Our Violent Delights Quotes

To have and to hold, where even death cannot part us,’ Juliette whispered. ‘In this life and the next,’ Roma returned, ‘for however long our souls remain, mine will always find yours.

These violent delights have violent ends, you have always known this.

I will fight this war to love you, Juliette Cai. I will fight this feud to have you, because it was this feud that gave you to me, twisted as it is, and now I will take you away from it.

They speak of Roma Montagov and Juliette Cai as the ones who dared to dream. And for that, in a city consumed by nightmares, they were cut down without mercy.

Together or not at all, doragaya

Because even if you hate me, Roma Montagov, I still love you.

In this life and the next, for however long our souls remain, mine will always find yours.

I said I wanted you dead," Roma confirmed. "I never said I didn't love you

I hate you, what he really meant was I love you. I l still love you so much that I hate you for it

Your life," he seethed. "Is not a game of luck". "Since when," Juliette spat, "did you care about my life?' "I don't." He was trembling with fury. "I hate you". And when Juliette didn't recoil, Roma kissed her.

Don't miss," Roma said. "I never do," Juliette replied

moya doragaya, I love you, I love you

You destroy me and then you kiss me. You give me a reason to hate you and then you give me a reason to love you. Is this a lie or the truth? Is the a ploy or your heart reaching for me?

If the human soul has an afterlife, has a will, then his would be here for rest, and Alisa has no doubt that Juliette's would follow.

I made a vow to you, Roma.’ She took a step forward. No one stopped her. ‘Where you go, I go. I will not bear a day parted. I will take a dagger to my own heart if I must.

I'll say it however many times you want. I'll romance you until you get sick of me. I am horrendously in love with your dreadful face, and we need to go now

he would have burned the damn city to the ground just to keep her unharmed

All that is good is gone, or perhaps it never existed. The blood feud kept us apart, forced us onto different sides. I will not allow death to do the same.

My darling, darling Juliette

they were once as familiar as halves of the same soul

Nothing in this world is complicated, only misunderstood.

because I cannot bear to see you hurt, even when I am the one hurting you most.

Of course it was hard for him to hurt her now. It went against every fiber of his being. Every cell, every nerve—they had grown into place with one mantra: protect her, protect her.

You are a liar, Juliette Cai," he said. "You lied to me until I wanted you dead

I will fight this war to love you, Juliette Cai.

They had always been two mirrored souls, the only ones who understood the other in a city that wanted to consume them whole, and now they were joined, mightier when together.

I love you so much it feels like it could consume me.

what was love if all it did was kill?

How mighty you are', he whispered quietly. 'I am grateful that our roles are not switched, for I would have dove headfirst into the Huangpu should I be left in this world without you.

Keep fighting for love.

There will be hatred. There will be war. The country will fight itself to pieces. It will starve its people, ravage its land, poison its breath. Shanghai will fall and break and cry. But alongside everything, there has to be love - eternal, undying, enduring. Burn through vengeance and terror and warfare. Burn through everything that fuels the human heart and Sears it red, burn through everything that covers the outside with hard muscle and tough sinew. Cut down deep and grab what beats beneath, and it is love that will survive after everything else has perished.

Why do you pause?” Juliette mimicked bitterly. Softly, she set him down, brushing his mussed hair out of his face. “Because even if you hate me, Roma Montagov, I still love you.

It is love that will survive after everything else has perished.

What are you afraid of?' Roma Montagov asked. Juliette's lips parted. She exhaled a short, abrupt breath. 'The consequences,' she whispered, "of love in a city ruled by hate.

I take you, Juliette Cai, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, until...No, scratch that. To have and to hold, where even death cannot part us. In this life and the next, for however long our souls remain, mine will always find yours. Those are my vows to you.

I will be free of my name.” Juliette looked up. “I will take yours.

And if you are gunned down because you want to fight a war that doesn’t belong to you, I will never forgive this city. I will tear it to pieces, and you will be to blame!

Fight dirty but fight bravely. Do not fight those who cannot understand what it means to fight. Nurse had known exactly what working for the Scarlet Gang entailed. This man had pulled at a hint of glitter in the ground expecting a Nugget of gold and disturbed a hornet's nest instead.

