Mare's War Quotes

I don't like being your chess piece." "Everyone is someone else's pawn, Mare. whether we know it or not.

„Mare?“ The radio is in my hand before I can even think to ask for it. „I‘m here,“ I say, locking eyes with him across a canyon. „Is it too late?

Strange that she is both the anchor against the storm and the storm itself.

I ache for my ability the way I ache for Mare, for Thomas, for who I was supposed to be.

Mother had to be careful with him, but in the end, it wasn't she who severed the last thread between us. It was Mare Barrow. My brilliant fool of a brother couldn't keep sight on all that was his, and what little was mine.

Mare, I tried

The die was cast. It was a proud day for the Milligan family as I was taken from the house. "I'm too young to go," I screamed as Military Policemen dragged me from my pram, clutching a dummy. At Victoria Station the R.T.O. gave me a travel warrant, a white feather and a picture of Hitler marked "This is your enemy." I searched every compartment, but he wasn't on the train. At 4.30, June 2nd, 1940, on a summer's day all mare's tails and blue sky we arrived at Bexhill-on-Sea, where I got off. It wasn't easy. The train didn't stop there.

If the goal was to increase the love, rather than winning or dominating a constant opponent, I think we could actually imagine liberation from constant oppression. We would suddenly be seeing everything we do, everyone we meet, not through the tactical eyes of war, but through eyes of love. We would see that there's no such thing as a blank canvas, an empty land or a new idea - but everywhere there is complex, ancient, fertile ground full of potential.

The war never leaves.

His face turns to stone again, his eyes narrowed and icy, doing all they can to ignore what his heart wants to feel.

Nu le era foame. Desfăcură un borcan cu dulceață, o cutie cu biscuiți, iar Jeanne făcu cu foarte mare grijă o cafea, din care mai rămăseseră vreo cincizeci de grame, o moca pură, rezervată până atunci marilor ocazii. -Dar ce ocazie mai mare vom găsi? întreabă Maurice. -Nici una de acest fel, sper, răspunse soția lui. Totuși, trebuie să recunoaștem că nu vom mai găsi curând o cafea ca asta, daca mai durează războiul. -Aproape că-i dai savoare păcatului, zise Maurice, inhalând aroma pe care o răspândea cafetiera.

If only I were still a child, and this were all a bad dream.

Tre ragazzi passano ridendo e Max li guarda con intensità. Su un muro butterato e chiazzato di licheni è fissata una piccola lapide di pietra. <>Ici a été tuè Buy Gaston Marcel agé de 18 ans, mort pour la France le 11 aout 1944. Jutta si siede per terra. Il mare è gonfio, grigio d'ardesia. Non ci sono lapidi per i tedeschi morti qui.

The Howeitat spread out along the cliffs to return the peasants' fire. This manner of going displeased Auda, the old lion, who raged that a mercenary village folk should dare to resist their secular masters, the Abu Tayi. So he jerked his halter, cantered his mare down the path, and rode out plain to view beneath the easternmost houses of the village. There he reined in, and shook a hand at them, booming in his wonderful voice: 'Dogs, do you not know Auda?' When they realized it was that implacable son of war their hearts failed them, and an hour later Sherif Nasir in the town-house was sipping tea with his guest the Turkish Governor, trying to console him for the sudden change of fortune.

I continued to find it much easier to assimilate knowledge within the structured military environment than at college, for at training sites such as Mare Island, outside influences were kept to a minimum.  All I had to do was make my bunk in the morning, show up at the appointed classrooms, and focus on the subject at hand.  Others took care of the daily routine of life while we hit the books.

There I was out in the barn playing midwife to a pregnant mare. I remember sitting there, spinning yarn in the light of a little oil lamp, a city girl who knew nothing about farming, sitting on the deel beside that mother in pain, already beginning the birthing process. All around me there was darkness and perfect silence, except for the mother's pain. It was as if the war didn't exist in those hours.

We are touching the future, reaching out across boundaries and post-apocalyptic conditions to touch each other, to call each other out as family, as beloveds. “All that you touch, you change. All that you change, changes you.” we are making ourselves vulnerable enough to be changed, which will of course change what Black existence means. Octavia Butler, who gave us that philosophical spirit poem “Earthseed” that I just quoted, is a bridge for many of us, between this world, and the narratives that pull us through to the next realm, or the parallel universe, or the future in which we are the protagonists. We are creating a world we have never seen. We are whispering it to each other cuddled in the dark, and we are screaming it at people who are so scared of it that they dress themselves in war regalia to turn and face us.

