrake,” he said. “No glibness, no chatter. Obeys without question. I’d get rid of this smooth-tongued serpent, if I were you.” The panther swished its tail. “Hey, we’ve all got problems, chum. I’m overly talkative. You look like a field of buttercups in a suit.

Of course there is no denying that all these primordial dreams appear, in the opinion of nonmathematicians, to have been suddenly realized in a form quite different from the original fantasy. Baron Munchhausen’s post horn was more beautiful than our canned music, the Seven-League boots more beautiful than a car, Oberon’s kingdom lovelier than a railway tunnel, the magic root of the mandrake better than a telegraphed image, eating of one’s mother’s heart and then understanding birds more beautiful than an ethologic study of a bird’s vocalizing. We have gained reality and lost dream. No more lounging under a tree and peering at the sky between one’s big and second toes; there’s work to be done. To be efficient, one cannot be hungry and dreamy but must eat steak and keep moving. It is exactly as though the old, inefficient breed of humanity had fallen asleep on an anthill and found, when the new breed awoke, that the ants had crept into its bloodstream, making it move frantically ever since, unable to shake off that rotten feeling of antlike industry.

Never tell a book by it' cover...

Viktor tried a smile. He wasn’t very good at them—he had been told they looked more like bear snarls than signs of friendliness or pleasure.

I forgive,” Penny said. “But I don’t forget. I’ll remember the kind of gum you were chewing when you did me wrong.

His clothing was sticking to his body beneath his armor, and his balls were swimming in a pond. He was in the mood to shoot people.

This is the planet with the dinosaurs?" "It's a moon," Hazel said. "Fine, this the moon with the dinosaurs?

I’m sure she didn’t mean what she said. Life’s too short to hold grudges.” “No, you just have to organize your time better,” Elaine said. “I believe in grudges. They help you survive.

Willow looked into her eyes for a long moment, as if she was really thinking about Sundew’s point. “Yes,” she said finally. “That makes sense.” “It does?” Sundew said, startled. In her tribe, arguments went all day and nobody ever admitted that the other dragon had said something sensible. Willow glanced sideways at Cricket and Mandrake, but their gazes were riveted on Nettle as

There’s nothing wrong with walking through a cemetery, as long as you’re respectful.” “Exactly.” Massermey smiled at her. “I find them not only very peaceful, but also really interesting… and sad, too.

Monsters’ can help us by giving a tangible form to our secret fears. It is less widely appreciated today that ‘wonders’ such as the unicorn legitimize our hopes. But all imaginary animals, to some degree all animals, are ultimately both monsters and wonders, which assist us by deflecting and absorbing our uncertainties . It is hard to tell ‘imaginary animals’ from symbolic, exemplary, heraldic, stylized, poetic, literary, or stereotypical ones. What is reality? Until we answer that question with confidence, a sharp differentiation between real animals and imaginary ones will remain elusive. There is some yeti in every ape, and a bit of Pegasus in every horse. Men and women are not only part angel and part demon, as the old cliché goes; they are also part centaur, part werewolf, part mandrake, and part sphinx.

To Milva the Archer.' Zoltan Chivay cleared his throat, saluting with his cup, 'To the Nilfgaardian. To Regis the herbalist, he entertained the travelers in his cottage with moonshine and mandrake, and to Angoulême whom i never knew. May the earth lie lightly on them all. My they have in the beyond, plenty of whatever they were short of on earth. And may their names live forever in songs and tales. Let us drink to them.