Hello, stranger

I would rather the two of you not burn the world down each time you choose each other.

Roma Montagov kicks a chair. “God—” “—dammit,” Juliette Cai finishes with a whisper, far across the city.

Like twin statues reaching for each other, they both fell asleep at last.

These violent delights have violent ends,” Juliette whispered to herself. She tilted her head up to the clouds, to the light sea breeze blowing in from the Bund and stinging her nose with salt. “You have always known this.

He wanted to scream and rage. He wanted to scream at Juliette until his lungs grew hoarse. Only he knew that if he screamed I hate you, what he really meant was I love you. I still love you so much that I hate you for it.

Juliette scowled. “Just as they call Shanghai the Paris of the East,” she said. “When are we going to stop letting the colonizers pick the comparisons? Why don’t we ever call Paris the Shanghai of the West?

At this distance between them that she had willingly manufactured, because they had been born into two families at war, and she would rather die at Roma’s hand than be the cause of his death.

I missed you, dorogaya," he whispered against her ear. "I missed you so much.

How are you coming with your home library? Do you need some good ammunition on why it's so important to read? The last time I checked the statistics...I think they indicated that only four percent of the adults in this country have bought a book within the past year. That's dangerous. It's extremely important that we keep ourselves in the top five or six percent. In one of the Monthly Letters from the Royal Bank of Canada it was pointed out that reading good books is not something to be indulged in as a luxury. It is a necessity for anyone who intends to give his life and work a touch of quality. The most real wealth is not what we put into our piggy banks but what we develop in our heads. Books instruct us without anger, threats and harsh discipline. They do not sneer at our ignorance or grumble at our mistakes. They ask only that we spend some time in the company of greatness so that we may absorb some of its attributes. You do not read a book for the book's sake, but for your own. You may read because in your high-pressure life, studded with problems and emergencies, you need periods of relief and yet recognize that peace of mind does not mean numbness of mind. You may read because you never had an opportunity to go to college, and books give you a chance to get something you missed. You may read because your job is routine, and books give you a feeling of depth in life. You may read because you did go to college. You may read because you see social, economic and philosophical problems which need solution, and you believe that the best thinking of all past ages may be useful in your age, too. You may read because you are tired of the shallowness of contemporary life, bored by the current conversational commonplaces, and wearied of shop talk and gossip about people. Whatever your dominant personal reason, you will find that reading gives knowledge, creative power, satisfaction and relaxation. It cultivates your mind by calling its faculties into exercise. Books are a source of pleasure - the purest and the most lasting. They enhance your sensation of the interestingness of life. Reading them is not a violent pleasure like the gross enjoyment of an uncultivated mind, but a subtle delight. Reading dispels prejudices which hem our minds within narrow spaces. One of the things that will surprise you as you read good books from all over the world and from all times of man is that human nature is much the same today as it has been ever since writing began to tell us about it. Some people act as if it were demeaning to their manhood to wish to be well-read but you can no more be a healthy person mentally without reading substantial books than you can be a vigorous person physically without eating solid food. Books should be chosen, not for their freedom from evil, but for their possession of good. Dr. Johnson said: "Whilst you stand deliberating which book your son shall read first, another boy has read both.

only he knew that if he screamed I hate you, what he really meant was I love you. I still love you so much I hate you for it

Because—" Juliette said. Her voice was no louder than a bare whisper. Yet in the quiet of the alley, with only Tyler's gasps, she was all that could be heard. "I love him. I love him, Tyler, and you tried to take him from me.

So we are never to change?" she asked. "We are forever blood-soaked roses?" Roma took her hand. Pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "A rose is a rose, even by another name," he whispered. "But we choose whether we will offer beauty to the world, or if we will use our thorns to sting.

but here, with his pulse thudding through his chest and beating an even rhythm onto hers, he was just a boy, just a bloody, beating heart that could be cut out at any moment by a blade sharp enough

Ooh, look at me. I studied with Americans and I know how biology works.

