Plague Novel Quotes

Humanity’s debut novel you could say. Love, sex, blood, and tears. A journey to find eternal life. To escape death. It was written over four thousand years ago on clay tablets by people who tilled the mud and rarely lived past forty. It’s survived countless wars, disasters, and plagues, and continues to fascinate to this day, because here I am, in the midst of modern ruin, reading it.

This virus will leave us entirely newborn people. We will all be different, none of us will ever be the same again. We will have deeper roots, be made of denser soil, and our eyes will have seen things.

Talk about delusional. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. His mother’s doctor reported she’d recently been plagued by wild imaginings, too. Make believe ran in his family. He was nuttier than a jar of peanut butter.

As our kissing progresses, I don’t care that our tryst seems raunchy and wrong. I don’t care that I’m at school, in the boy’s bathroom. I don’t care that to most people this would seem cheap, dirty, and despicable. The only thing I can think about while he kisses me deeper, harder, faster, is that Henry Garner is the plague and the only thing I want him to do is infect me.

My Tom died as babies do, gently and without complaint. Because they have been such a little time with us, they seem to hold to life but weakly. I used to wonder if it was so because the memory of Heaven still lived within them, so that in leaving here they do not fear death as we do, who no longer know with certainty where it is our spirits go. This, I thought, must be the kindness that God does for them and for us, since He gives so many infants such a little while to bide with us.

Deep, choking sobs that sounded like his soul was being torn apart. He clutched at his father and Max took his in his arms. "I am so sorry dad." Kyle sobbed. "And I forgive you because that is what fahters do" said Max

And Meredith says that reminds her of a Camus novel, the one about the plague, and she tells the story of it, the tale holding you in thrall, and she ends her version with a line you’ll write down in your notebook, the place where the atheist doctor hollers at a priest: All your certainties aren’t worth one strand of a woman’s hair.

For the present, it is easier for us to turn away. Our repulsion, you see, will not spur us to revolt until this plague moves much closer to home.

In the new century science will defeat famine, boredom, and the plague, but . . . vital knowledge will become so elevated that nobody will know how anything works. . . . the good news is that everybody will be empowered; the bad news is nobody will understand why.

You can be a rich person alone. You can be a smart person alone. But you cannot be a complete person alone. For that you must be part of, and rooted in, an olive grove. This truth was once beautifully conveyed by Rabbi Harold S. Kushner in his interpretation of a scene from Gabriel García Márquez’s classic novel One Hundred Years of Solitude: Márquez tells of a village where people were afflicted with a strange plague of forgetfulness, a kind of contagious amnesia. Starting with the oldest inhabitants and working its way through the population, the plague causes people to forget the names of even the most common everyday objects. One young man, still unaffected, tries to limit the damage by putting labels on everything. “This is a table,” “This is a window,” “This is a cow; it has to be milked every morning.” And at the entrance to the town, on the main road, he puts up two large signs. One reads “The name of our village is Macondo,” and the larger one reads “God exists.” The message I get from that story is that we can, and probably will, forget most of what we have learned in life—the math, the history, the chemical formulas, the address and phone number of the first house we lived in when we got married—and all that forgetting will do us no harm. But if we forget whom we belong to, and if we forget that there is a God, something profoundly human in us will be lost.

No more war, no more plague, only the dazed silence that follows the ceasing of the heavy guns; noiseless houses with the shades drawn, empty streets, the dead cold light of tomorrow. Now there would be time for everything.

Our adults haven't been wiped out by a plague so they're still anchored in the past, waiting for the good old days to come back.

Her life wasn’t some medieval romance novel. And even if it had been, she probably would’ve ended up dying of the plague. Now that was reality.

Let him who will not proffer’d peace receive, Be sated with the plagues which war can give: And well thy hatred of the peace is known, If now thy soul reject the friendship shown. Hoole’s Tasso.

It is a plague of unprecedented proportions. Anyone, who is unfortunate enough to become infected by its deadly parasites, is transformed into a mindless carrier with an inane desire to feed and spread the virus to other potential hosts. Even death is no escape.