See!” she snapped at him. “You men are all brutish. You force your strength and will on us as if we matter for naught and then you wonder why we don’tlike ”—she spat the word at him—“you. Really? Is it any wonder? Why would any woman want to subject herself to the male ego? Why?” She looked down at his body as a sudden heat came into her gaze that made him instantly nervous. “Sure, you’re a handsome beastie with kissable lips when they’re not bleeding. You’re fair in form with big, bulging—” He actually cringed in fear of the word “cock” coming out of her mouth again, but luckily she averted her thoughts as her gaze met his. For the first time the despair left her voice. “Your eyes are so beautiful.” She ran one finger over his brow, making him instantly hard for her. “Did you know that?” Then the gloomy tone returned as she dropped her hand from his face. “Of course you do. You’re a worthless man. Just like all the others.” “Yeah,” Blaise teased. “You’re worthless, Varian. And what on him bulges again, Merewyn?” Varian glared at the mandrake, who merely continued to laugh at him. “Everything. His arms, his legs, his—” “Enough, Merewyn,” Varian said from between clenched teeth. “Well, you do bulge. I’ve seen it.” “We’ve all seen it,” Merrick said, his voice filled with humor, “And it’s sickening.” Varian glared at the triplets, especially the ferret, who was laughing and rolling around his brother’s neck. “When she is over this, I’m going to kill all of you.” Merewyn let out a long-suffering sigh. “Of course you will. That’s what men do. They destroy everything. Everything. Because you’re all worthless whoremongers.” Varian winced at her choice of words. “Whoremongers?” Blaise repeated with a laugh. “Yes. You all go out with your giant lances, spearing anything you can find. Nailing your targets against trees and walls, while you gallop from field to field, bragging over your conquests, uncaring of who you’ve hurt while you quest for more glory.” “Good gods,” Merrick said, his face horrified. “Is she speaking of what I think she is?” “Do you mean warmongers?” Varian asked her. “No! Whoremongers. All of you.” She looked over at the triplets. “Especially them.

In addition to localized neural networks, hallucinogenic drugs have been documented to trigger such preternatural experiences, such as the sense of floating and flying stimulated by atropine and other belladonna alkaloids. These can be found in mandrake and jimsonweed and were used by European witches and American Indian shamans, probably for this very purpose.32 Dissociative anesthetics such as the ketamines are also known to induce out-of-body experiences. Ingestion of methylenedioxyamphetamine (MDA) may bring back long-forgotten memories and produce the feeling of age regression, while dimethyltryptamine (DMT)—also known as “the spirit molecule”—causes the dissociation of the mind from the body and is the hallucinogenic substance in ayahuasca, a drug taken by South American shamans. People who have taken DMT report “I no longer have a body,” and “I am falling,” “flying,” or “lifting up.

Foul deeds have been done under the most hospitable roofs; terrible crimes have been committed amid the fairest scenes, and have left no trace upon the spot where they were done. I do not believe in mandrake, or in bloodstains that no time can efface. I believe rather that we may walk unconsciously in an atmosphere of crime, and breathe none the less freely. I believe that we may look into the smiling face of a murderer, and admire its tranquil beauty.

It’s like my grandpa always used to say, ‘A butter knife would make a deadlier weapon than a melting stick of butter.’”
 “Your grandpa never said that.”
 “No, but he should have. He was a damn fool not to have uttered those words.”
 “My grandpa was a janitor, in the Great Depression. The greatest thing he ever said was, ‘Greg, I just Gregged all over your floor. Do you have a mop I can use to clean it up?’”
 “Who’s Greg?”
 “I don’t know.”
 “What the shit kind of story is that? That story is bullshit. Greg doesn’t exist. Nobody knows nobody named Greg. It’s a unicorn name—it’s complete mythology.”
 “What about Lou Greg, the baseball player?”
 “Lou who? Lou Gehrig?”
 “Here’s a Lou for you. Greg Louganis.”
 “Bah, Greg Louganis doesn’t exist. He was a myth created by the Soviets to push their divers to perfection. The Russians realized they couldn’t be the best until they deceived their divers into believing there was someone who was always better.”
 “I’ve seen Greg Louganis, and he’s as real as you or me.”
 “You’ve seen what they wanted you to see. They gave you a blindfold to wear and convinced you it would improve your eyesight.”