Juliette swallowed hard. She could not. She would not. She was the heir to the Scarlet Gang. Heir of mobsters and merchants and monsters, each and every one of them, blood frothing at the mouth. She kneeled to no one.

I ruined us all for a love not true,” Rosalind whispered. “At the very least, I can still save you.

Do not lie to save your honor.” Rosalind pointed a sharp fingernail. “You kill because you enjoy it. I’m warning you. Your name cannot protect you for long.

runaways from Moscow with smiles as cracked as their hands.

War rages on, and the city tells the tale of Roma and Juliette like some folk song passed between rickshaw runners on their breaks. They speak of Roma Montagov and Juliette Cai as the ones who had dared to dream. And for that, in a city consumed by nightmares, they were cut down without mercy.

Because I love you!” Benedikt shouted. At once, it was like a dam in his heart had broken, smashing past every barricade he had built up. “I love you, Mars. And if you are gunned down because you want to fight a war that doesn’t belong to you, I will never forgive this city. I will tear it to pieces, and you will be to blame!

You can call a rose something else, but it remains yet a rose.

It had always been Marshall.

Lovers turned to strangers

She was so damn afraid of being punished for her choices, and if it were easier to shut down, then why would she not? If there were an easier way to live, to choose ease over pain, how could she not?

My belief is that, morally, God and Satan are vaguely on the same page. According to the common understanding of Satan's origins, 'holiness' is, metaphorically, frozen stiff in his veins: and at that a corrupted formula - i.e. legalism. The vital difference is that God is willing to offer grace for our sins; he delights in grace. God is the one and only holy and just punisher of sin, yes, but that is partly so because punishment for the sake of punishment is not something he loves. Whereas Satan, as the accuser, and as it is written, actually seeks God's permission to punish; he, being a seasoned legalist, delights in finding wrongs and will defy his own morality just to expose immorality. This is why both the anti-religious soul and the violently religious soul are, whether consciously or unconsciously, and sadly enough, glorifying their biggest hater: Satan is not only a lawless lover of punishing lawlessness, but also the sharpest theologian of us all. He loves wickedness, but only because he loves punishing wickedness.

A rose is a rose, even by another name. But we choose whether we will offer beauty to the world, or if we will use our thorns to sting.

There exactly is your problem. You think everything can only be good or bad, heroic or evil. I have taken you in to teach you to be a leader, and you cannot stay true to your word.

we were a risk to each other from the very beginning

Darling daughter”—Lord Cai pinched the bridge of his nose—“get in the car please.” “Father,” Juliette shot back, “I crave violence.

Keep fighting for love. But she didn't want to. She wanted to hold love to her chest and run, run like hell so the rest of the world couldn't touch it.

I take you, Juliette Cai," Roma whispered in concentration, "to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, until..." He looked up as he finished the knot. Paused. When he spoke again, he did not look away. "No, scratch that. To have and to hold, where even death cannot part us. In this life and the next, for however long our souls remain, mine will always find yours. Those are my vows to you.

Roma Montagov wasn’t the heir scheming in the shadows anymore. It seemed that he was sick of the city seeing him as the one slitting throats in the dark, the one with a heart of coal and the clothing to match.

So long as he hates me, we are safe. If we love again... this city may just kill us both for daring to hope.

the violent delight of female desire.

No," Roma finally said. "Then we would not have met. Then I would have lived an ordinary life, pining for some great love I would never find, because ordinary things happen to ordinary people, and ordinary people settle for something that satisfies them, never knowing if there would have been greater happiness in another life." His voice was rough, but it was certain. "I will fight this war to love you, Juliette Cai. I will fight this feud to have you, because it was this feud that gave you to me, twisted as it is, and now I will take you away from it.

I used to think this city I am to inherit was descending into one ruled by hatred,” the girl says into the cold wind. “I used to think that it was our doing, that the blood feud ruined all that was good.” She looks at her cousin. “But it has been hateful for a long time.

It is too late now.” The messenger tried to writhe about. “Lord Cai wanted confirmation and confession, but Tyler will have you answer for your insolence. You dare threaten the Scarlet Gang, you pay with blood and fire.

Her holding out a pinkie finger to make a promise: "What if I don't want this one?" And touches her ring finger, "What if I want this one?