Write me a tragedy, Lev Fedorov,” she whispered to him. “Write me a litany of sins. Write me a plague of devastation. Write me lonely, write me wanting, write me shattered and fearful and lost. Then write me finding myself in your arms, if only for a night, and then write it again. Write it over and over, Lev, until we both know the pages by heart. Isn’t that a story, too?

The novels of Daniel Defoe are fundamental to eighteenth-century ways of thinking. They range from the quasi-factual A Journal of the Plague Year, an almost journalistic (but fictional) account of London between 1664 and 1665 (when the author was a very young child), to Robinson Crusoe, one of the most enduring fables of Western culture. If the philosophy of the time asserted that life was, in Hobbes's words, 'solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short', novels showed ways of coping with 'brutish' reality (the plague; solitude on a desert island) and making the best of it. There was no questioning of authority as there had been throughout the Renaissance. Instead, there was an interest in establishing and accepting authority, and in the ways of 'society' as a newly ordered whole. Thus, Defoe's best-known heroine, Moll Flanders, can titillate her readers with her first-person narration of a dissolute life as thief, prostitute, and incestuous wife, all the time telling her story from the vantage point of one who has been accepted back into society and improved her behaviour.

The god of the prosperity gospelists is a pathetic doormat, a genie. The god of the cutesy coffee mugs and Joel Osteen tweets is a milquetoast doofus like the guys in the Austen novels you hope the girls don’t end up with, holding their hats limply in hand and minding their manners to follow your lead like a butler—or the doormat he stands on. The god of the American Dream is Santa Claus. The god of the open theists is not sovereignly omniscient, declaring the end from the beginning, but just a really good guesser playing the odds. The god of our therapeutic culture is ourselves, we, the “forgivers” of ourselves, navel-haloed morons with “baggage” but not sin. None of these pathetic gods could provoke fear and trembling. But the God of the Scriptures is a consuming fire (Deut. 4:24). “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God” (Heb. 10:31). He stirs up the oceans with the tip of his finger, and they sizzle rolling clouds of steam into the sky. He shoots lightning from his fists. This is the God who leads his children by a pillar of cloud and a pillar of fire. This is the God who makes war, sends plagues, and sits enthroned in majesty and glory in his heavens, doing what he pleases. This is the God who, in the flesh, turned tables over in the temple as if he owned the place. This Lord God Jesus Christ was pushed to the edge of the cliff and declared, “This is not happening today,” and walked right back through the crowd like a boss. This Lord says, “No one takes my life; I give it willingly,” as if to say, “You couldn’t kill me unless I let you.” This Lord calms the storms, casts out demons, binds and looses, and has the authority to grant us the ability to do the same. The Devil is this God’s lapdog. And it is this God who has summoned us, apprehended us, saved us. It is this God who has come humbly, meekly, lowly, pouring out his blood in infinite conquest to set the captives free, cancel the record of debt against us, conquer sin and Satan, and swallow up death forever. Let us, then, advance the gospel of the kingdom out into the perimeter of our hearts and lives with affectionate meekness and humble submission. Let us repent of our nonchalance. Let us embrace the wonder of Christ.

With his story in one’s mind he can almost see his benignant countenance moving calmly among the haggard faces of Milan in the days when the plague swept the city, brave where all others were cowards, full of compassion where pity had been crushed out of all other breasts by the instinct of self-preservation gone mad with terror, cheering all, praying with all, helping all, with hand and brain and purse, at a time when parents forsook their children, the friend deserted the friend, and the brother turned away from the sister while her pleadings were still wailing in his ears.

We are offered glimpses, even deep searches, into the questions that haunt people the most. We experience a level of intimacy with our clients that few will ever know. We are exposed to levels of drama and emotional arousal that are at once terrifying and captivating. We get to play detective and help solve mysteries that have plagued people throughout their lives. We hear stories so amazing that they make television shows, novels, and movies seem tedious and predictable by comparison. We become companions to people who are on the verge of making significant changes— and we are transformed as well. We go to sleep at night knowing that, in some way, we have made a difference in people’s lives. There is almost a spiritual transcendence associated with much of the work we do.