The King Horse was so near that I could see the lashes of his dark eyes. His forelock fell between them like a white waterfall between shining stones. His teeth were as big as the ivory plates upon a war helm; but his lip, when he licked the salt out of my palm, felt softer than my mother’s breast. When the salt was finished, he brushed my cheek with his, and snuffed at my hair. Then he trotted back to his hillock, whisking his long tail. His feet, with which as I learned later he had killed a mountain lion, sounded neat on the meadow, like a dancer’s. Now I found myself snatched from all sides, and hustled from the pasture. It surprised me to see the Horse Master as pale as a sick man. He heaved me on his mount in silence, and hardly spoke all the way home. After so much to-do, I feared my grandfather himself would beat me. He gave me a long look as I came near; but all he said was, “Theseus, you went to the horse field as Peiros’ guest. It was unmannerly to give him trouble. A nursing mare might have bitten your arm off. I forbid you to go again.” This happened when I was six years old; and the Horse Feast fell next year.

an idle threat, for Nuri Said with the guns had gone back to Guweira. There were only one hundred and eighty Turks in the village, but they had supporters in the Muhaisin, a clan of the peasantry; not for love so much as because Dhiab, the vulgar head-man of another faction, had declared for Feisal. So they shot up at Nasir a stream of ill-directed bullets. The Howeitat spread out along the cliffs to return the peasants' fire. This manner of going displeased Auda, the old lion, who raged that a mercenary village folk should dare to resist their secular masters, the Abu Tayi. So he jerked his halter, cantered his mare down the path, and rode out plain to view beneath the easternmost houses of the village. There he reined in, and shook a hand at them, booming in his wonderful voice: 'Dogs, do you not know Auda?' When they realized it was that implacable son of war their hearts failed them, and an hour later Sherif Nasir in the town-house was sipping tea with his guest the Turkish Governor, trying to console him for the sudden change of fortune. At dark Mastur rode in. His Motalga looked blackly at their blood enemies the Abu Tayi, lolling in the best houses. The two Sherifs divided up the place, to keep their unruly followers apart. They had little authority to mediate

You should know better than to mount another's war-horse, I said with a smirk, Or perhaps he took offense to being called a mare.

Ogni generale, ogni soldato sentiva la propria nullità, conscio di essere un granello di sabbia in quel mare di uomini, e al tempo stesso sentiva la propria potenza, conscio di esser parte di quell'enorme tutto.

Well, there was a Chinese farmer whose stallion ran away one day across the border to where a group of nomads lived. When the people from the farmer’s village tell him that he must be cursed, he says, ‘Who’s to say it’s not a blessing?’ So then, about a month later the stallion returns with a mare beside it. All of his friends comment on his good fortune that he now has two horses rather than just one, but he says, ‘Who’s to say it’s not a curse?’ Well, his son goes riding all the time on that new mare, and one day he falls and breaks his leg so badly that he can’t walk anymore without a cane. Then when the people try to sympathize with the farmer, he says, ‘Who’s to say it’s not a blessing?’ So time goes by and war breaks out with the people from beyond the border, and all the men from the farmer’s village who’re able to fight go into battle, but since the boy has this disability he can’t go. Most of the men die in that war but the boy survives and is able to care for his father even into his old age. And so, curses and blessings—who’s to say which is which?

There is only one thing you need to know, and for both sides it’s the same. Women lose their husbands, sons, their life. War it a futile game.

In lontananza, il mare illuminato dalla luna era una scintillante distesa d'argento.