Darling daughter' -- Lord Cai pinched the bridge of his nose -- 'get in the car please.' 'Father', Juliette shot back, 'I crave violence.

I will stare fear in the face," Juliette promised quietly. " I will dare to love you, Roma Montagov, and if this city cuts me down for it, then so be it.

And maybe he was a coward. He was a coward who couldn't stop loving a wicked thing.

Don't worry," Alisa whispers. "We will be okay.

Nothing in this world is complicated, only misunderstood." - Alisa Montagova

The blood feud has raged on since the last century. What are we fighting for? Why do we kill one another in a never-ending cycle if we do not know what the original slight was? Why must we remain enemies with the Montagovs when nobody remembers why?

But don’t be mistaken, Juliette.” His eyes swiveled to her slowly. That once-familiar stare was now fathomless, and Juliette’s breath caught in her throat, stilling like a creature in the headlights. She was ready. She knew what he would say. But it still tore into her, it still stung as mightily as razor wire wrapped around her heart, both ends pulled until it could wrap no tighter. “When this is over, I will have my revenge. You will answer to me for what you did.

These violent delights have violent ends," Juliette whispered to herself. She titled her head up to the clouds, to the light sea breeze blowing in from the Bund and stinging her nose with salt. "You have always known this.

The plain, inexorable fact was that any attempt of the America Negro to overthrow his oppressor with violence would not work...The courageous efforts of our own insurrectionist brothers, such as Denmark Vassey and Nat Turner, should be eternal reminders to us that a violent rebellion is doomed from the start. Anyone leading a violent rebellion must be willing to make an honest assessment regarding the possible casualties to a minority population confronting a well-armed, wealthy majority with a fanatical right wing that would delight in exterminating thousands of black men, women, and children.

The state will continue to suppress us. The law will continue to cheat us. Anyone who deems themselves a savior of this city is a fraud. All kings are tyrants; all rulers are thieves. It is not peace nor gain that revolution shall aim for. It is only freedom.

The whole point of lying to him was to keep him away. The whole point was that they couldn't do this again, because the moment he saw through her, then their city of blood would catch up to them, and perhaps they could be together at last if it was together in death.

We value order, family, loyalty,” Lady Cai confirmed, “but at the end of the day, we choose to value whatever ensures our survival.

Because she didn’t want to. Because she didn’t want to accept it. Because she had made such a habit out of lying and withholding, what was one more?

A rose is a rose, even by another name. But we choose whether we will offer beauty to the world, or if we will use our thorns to sting. -Roman Nikolaevich Montagov

Together or not at all, dorogaya,” Roma whispered back. “I’m with you if we run. I’m with you if we fight.

Power is never worth it! You keep making trades upon trades, and you get nothing in return. Roma is running from it. Juliette is running from it. What makes you think you can handle

Tyler and his Scarlet men would go on a rampage in the name of defending Juliette, even if they too wanted her dead. It was all one and the same. It was this city, divided by names and colors and turfs, but somehow bleeding the exact same shade of violence.

Juliette spun around, putting her hands on her hips. She glared at him for a long moment, but then she couldn’t help it. The smile slipped out. “Ah!” Marshall shrieked. Before Juliette could shush him, he was already lunging at her, picking her lithe frame off the ground and spinning her around until her head was dizzy. “She shows emotion!” “Cease immediately!” Juliette screeched. “My hair!” Marshall set her down with a steady thump. He held on to her even once she was on her own feet again, his arms splayed along her shoulders. Poor, touch-starved Marshall Seo. Maybe Juliette could find him a stray cat.

A "successful" life has become a violent enterprise. We make war on our own bodies, pushing them beyond their limits; war on our children, because we cannot find enough time to be with them when they are hurt and afraid and need our company; war on our spirit, because we are too preoccupied to listen to the quiet voices that seek to nourish and refresh us; war on our communities, because we are fearfully protecting what we have, and do not feel safe enough to be kind and generous; war on the earth, because we cannot take the time to place our feet on the ground and allow it to feed us, to taste its blessings and give thanks.