We are offered glimpses, even deep searches, into the questions that haunt people the most. We experience a level of intimacy with our clients that few will ever know. We are exposed to levels of drama and emotional arousal that are at once terrifying and captivating. We get to play detective and help solve mysteries that have plagued people throughout their lives. We hear stories so amazing that they make television shows, novels, and movies seem tedious and predictable by comparison. We be come companions to people who are on the verge of making significant changes— and we are transformed as well. We go to sleep at night knowing that, in some way, we have made a difference in people’s lives. There is al most a spiritual transcendence associated with much of the work we do.

So at the beginning, no plague, absolutely not, by any count: The very utterance of the word was prohibited. Then came the “pestilential” fevers, admitting the idea indirectly, through an adjective. And then, not an actual plague, well, yes, there was a plague, but only in a sense. Not a proper plague, mind you, but something for which there was no other name. Finally, it was a plague without a doubt and without dissent. But another idea had already taken root, the idea of poison and sorcery, which distorted and confused the idea expressed in a word that could no longer be retracted. You do not need to be well versed in the history of ideas and of words, I believe, to realize that many words have followed a similar course. Thank heavens that so few are of this nature and importance, pay such a high price before they are believed, and are associated with such attributes.

Jenna is acting strange. Weeping, moping, even remarks tending toward belittlement Melmoth might tolerate (although he cannot think why; she is not his wife and even in human females PMS is a plague of the past) but when he caught her lying about Raquel—udderly wonderful, indeed—he knew the problem was serious. After sex, Melmoth powers her down. He retrieves her capsule from underground storage, a little abashed to be riding up with the oblong vessel in a lobby elevator where anyone might see. Locked vertical for easy transport, the capsule on its castors and titanium carriage stands higher than Melmoth is tall. He cannot help feeling that its translucent pink upper half and tapered conical roundness make it look like an erect penis. Arriving at penthouse level, he wheels it into his apartment. Once inside his private quarters, he positions it beside the hoverbed and enters a six-character alphanumeric open-sesame to spring the lid. On an interior panel, Melmoth touches a sensor for AutoRenew. Gold wands deploy from opposite ends and set up a zero-gravity field that levitates Jenna from the topsheet. As if by magic—to Melmoth it is magic—the inert form of his personal android companion floats four feet laterally and gentles to rest in a polymer cradle contoured to her default figure. Jenna is only a SmartBot. She does not breathe, blood does not run in her arteries and veins. She has no arteries or veins, nor a heart, nor anything in the way of organic tissue. She can be replaced in a day—she can be replaced right now. If Melmoth touches “Upgrade,” the capsule lid will seal and lock, all VirtuLinks to Jenna will break, and a courier from GlobalDigital will collect the unit from a cargo bay of Melmoth’s high-rise after delivering a new model to Melmoth himself. It distresses him, how easy replacement would be, as if Jenna were no more abiding than an oldentime car he might decide one morning to trade-in. Seeing her in the capsule is bad enough; the poor thing looks as if she is lying in her coffin. Melmoth does not select “Power Down” on his cerebral menu any more often than he must. Only to update her software does Melmoth resort to pulling Jenna’s plug. Updating, too, disturbs him. In authorizing it, he cannot pretend she is human. [pp. 90-91]

On average, every year, thirty-five people in the United States die of the plague; close to two thousand worldwide. But those are hardly frightening statistics.

Back to God’s ten warnings. Ten times He tells His people, Christians and Jews, to flee the Daughter of Babylon, to flee and ‘run for your lives’, warning us not to share in her sins and her plagues. God doesn’t waste His words. He means what He says. He loves His people, and thus, He wants to protect us. Flee can only be interpreted in one way – flee. Some may object that due to family, possessions, jobs, etc. they can’t, or don’t want to flee. It would appear, though, to be a clear matter of obedience A half a million Jewish residents of Germany saw the danger coming in the 1930’s and they fled from it. See Proverbs 22:3. Six and half million didn’t flee, two thirds of whom were then killed.

