Muchh Quotes

This is why he never took these jobs anymore, Wes realized. It was too much-he couldn't save everybody-he couldn't even keep his solders alive, let alone in a line. Daran was lost, and while he was a jerk and a lowlife, he had still entrusted his life to Wes and Wes had failed him. He couldn't keep doing this, there were so many . . .and he was too young to watch so many kids die. Now he was being asked to save a few more . . . for what? So he could watch them starve?

When I hadn’t been strong enough to do something myself—when the pain had been too much—he’d done it for me.

I want you to see all kinds,” he would say to her. “I want you to realize that this whole thing is just a grand adventure. A fine show. The trick is to play in it and look at it at the same time.” “What whole thing?” “Living. All mixed up. The more kinds of people you see, and the more things you do, and the more things that happen to you, the richer you are. Even if they’re not pleasant things. That’s living. Remember, no matter what happens, good or bad, it’s just so much”—he used the gambler’s term, unconsciously—“just so much velvet.

He pauses, swipes a matchstick on a column. It bursts into flame. “I tell you, you must take risks in my studio.” He finds a cigarette behind his ear and lights it. “I tell you not to be timid. I tell you to make the choices, make the mistakes, big, terrible, reckless mistakes, really screw it all up. I tell you it is the only way.” An affirmative murmur. “I say this, yes, but I still see so many of you afraid to cut in.” He begins to pace, slowly like a wolf, which is definitely his mirror animal. “I see what you are doing. When you leave yesterday, I go from work to work. You feel like Rambo maybe with the drills, the saws. You make lots of noise, lots of dust, but very few of you have found even this much”—he pinches two fingers together—“of your sculptures. Today this changes.” He walks over to a short blond-haired girl. “May I, Melinda?” “Please,

What do you think, then, Mrs. Elton, my dear madam, that a clergyman ought to preach?" "I think, Mr. Arnold, that he ought to preach salvation by faith in the merits of the Saviour." "Oh! of course, of course. We shall not differ about that. Everybody believes that." "I doubt it very much.—He ought, in order that men may believe, to explain the divine plan, by which the demands of divine justice are satisfied, and the punishment due to sin averted from the guilty, and laid upon the innocent; that, by bearing our sins, he might make atonement to the wrath of a justly offended God; and so—" "Now, my dear madam, permit me to ask what right we, the subjects of a Supreme Authority, have to inquire into the reasons of his doings? It seems to me—I should be sorry to offend any one, but it seems to me quite as presumptuous as the present arrogance of the lower classes in interfering with government, and demanding a right to give their opinion, forsooth, as to the laws by which they shall be governed; as if they were capable of understanding the principles by which kings rule, and governors decree justice.—I believe I quote Scripture." "Are we, then, to remain in utter ignorance of the divine character?" "What business have we with the divine character? Or how could we understand it? It seems to me we have enough to do with our own. Do I inquire into the character of my sovereign? All we have to do is, to listen to what we are told by those who are educated for such studies, whom the Church approves, and who are appointed to take care of the souls committed to their charge; to teach them to respect their superiors, and to lead honest, hard-working lives.

Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look,” Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar famously remarks. “He thinks too much; such men are dangerous” (Julius Caesar 1.2.194–95). Antony attempts to reassure him—“He’s not dangerous”—but Caesar is unconvinced: “He reads much,/He is a great observer, and he looks/Quite through the deeds of men” (1.2.196, 201–3). These are not qualities that men like Caesar want anywhere near them: “Let me have men about me that are fat,/Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep a-nights” (1.2.192–93).

Jack sure didn’t have this problem. He wasn’t embarrassed by his feelings. Frustrated by them, yes. Embarrassed? Pah.” “Maybe Jack is the guy I should be talking to….” Mel lost every trace of humor. “Okay, I have to draw the line there. You can’t do that. Jack might say too much—he’s been known to do that once or twice. And I can’t have you conjuring up pictures of me in—” She straightened her spine. “I’m your boss, I think. I am, yes I am. You’re the doctor, but it’s my clinic. I can’t have you picturing me in compromising positions, even if they might help your pathetic sex life, because I’m your boss.” He just grinned largely, happily. As of her last words, he didn’t need Jack’s input to drum up an image or two. Her turn to squirm. She’d certainly enjoyed his discomfort, but all he said with regards to hers was, “Why, Melinda. Hmm.” *

You were trained to accept the foolishness of such old men as this, even when you thought them clowns and fools; you were trained to pretend that you respected them and acknowledged in them the same quality of authority and power in your world as the whites before whom they bowed and scraped and feared and loved and imitated, and you were even trained to accept it when, angered or spiteful, or drunk with power, they came at you with a stick or a strap or cane and you made no effort to strike back, but only to escape unmarked. But this was too much…he was not grandfather or uncle or father, nor preacher or teacher.

the sieidi protected anyone from knowing or seeing, because the sieidi knew there lies a boundary to all knowledge, even from what we know of ourselves, which is why afterward Ivvár could not have said, to anyone, much less to himself, what had happened, and he could not have described it, nor did he wish to, he wished only to preserve it and keep it for himself to remember at some unknown moment when the memory would overtake him, and he could return again, briefly, to its bounds. What he did retain, what did appear to him as real, even obvious, was a new fear about what had happened in town. He’d left town well after the others, hearing only briefly from a passerby that Frans had left in the middle of the sermon, but he hadn’t thought about it very much—he’d only wanted to do this—but now he was sure, more sure of than anything, that they weren’t safe. No one was safe, the herd was not safe. It was possible, even probable, he had gone, offered, asked, too late, and it was possible, even probable, that Frans would have his revenge, and the danger was nearly here. He’d been so insistent on doing it all alone, so insistent on no one knowing what he was doing that he’d lost time he’d had no idea was so precious; he’d even walked out to the sieidi instead of skiing, wanting the experience of getting to the sieidi to be more of a trial, but now he regretted this—the snow was not deep but it was still tiring to walk through. He was strong, of course, but his power was all in endurance, he wasn’t built for bursts of speed, so he ran slowly, steadily, his eyes constantly on the sky, on the trees, on the birds—what if they told him something? What if they said, you’re too late? But they told him nothing, or what they told him he couldn’t read, the world was closed to him, as if he had just been told too much. He went to the closest lávvu first, not caring whose it was. It happened to be Anna and Nilsa’s, but he didn’t think what time it was, he didn’t care. Inside Nilsa was gone, and it was just Anna and Risten sitting up, while Mikkol was sleeping. “We have to move the herd,” Ivvár said, “we have to go, now.