The artistically inclined delight in the Game because it provides opportunities for improvisation and fantasy. The strict scholars and scientists despise it – and so do some musicians also – because, they say, it lacks that degree of strictness which their specialties can achieve. Well and good, you will encounter these antinomies, and in time you will discover that they are subjective, not objective – that, for example, a fancy-free artist avoids pure mathematics or logic not because he understands them and could say something about them if he wished, but because he instinctively inclines toward other things. Such instinctive and violent inclinations and disinclinations are signs by which you can recognize the pettier souls. In great souls and superior minds, these passions are not found. Each of us is merely one human being, merely an experiment, a way station. But each of us should be on the way toward perfection, should be striving to reach the center, not the periphery. Remember this: one can be a strict logician or grammarian, and at the same time full of imagination and music. One can be a musician or Glass Bead Game player and at the same time wholly devoted to rule and order. The kind of person we want to develop, the kind of person we aim to become, would at any time be able to exchange his discipline or art for any other. He would infuse the Glass Bead Game with crystalline logic, and grammar with creative imagination. That is how we ought to be. We should be so constituted that we can at any time be placed in a different position without offering resistance or losing our heads.

And all the while I have people telling me, at least you still have something of your husband. Do they mean the book chronicling our work in Vystrana? No, of course not—never mind that we undertook that work together, with intent. That cannot possibly be as valuable as the accidental consequence of biology.” Very quietly, Tom said, “Is not a child worth more than a book?” “Yes,” I said violently. “But then for God’s sake let us value my son for himself, and not as some relic of his father. When he is grown enough to read, I will be delighted to share his father’s legacy with him; it is my legacy as well, and I hope he has inherited our curiosity enough to appreciate it. I would not mind a motherhood where that was my purpose—to foster my son’s mind and teach him the intellectual values of his parents. But no; society tells me my role is to change his napkins and coo over the faces he makes, and in so doing abandon the things I want him to treasure when he is grown.

We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss—we grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger. Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness and dizziness and horror become merged in a cloud of unnamable feeling. By gradations, still more imperceptible, this cloud assumes shape, as did the vapor from the bottle out of which arose the genius in the Arabian Nights. But out of this our cloud upon the precipice’s edge, there grows into palpability, a shape, far more terrible than any genius or any demon of a tale, and yet it is but a thought, although a fearful one, and one which chills the very marrow of our bones with the fierceness of the delight of its horror. It is merely the idea of what would be our sensations during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a height. And this fall—this rushing annihilation—for the very reason that it involves that one most ghastly and loathsome of all the most ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering which have ever presented themselves to our imagination—for this very cause do we now the most vividly desire it. And because our reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore do we the most impetuously approach it. There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a Plunge. To indulge, for a moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost; for reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, that we cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we fail in a sudden effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed.

Blessedness is within us all It lies upon the long scaffold Patrols the vaporous hall In our pursuits, though still, we venture forth Hoping to grasp a handful of cloud and return Unscathed, cloud in hand. We encounter Space, fist, violin, or this — an immaculate face Of a boy, somewhat wild, smiling in the sun. He raises his hand, as if in carefree salute Shading eyes that contain the thread of God. Soon they will gather power, disenchantment They will reflect enlightenment, agony They will reveal the process of love They will, in an hour alone, shed tears. His mouth a circlet, a baptismal font Opening wide as the lips of a damsel Sounding the dizzying extremes. The relativity of vein, the hip of unrest For the sake of wing there is shoulder. For symmetry there is blade. He kneels, humiliates, he pierces her side. Offering spleen to the wolves of the forest. He races across the tiles, the human board. Virility, coquetry all a game — well played. Immersed in luminous disgrace, he lifts As a slave, a nymph, a fabulous hood As a rose, a thief of life, he will parade Nude crowned with leaves, immortal. He will sing of the body, his truth He will increase the shining neck Pluck airs toward our delight Of the waning The blossoming The violent charade But who will sing of him? Who will sing of his blessedness? The blameless eye, the radiant grin For he, his own messenger, is gone He has leapt through the orphic glass To wander eternally In search of perfection His blue ankles tattooed with stars.