For the fact is when men are hand, innocent or guilty, their semen, that salty white milk, falls onto the Earth and there are on that very spot we spring up... Why men should ejaculate in the throes of death is a mystery even to me. Perhaps death really is the consummation of life, or maybe it's the last act of the body desperate to bequeath a life that will go on even as its own is obliterated. But I like to believe it is a final one-fingered gesture of defiance at their executioners, the only obscene gesture they can make since their hands are tightly bound behind them. Whatever the reason, felons with their dying gasp impregnate our mother and so we, the mandrakes, are conceived.

THE NINE PLANTS OF DESIRE ~ Gloxinia--The mythical plant of love at first sight. ~ Mexican cycad--The plant of immortality. A living dinosaur straight from the Jurassic period. ~ Cacao--The chocolate tree of food and fortune. ~ Moonflower--Bringer of fertility and procreation. ~ Cannabis sativa in the form of sinsemilla--The plant of female sexuality. ~ Lily of the valley--Delivers life force. In a pinch, this beautiful plant can replace digitalis as medication for an ailing heart. ~ Mandrake--According to both William Shakespeare and the Holy Bible, this is the plant of magic. ~ Chicory--The plant of freedom. Offering invisibility to those who dare to ingest its bitter, milky juice. ~ Datura--The plant of mind travel and high adventure. Bringer of visions and dreams of the future.

Find something more productive and less nosy to do!” she shouted at the closest peeping LeafWing. He jumped and scurried away up the tree like a startled squirrel. “Oh my goodness,” Willow said. “Must you be so terrifying?” “It’s my special skill,” Sundew said. “And he deserved it.” “Did he, though?” Willow said thoughtfully. “Could you please keep being the one dragon I’m not furious at right now?” Sundew said. “Come on, everyone, let’s go. Willow, you lead the way for now, since you’re the most familiar with the jungle around your village.” Willow hesitated for a moment, as though she was thinking about pressing her point a bit more, but instead she nodded and headed into the trees, to Sundew’s relief. Sundew followed, with Cricket a half step behind her. The HiveWing was like a shadow, staying as close to Sundew as she could, although she kept twisting her head to stare at weird plants as they went by. “I’m familiar with this area, too,” Nettle complained from the rear. “I’ve been scouting in SapWing territory since before Mandrake was born. I know every kind of tree around here.” “Meh meh meh meh meh,” Bumblebee said in a hilariously similar tone of voice.

Our freedom does not lie outside us, but within us. One can be bound outside, and yet one will still feel free since one has burst inner bonds. One can certainly gain outer freedom through powerful actions, but one creates inner freedom only through the symbol. The symbol is the word that goes out of the mouth, that one does not simply speak, but that rises out of the depths of the self as a word of power and great need and places itself unexpectedly on the tongue. It is an astonishing and perhaps seemingly irrational word, but one recognizes it as a symbol since it is alien to the conscious mind. If one accepts the symbol, it is as if a door opens leading into a new room whose existence one previously did not know. But if one does not accept the symbol, it is as if one carelessly went past this door; and since this was the only door leading to the inner chambers, one must pass outside into the streets again, exposed to everything external. But the soul suffers great need, since outer freedom is of no use to it. Salvation is a long road that leads through many gates. These gates are symbols. Each new gate is at first invisible; indeed, it seems at first that it must be created, for it exists only if one has dug up the spring’s root. To find the mandrake, one needs the black dog, since good and bad must always be united first if the symbol is to be created. The symbol can be neither thought up nor found: it becomes. Its becoming is like the becoming of human life in the womb. Pregnancy comes about through voluntary copulation. It goes on through willing attention. But if the depths have conceived, then the symbol grows out of itself and is born from the mind, as befits a God. But in the same way a mother would like to throw herself on the child like a monster and devour it again. In the morning, when the new sun rises, the word steps out of my mouth, but is murdered lovelessly, since I did not know that it was the saviour. The newborn child grows quickly, if I accept it. And immediately it becomes my charioteer. The word is the guide, the middle way which easily oscillates like the needle on the scales. The word is the God that rises out of the waters each morning and proclaims the guiding law to the people. Outer laws and outer wisdom are eternally insufficient, since there is only one law and one wisdom, namely my daily law, my daily wisdom. The God renews himself each night.