I’ve never heard of that happening except in a Stephen King novel, but that doesn’t mean it’s not possible.

Sinclair worked undercover in the meatpacking plants of Chicago, then used the experience to detail the deplorable conditions of the industry in his 1906 novel The Jungle.

Great plagues from little microbes start.

She was suddenly plagued by a thoroughly novel desire to rush across to where he still sat in his chair, and cradle his head against her breast. She had never seen him vulnerable, had never even dreamed that he had any weakness.

Everything that the elephants do in this novel may seem amazing but is easily within behavior noted about elephants at zoos or in the wild. That includes painting, vocalizing in human voices, observing death ceremonies, mimicry, even self-medicating. The story of people in Kenya being “taught” by elephants how to induce labor by chewing on leaves is true. Mankind has a long history of observing nature and its survival methods to keep ourselves alive. All of this elephant behavior is attributable to their big brains—all eleven pounds’ worth. And they do have the same number of neurons and synapses in their cerebral cortexes as us humans. Likewise, they put all that brainpower to good use. They use tools and solve problems and even show altruistic behavior. They are also self-aware and have a concept of art. So quit shooting them, please.

In the introduction to her little-known novel, The Last Man, about a plague ending mankind, horror writer Mary Shelley claims to have found prophetic writings written upon

In the 1994 film based on Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s novel, Frankenstein’s monster says, “I do know that for the sympathy of one living being, I would make peace with all. I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.” After referencing that quote, Charles P. Pierce wrote in Esquire, “[Donald] doesn’t plague himself with doubt about what he’s creating around him. He is proud of his monster. He glories in its anger and its destruction and, while he cannot imagine its love, he believes with all his heart in its rage. He is Frankenstein without conscience.

Në stinën e verës algjeriane, mësoj se vetëm diçka ështe më tragjike se vuajtja dhe kjo është jeta e një njeriu të lumtur . Kudo ku krijesa njerëzore është e bukur, toka që e mban atë është e ashpër .

Erik was filled with contentment and joy, yet a part of him wondered how Mellie could look upon his face and still love him. Months ago, when he had first unburdened his soul to her, she had not fled in fear. Her acceptance of him, despite his murderous past, never failed to astound him. Whenever plagued with these doubts, Erik had only to gather her in his arms and kiss her. She always responded with ardour; within the limpid depths of her eyes, he could see the love shining back at him. Though uncertain whether he deserved such devotion, Erik grabbed at it with both hands. And like a spoiled child, he held it with fierce possessiveness, for she was his and his alone.