I leaned against Keir's shoulder with a sigh. Simus had produced Keir's weapons and leather armor and Keir was once again the fierce, well-armed warrior of the Plains. A pity really. He'd looked wonderful in those trous. Maybe I could convince him to wear them to bed? I felt my lips curl into a smile at the idea. Keir, lying on our bed, wearing naught but. . . As if he caught my thought, Keir's lips brushed my ear. "That is an interesting look, Warprize." He nuzzled my neck. "What are you thinking of?" I gave him a sideways glance, and decided to be honest. "You. Those trous. Our bed." Keir cleared his throat and shifted on his stool. I lowered my voice. "Our own private celebration." I put my hand on his thigh, and scratched my fingers over the leather. He put his hand over mine, capturing it. "It would be rude to leave before seeing Atira's pattern danced." I sighed. "Truth. But then, you are a Warlord of the Plains. Bold. Demanding." I wiggled my fingers in his grasp. "Rude, upon occasion." "None of that now." Marcus spoke behind me. He was cloaked, and staying behind us. "Mar-cus," I whined. "War-prize," he mimicked. "Time enough for that after the patterns are danced. Woven especially for this celebration." "Yes." Keir squeezed my fingers, looking smug. "Behave, Warprize." I looked at him in astonishment. Marcus snorted. "Like you aren't a stallion ready for his mare." I straightened at that, flushing up like a girl. "Marcus!" "Hush, the both of you," Marcus scolded. "I've a tent set up, down by the water, far from any others, where you can be as private as the Warprize desires

An old man and his son worked a small farm, with only one horse to pull the plow. One day, the horse ran away.   “How terrible,” sympathized the neighbors. “What bad luck.”   “Who knows whether it is bad luck or good luck,” the farmer replied.   A week later, the horse returned from the mountains, leading five wild mares into the barn.   “What wonderful luck!” said the neighbors. “Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?” answered the old man.   The next day, the son, trying to tame one of the horses, fell and broke his leg. “How terrible. What bad luck!”   “Bad luck? Good luck?”   The army came to all the farms to take the young men for war. The farmer’s son was of no use to them, so he was spared.   “Good? Bad?

Ukraine and Russia are like Jacob Marely, they are forever chained to their past baggage of historical activities and grievances, their geography and border disputes, who are relegated through conflict and delegated to serve as a lesson to other nations from the past, present, and future of how far geopolitical imperatives could go if they are unwilling to negotiate a practical relationship between them.

General Ayub Khan (Pakistan) with all his assumed and cultivated arrogance learnt an expensive lesson during the 1965 war with India. Despite his boast that he would have “breakfast at Lahore”, “lunch at Jalandhar” and “dinner at Delhi” he had not factored in the fact that India would fight and fight so ferociously as to make his Pakistani troops wail “Bade Imam mare gaye (The Big guys have been killed)”.

They are deceivers, those dark spirits. And they’re deceived. The great danger is not to the King, of course, or even to his followers. The danger primarily is to the rebels themselves, for submitting to this madness. The Devil is leading them to their own destruction, like a wave crashing on rocks.” Natalie stopped stroking the red roan mare next to her. “You’re sure about all of this? Really sure? Because, this is all unprecedented in human history.

Handed the reins to a big brown New England mare, Revere swung into the saddle and took off at a canter across Charlestown Neck, hooves striking sparks, rider and steed merged into a single elegant creature, bound for glory.

A French bishop, intent upon reforming this evil of feudalism, proposed in 1023 that feudal nobles should take the following oath: “I will not take away ox nor cow nor any other beast of burden. I will not seize the peasant nor the peasant’s wife nor the merchants. I will not take their money, nor will I force them to ransom themselves. I do not want them to lose their property through a war that their lord wages, and I won’t whip them to get their nourishment away from them. From the first of March to All Saints’ Day I will seize neither horse nor mare nor colt from the pasture. I will not destroy and burn houses; I will not uproot and devastate vineyards under pretext of war; I will not destroy mills nor steal the flour.

I tried mare

Imagine Melitene, land of plenty, under snow and ice and high blue skies; imagine it in spring, with the meltwater running off the mountains and the herds going up to the high pastures to graze and their milk scented with mint and citrus; imagine it in high summer, limpid in the day’s heat, with the hawks circling high above and the mares full fat with foal, swatting flies with their tails. Imagine that a man enters this idyll who does not know that he has come to paradise, who brings with him such ill luck as to make the statue of Fortune fall on her face at his passing and set the crows circling in murderous groups, eleven at a time, number of ill augur. Imagine such a man causing the minted milk to sour, and the men to sour with it, even before he gives the word to prosecute an unwinnable war, against the orders of his betters; or at least against Corbulo’s explicit command. Such a man was our new general and while you will have heard of the statue that fell on its face and the other ill omens – they became common enough currency in Rome soon after – you may not know that he disobeyed orders when he began his war.

Inde lacessitum primo mare, cum rudis Argo Miscuit ignotas temerato litore gentes Priamque cum ventis pelagique furentibus undis Conposuit mortale genus, fatisque per ilam Accesit mors una ratem.