I raised my chin and stared back at him. I had no reason to feel embarrassed. After all, he was the one who said Akaran was just as much mine as it was his. The door had been open. And yet, a flush still crept up the back of my neck. “I was taking a walk,” I said weakly. “Where’s Gupta?” “The dining room,” I said before adding defensively, “I only walked a little down the halls.” His jaw tightened. “I told you that the kingdom’s location makes it dangerous.” “Gupta told me that anyplace that might hold danger would be locked up,” I retorted. “The door to this room was not locked.” “Even so,” said Amar. “They might sing through their bindings. It’s better to have an escort.” “As you can see, I am unscathed from my walk from one hall to the next.” “Today,” cut in Amar tightly. “Today you are unscathed. Tomorrow is unknown. As is the next day and the day after that. Never make light of your life.” “I never do.” The vial of mandrake poison flashed in my mind. Life led me here. Life and the desire to live it. Gupta burst into the room. “Oh, good!” he breathed, hands pushing against his knees. He looked like he’d just run from one side of a country to the next. Guilt heated my face. He turned to Amar. “I apologize. I lost track with the riddles.” “You can leave, my friend,” said Amar. “She is safe with me.” Gupta looked between us, started to say something and thought better of it. There was a touch of pity in his expression as he looked at the winking lights around us. With one last glance at the garden, Gupta left. Amar loosed a breath. “I understand, you know.” I looked up. “The forced silence…the voices of this palace.

1. For the space of one entire month (from full moon to full moon), a single leaf from a Mandrake must be carried constantly in the mouth. The leaf must not be swallowed or taken out of the mouth at any point. If the leaf is removed from the mouth, the process must be started again. 2. Remove the leaf at the full moon and place it, steeped in your saliva, in a small crystal phial that receives the pure rays of the moon (if the night is cloudy, you will have to find a new Mandrake leaf and begin the whole process again). To the moon-struck crystal phial, add one of your own hairs, a silver teaspoon of dew collected from a place that neither sunlight nor human feet have touched for a full seven days, and the chrysalis of a Death’s-head Hawk Moth. Put this mixture in a quiet, dark place and do not look at it or otherwise disturb it until the next electrical storm. 3. While waiting for the storm, the following procedure should be followed at sunrise and sundown. The tip of the wand should be placed over the heart and the following incantation spoken: ‘Amato Animo Animato Animagus.’ 4. The wait for a storm may take weeks, months or even years. During this time, the crystal phial should remain completely undisturbed and untouched by sunlight. Contamination by sunlight gives rise to the worst mutations. Resist the temptation to look at your potion until lightning occurs. If you continue to repeat your incantation at sunrise and sunset there will come a time when, with the touch of the wand-tip to the chest, a second heartbeat may be sensed, sometimes more powerful than the first, sometimes less so. Nothing should be changed. The incantation should be uttered without fail at the correct times, never omitting a single occasion. 5. Immediately upon the appearance of lightning in the sky, proceed directly to the place where your crystal phial is hidden. If you have followed all the preceding steps correctly, you will discover a mouthful of blood-red potion inside it.

Soak blanket in gravy and make a delicious brick wrap. Serve in All Gravy Room at the Mandrake Hotel.

When your head is filled with things that other people don't seem to give much thought to - chymistry, star names, mandrake root, mathematicall magick - it can be hard to make friends. Being short, secretive, and smarter than everybody else doesn't help.

For some reason that he had never been able to understand, Mandrake was a man in whom his fellow-creatures confided. He was by no means obviously sympathetic and he seldom asked for confidences but, perhaps because of these very omissions, they came his way.