Our current preoccupation with zombies and vampires is easy to explain. They're two sides of the same coin, addressing our fascination with sex, death and food. They're both undead, they both feed on us, they both pass on some kind of plague and they can both be killed with specialist techniques – a stake through the heart or a disembraining. But they seem to have become polarised. Vampires are the undead of choice for girls, and zombies for boys. Vampires are cool, aloof, beautiful, brooding creatures of the night. Typical moody teenage boys, basically. Zombies are dumb, brutal, ugly and mindlessly violent. Which makes them also like typical teenage boys, I suppose. 카톡►ppt33◄ 〓 라인►pxp32◄ 홈피는 친추로 연락주세요 발기부족으로 삽입시 조루증상 그리고 여성분 오르가즘늦기지 못한다 또한 페니션이 작다고 느끼는분들 이쪽으로 보세요 팔팔정,구구정,비닉스,센트립,네노마정,프릴리지,비맥스,비그알엑스 등 아주 많은 좋은제품들 취급하고 단골님 모시고 있는곳입니다.원하실경우 언제든 연락주세요 Zombie stories are life lessons for boys who don't mind thinking about bodies, but can't cope with emotions. Vampire stories are in many ways sex for the squeamish. We don't need Raj Persaud to tell us that plunging canines into soft warm necks, or driving stakes between heaving bosoms, are very basic sexual metaphors. There are now even whole sections of bookshops given over to the new genre of "supernatural romance". Maybe it was ever thus. Dr Polidori, who wrote the very first vampire novel, The Vampyr, based his central character very much on his chief patient, Lord Byron, and the Byronic "mad, bad and dangerous to know" archetype has been at the centre of both romantic and blood-sucking fiction ever since. Dracula, Heathcliffe, Rochester, Darcy and not to mention chief vampire Bill in Channel 4's new series True Blood are all cut from the same cloth. Meyer even claims that she based her first Twilight book on Pride and Prejudice, although Robert Pattinson, who plays the lead in the movie version, looks like James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause. Either way, vampire = sexy rebel. No zombie is ever going to be a pinup on some young girl's wall. Just as Pattinson and all the Darcy-alikes will never find space on any teenage boy's bedroom walls – every inch will be plastered with revolting posters of zombies. There are no levels of Freudian undertone to zombies. Like boys, they're not subtle. There's nothing sexual about them, and nothing sexy either.

THE WALLFLOWER ORDER ATTEMPTS to meet the psychic plague by installing an anti-Jes Grew President, Warren Harding. He wins on the platform “Let’s be done with Wiggle and Wobble,”* indicating that he will not tolerate this spreading infection. All sympathizers will be dealt with; all carriers isolated and disinfected, Immumo-Therapy will begin once he takes office.

As I say—it’s not the plague. It’s this new illness. They call it the sweating sickness, a new plague that King

The line dividing the comics' advocates and opponents was generational, rather than geographic. While many of the actions to curtail comics were attempts to protect the young, they were also efforts to protect the culture at large from the young. Encoded in much of the ranting about comic books and juvenile delinquency were fears not only of what comic readers might become, but of what they already were--that is, a generation of people developing their own interests and tastes, along with a determination to indulge them.

All of our testimony from psychiatrists and children themselves show that it's very upsetting, that it has a bad moral effect, and that it is directly responsible for a substantial amount of juvenile delinquency and child crime." In fact, both the expert testimony and the documentary evidence submitted at the hearings varied significantly in their judgments, and the committee spoke with no children; it had set a policy of precluding the testimony of minors. The writer of the program, A. J. Fenady, had not seen a transcript of the hearings before preparing Coates's questions and "basically threw the guy some softballs," he said, because "[Kefauver] wanted to use this soapbox to run for president" in the 1956 election. "The comic-book scare was the big thing he had going for him," Fenady recalled, "and he knew how to use it.

It is poppycock to think that it is necessary to resort to laws to make America greater by banning comic books... This is a matter for the home, the school, the church, and other family influences - not the legislatures.

In its conclusion, the report argued, "The wholesale condemnation of all comics magazines is one of the worst mistakes of some of the critics. The fact is both sides are right. The books are not all bad, as the more extreme critics say; nor are all good, as some of their publishers and defenders content. Like all other creative products, they must be judged individually. And that is what most critics, parents, and public officials have failed to do." Still, the city council found a third of published comics to be "offensive, objectionable, and undesirable," and, on February 2, 1949, it appointed a board to monitor news dealers' compliance with a blacklist of titles.

When the Associated Press picked up the story from local accounts, readers of The Washington Post, the Chicago Tribune, and dozens of other papers around the country learned how, just three years after the Second World War, American citizens were burning books.

The knowledge that micro-organisms can be helpful to man has never had much popular appeal, for men as a rule are more preoccupied with the danger that threatens their life than in the biological forces on which they depend,” he wrote. “The history of warfare always proves more glamorous than accounts of co-operation. Plague, cholera, and yellow [fever] have found their way into the novel, the stage, and the screen, but no one has made a success story of the useful role played by microbes in the intestine or the stomach.

The streets of the village were a sad reflection of what they had once been as nobody dared leave their homes unless it was absolutely necessary.

it was strange how class and circumstance no longer mattered when thrown together by tragedy.

I had two great passions at the time: one magical and ethereal, which was reading, and the other mundane and predictable, which was pursuing silly love affairs. Concerning my literary ambitions, my successes went from slender to nonexistent. During those years I started a hundred woefully bad novels that died along the way, hundreds of short stories, plays, radio serials, and even poems that I wouldn't let anyone read, for their own good. I only needed to read them myself to see how much I still had to learn and what little progress I was making, despite the desire and enthusiasm I put into it. I was forever rereading Carax's novels and those of countless authors I borrowed from my parent's bookshop. I tried to pull them apart as if they were transistor radios, or the engine of a Rolls-Royce, hoping I would be able to figure out how they were built and how and why they worked. I'd read something in a newspaper about some Japanese engineers who practiced something called reverse engineering. Apparently these industrious gentlemen disassembled an engine to its last piece, analyzing the function of each bit, the dynamics of the whole, and the interior design of the device to work out the mathematics that supported its operation. My mother had a brother who worked as an engineer in Germany, so I told myself that there must be something in my genes that would allow me to do the same thing with a book or with a story. Every day I became more convinced that good literature has little or nothing to do with trivial fancies such as 'inspiration' or 'having something to tell' and more with the engineering of language, with the architecture of the narrative, with the painting of textures, with the timbres and colors of the staging, with the cinematography of words, and the music that can be produced by an orchestra of ideas. My second great occupation, or I should say my first, was far more suited to comedy, and at times touched on farce. There was a time in which I fell in love on a weekly basis, something that, in hindsight, I don't recommend. I fell in love with a look, a voice, and above all with what was tightly concealed under those fine-wool dresses worn by the young girls of my time. 'That isn't love, it's a fever,' Fermín would specify. 'At your age it is chemically impossible to tell the difference. Mother Nature brings on these tricks to repopulate the planet by injecting hormones and a raft of idiocies into young people's veins so there's enough cannon fodder available for them to reproduce like rabbits and at the same time sacrifice themselves in the name of whatever is parroted by bankers, clerics, and revolutionary visionaries in dire need of idealists, imbeciles, and other plagues that will prevent the world from evolving and make sure it always stays the same.

Perhaps the most fundamental error that went unchallenged was the World Health Organization’s initial characterization of this virus as entirely new. Even its name—novel coronavirus—implied that we knew nothing about it in terms of its causes, effects, and management protocols. That “novelty” also implied that no one would have any immune-system protection from it. On its face, that depiction was misleading. As Dr. Ioannidis and every virology textbook stated, the world already had decades of experience with coronaviruses—including at least four “endemic” ones in circulation today. That mischaracterization helped incite panic and was fundamental to prompting the ensuing draconian lockdowns.

The truth will prevail,” John repeatedly assured me. Jay encouraged me as well: “Keep it up, Scott, you’re right! The tide is turning. I know it!” They were insistent on being optimistic, but I had my doubts. “I feel like I’m living in a Kafka novel!” I kept repeating at home and finally even said in some interviews. A lack of logic and common sense was already pervasive and crippling the country.

We have conquered or quelled many diseases that used to kill people in droves: smallpox, measles, polio and the plague. People are taller, and formerly life-threating conditions like appendicitis, dysentery, a broken leg or anemia are easily remedied. To be sure, there is still too much malnutrition and disease in some countries, but these evils are often the result of bad government and social inequality, not a lack of food or medical know how.

The art of the novel is based on the craft of telling our own stories as if they belonged to others, and of telling other people’s stories as if they were our own.