Buddha, but you shortened it. The original saying is, ‘To keep the body in good health is a duty, for otherwise we shall not be able to trim the lamp of wisdom, and keep our mind strong and clear. Water surrounds the lotus flower, but does not wet its petals.

The powers of nature are never in repose; her work never stands still,

Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement; nothing can be done without hope.

The Jungian critic took issue with this interpretation, citing many instances of hacked-off hands in myth and magic: the Hand, she said, was an echo of the Hand of Glory cut from a hanged criminal's corpse, and pickled, then set alight with embedded candles, long used in break-and-entering charms. It was known in French as main de gloire, thus giving its name to mandragore, or mandrake.

Mandrakes!” Neville bellowed at Harry over his shoulder as he ran. “Going to lob them over the walls — they won’t like this!

Scientists have long observed that virtually all plants are highly sensitive to touch of any kind, and will change their growth accordingly. They even have a word for this phenomenon: thigmomorphogenesis. Darwin described touch sensitivity in plants in the late 1800s, but the phenomenon has been known to farmers for much longer. In traditional agricultural practices from many regions, whipping, prodding, or otherwise flagellating certain crop plants was thought to induce heartier growth, or help prevent a plague of pests. In the 1970s and ’80s, a plant physiologist in Ohio more or less confirmed this folk knowledge by stroking the stems of plants in a greenhouse each day. Mordecai Jaffe, or “Mark” to most people, found that repeatedly pestering plants made them tougher. He began his investigation by fastidiously stroking several varieties of rather ordinary plants: barley, cucumber, common bean, castor bean, and English mandrake. If he stroked a plant once, it wouldn’t change. But if he stroked them over and over, for about ten seconds once or twice a day, they would change quite a lot. The response was fast: within three minutes of his beginning to rub its stem, the plant would slow or even cease elongating, which it was otherwise doing all the time. When Jaffe stopped stroking the plant, it would begin to elongate rapidly, even faster than its normal growth rate, as if making up for lost time. In Cherokee wax bean plants, the stroked stems would grow girthier, and harden. It becomes impossible not to make jokes about this, but it was also serious business: Jaffe coined the word “thigmomorphogenesis,” and a whole new field of plant touch studies was born.

I’d rather stay together, sir,” she said.

They were proclaiming the end of the world, redemption through penitence, the visions of the seventh day, the advent of the angel, cosmic collisions, the death of the sun, the tribal spirit, the sap of the mandrake, tiger ointment, the virtue of the sign, the discipline of the wind, the perfume of the moon, the revindication of darkness, the power of exorcism, the sign of the heel, the crucifixion of the rose, the purity of the lymph, the blood of the black cat, the sleep of the shadow, the rising of the seas, the logic of anthropophagy, painless castration, divine tattoos, voluntary blindness, convex thoughts, or concave, or horizontal or vertical, or sloping, or concentrated, or dispersed, or fleetin, the weakening of the vocal cords, the death of the word. Here, nobody is speaking of organisation.

Marcus woke again to find Sanga lying asleep on his bed, and he quietly climbed off his own mattress, standing still for a moment to allow the slight feeling of dizziness to pass. Walking quietly on bare feet, he made his way up the corridor to the latrine, then went in search of his wife. Felicia was delighted to see him on his feet, despite her immediate concern for his well-being, which were quickly dispelled when he waved her away and turned a full circle with his arms out. ‘Well, you seem to be spry enough that I think we can assume the effects of the mandrake have completely worn off. You won’t be able to speak or eat solid food for some time yet though.’ ‘And that’s why I brought this for him.’ They turned to find the tribune standing in the doorway with a smile on his face, a small iron pot dangling from one hand. ‘There’s a food shop at the end of the street whose proprietress was only too happy to lend me the pot in the likelihood of getting your business for the next few weeks. Pass me a cup and I’ll pour you some.’ Marcus found his glass drinking tube and took a sip at the soup, nodding his thanks to the tribune. Scaurus sat in silence until the cup was empty, watching as the hungry centurion consumed the soup as quickly as its temperature would allow. ‘That’s better, eh? There’s more in the pot for when I’m gone. I’d imagine you’ll be spending another night in here just to be sure you’re over the worst of it, but that ought to keep you going until morning. And now, Centurion, to business? First Spear Frontinius tells me that you passed a message requesting a conversation with me, although from the look of things most of the speaking will be done by me.’ Marcus nodded, reaching for his tablet and writing several lines of text. He handed the wooden case to Scaurus, who read the words and stared back at his centurion with his eyebrows raised in astonishment. ‘Really? You’re sure of this?’ After thinking for a moment, Marcus held out his hand and took the tablet back. He smoothed the wax and wrote another statement. Scaurus looked grimly at the text, shaking his head. ‘You got that close to him?’ Marcus wrote in the tablet again. Scaurus read the text aloud, a wry smile on his face. ‘“Take a tent party with you.” A tent party? I’ll need a damned century if he’s as dangerous as you say. And the nastiest, most bad-tempered officer in the First Cohort. Do any names spring to mind, Centurion?

He always had some experiment or another on the go, usually involving boiling liquids and unpleasant smells. Always something bubbling in the cauldron or cooking in the small stone oven. One wall was hidden behind rows of metal cages, set one upon the other; containing animals and birds and reptiles and a few other things not so easily identified. Because you never knew when you'd need a subject to try something out on. And of course there were shelves and shelves of glass jars, holding herbs and insect parts, mandrake root and other disturbing things. Some of the things in the jars were still moving. Because alchemy's like that.

Some smart people may not believe themselves better than their peers but simply struggle to understand them and fit into their world. A history of failed social encounters can numb a person to the possibility of anything other than a life of ostracized isolation.

Lieutenant Sparks was a man of thirty who had a variety of ear and nose piercings and wore his blond hair in short spikes—Gregor’s first thought, when he had met the man, had been that he had recently electrocuted himself

You also ought to know that mandrake is a powerful aphrodisiac and is used in love magic, particularly to break down female resistance. That’s the explanation of mandrake’s folk name: love apple. It’s a herb used to pander lovers.’ ‘Blockhead,’ Milva commented. ‘And

Dandelion spoke first; elaborately, fluently, colourfully and volubly, embellishing his tale with ornaments so beautiful and fanciful they almost obscured the fibs and confabulations. Then the Witcher spoke. He spoke the same truth, and spoke so dryly, boringly and flatly that Dandelion couldn’t bear it and kept butting in, for which the dwarves reprimanded him. And then the story was over and a lengthy silence fell. “To the archer Milva!” Zoltan Chivay cleared his throat, saluting with his cup. “To the Nilfgaardian. To Regis the herbalist who entertained the travellers in his cottage with moonshine and mandrake. And to Angoulême, whom I never knew. May the earth lie lightly on them all. May they have in the beyond plenty of whatever they were short of on earth.

Hildegard of Bingen grounded both her ecospirituality and her herbal medicine in this knowing. Her central concept of viriditas, or divine “greenness,” sanctifies more than the literally green mosses and leaves; over and over Hildegard calls upon the interdependence of trees, seeds, spirit, and soil as sacred cocreators. She used various trees in her practical cures, but they were also stand-ins for the mythic tree of life in her writings and visions. In one of Hildegard’s greatest hymns, she sings to the trees on her lush Rhineland. “O happy roots, mediatrix, and branches…” The “happy” roots, ever underland, grow in the particular favor of the divine (and perhaps of Hildegard herself—there is speculation that some of her visions may have been enhanced by the hallucinogenic mandrake root, which she prescribed as a cure for depression). Green branching is only and always mirrored in rooted darkness—the place we, too, come from and return to. To be whole on earth is to embrace this exuberant darkness, the landscape we visit with every turn of day into night.

The mystery of night travelling is disclosed in the silent world of the ‘herbs of solace’ or ‘flying ointment’. Iohannes Weyer, a student of Cornelius Agrippa, gives the following formulae: Sium (cowbane), acorum vulgare (sweet flag), pentaphyllon (cinquefoil) uespertilitoris sanguis (bat’s blood), solanum somniferum (deadly nightshade) and oleum or oil. Another traditional ointment uses root of liquorish, root of Mandrake, flowers and leaves of Datura Metel, Belladonna, Anis and oil. I would advise extreme caution with this recipe including variants utilizing aconite (monkshood). Monkshood is a frequent ingredient in flying ointments, but can be a poison capable of paralyzing the lungs, so its use is not advocated. Belladonna is its antidote. This explains why most ointments using Monkshood also used Belladonna.

If she had lost her virginity to some hulking masseur named Spartak while in the middle of an orgy… Dear God, Sergei would have had to shoot himself. Forget the father.

Part of becoming an animagus requires you to hold a leaf of a mandrake under your tongue for a month.

Most spells only have power in this life, but a mandrake's born at the same instant a man dies. That means its curse can follow you through the gates of death itself and into the life beyond. I'd not go against it, not for a whole kingdom and and every lusty man in it.

Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative,

The 20th Century has added little to the tradition. Charlie Manson, called the “LSD madman” by the press, was able to convert his followers to believe that he was both Jesus and Satan only after he had supplemented that acid diet with heavy doses of these deliriant drugs, especially belladonna and jimson weed (the American botanical cousin of mandrake). According to Ed Sanders’ account of the Manson cult, The Family, one of the disciples suffered a 40-point IQ drop after a few belladonna trips with Charlie, and is now in a California mental hospital.

Like psychedelics, these drugs seem to lend themselves exceptionally well to outer- or auto-suggestion. For instance, Arkon Daraul, in his History of Secret Societies, tells of an interview with a Tibetan lama who virtually projected Daraul’s “soul” out of his body. Daraul, who had kept a specimen of the dinner served to him before this interview, later had it analyzed at a chemical laboratory and found elements of mandrake/mandragora as well as scopolamine, a derivative of henbane, which is often referred to as “truth serum.” (Actually, what the subject “reveals” is not the precise truth, but what the questioner seems to want to hear. Scopolamine was used originally by some police departments in Europe to obtain confessions from suspected criminals. If the suspect were actually guilty, the confession would be detailed and accurate. If he were innocent, the confession would be equally detailed, but inaccurate.)

I pass trays of spun-sugar animals, little acorn cups filled with wine, enormous sculptures of horn, and a stall where a bent-backed woman takes a brush and draws charms on the soles of shoes. It takes some wandering, but I finally find a collection of sculpted leather masks. They are pinned to a wall and cunningly shaped like the faces of strange animals or laughing goblins or boorish mortals, painted gold and green and every other colour imaginable.

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the devil's foot, Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.

For the fact is when men are hanged, innocent or guilty, their semen, that salty white milk, falls onto the Earth and there on that very spot we spring up... Why men should ejaculate in the throes of death is a mystery even to me. Perhaps death really is the consummation of life, or maybe it's the last act of the body desperate to bequeath a life that will go on even as its own is obliterated. But I like to believe it is a final one-fingered gesture of defiance at their executioners, the only obscene gesture they can make since their hands are tightly bound behind them. Whatever the reason, felons with their dying gasp impregnate our mother and so we, the mandrakes, are conceived.

Nada é tão intolerável para um homem quanto viver sem paixões, somos dominados por uma terrível solidão, sentimo-nos desamparados e vazios.

YOU TURNIPHEADED, SLUDGELY, GORMLESS, BIFFLING, MANDRAKE-BRAINED, FLABWINKED FOOL!!!