Our main problem over the past few days and weeks,’ he said, ‘has lain in trying to connect the various phenomena. In fact, there wasn’t any obvious connection until a jelly-like substance started to crop up. Sometimes it appeared in small quantities, sometimes in larger amounts, but always with the distinguishing characteristic that it disintegrated rapidly on contact with air. Unfortunately the discovery of the jelly only added to the mystery, given its presence in crustaceans, mussels and whales - three types of organism that could hardly be more different. Of course, it might have been some kind of fungus, a jellified version of rabies, an infectious disease like BSE or swine fever. But, if so, why would ships be disappearing or crabs transporting killer algae? There was no sign of the jelly on the worms that infested the slope. They were carrying a different kind of cargo - bacteria that break down hydrates and cause methane gas to rise. Hence the landslide and the tsunami. And what about the mutated species that have been emerging all over the world? Even fish have been behaving oddly. None of it adds up. In that respect, Jack Vanderbilt was right to discern an intelligent mind behind the chaos. But he overestimated our ability - no scientist knows anything like enough about marine ecology to be capable of manipulating it to that extent. People are fond of saying that we know more about space than we do about the oceans. It’s perfectly true, but there’s a simple reason why: we can’t see or move as well in the water as we can in outer space. The Hubble telescope peers effortlessly into different galaxies, but the world’s strongest floodlight only illuminates a dozen square metres of seabed. An astronaut in a spacesuit can move with almost total freedom, but even the most sophisticated divesuit won’t stop you being crushed to death beyond a certain depth. AUVs and ROVs are only operational if the conditions are right. We don’t have the physical constitution or the technology to deposit billions of worms on underwater hydrates, let alone the requisite knowledge to engineer them for a habitat that we barely understand. Besides, there are all the other phenomena: deep-sea cables being destroyed at the bottom of the ocean by forces other than the underwater slide; plagues of jellyfish and mussels rising from the abyssal plains. The simplest explanation would be to see these developments as part of a plan, but such a plan could only be the work of a species that knows the ocean as intimately as we do the land - a species that lives in the depths and plays the dominant role in that particular universe.

Lo and behold, while many believed confidently and with fanatical certainty that the procession would end the plague, the death toll went up the next day, in every social class and in every part of the city. It rose so suddenly and so steeply that no one could mistake the cause, or the occasion, for anything other than the procession itself. But, oh, the incredible deadly power of a common prejudice! The assembly of so many people, and for so long, was not blamed. Nor was the infinite multiplication of casual contacts. The blame was laid squarely on the ease with which the anointers had been able to carry out their evil plan on a large scale. The rumor was that they had mingled with the crowd, infecting as many people as possible with their unguent. But that did not seem an adequate or appropriate explanation for the death of so many people, across every social class. Apparently not even the eyes most keen on identifying suspicious behavior (and misinterpreting it) had caught a glimpse of unguent smears or stains of any kind on the walls or anywhere else. So to explain this turn of events, they had to fall back on the other venerable myth of poisonous malignant powders that the scientific community of Europe believed in those days. Rumor had it that these powders had been sprinkled along the streets and especially at the places where the procession stopped, thus sticking to the hems of clothing and to the bare feet of those who had walked in the crowd that day. “Hence on the same day of the procession, piety could be seen clashing with evil, perfidy with honesty, and loss with gain,” according to one contemporary writer.[*4] In truth, it was feeble human intellect clashing with its own delusions.

There were many theories, some erudite and some homespun, about how one arrived at a position of faith, but for Langston there was only one: Kierkegaard’s. The Leap. Kierkegaard’s infinite qualitative difference between time and eternity eliminated the possibility of a gradual approach. The leap of faith was an existential act that contained in its very execution, perhaps, an apprehension of eternity? Langston wondered. She tried to consider the other approach, the way it might happen in a life that one could spend years weaving toward a miracle, moving forward then dropping away with a little sideways feint, as if being watched by a man-eating beast, and how finally, with just a few steps to go, one would leap into the jaws and be changed forever. Sola fide, Luther said. The question of faith plagued her because literature was her religion, and she was curious about the reader’s relationship to a text. It struck her that we come to texts in the same way we come to God, either as leapers or tremblers,

The knowledge that micro-organisms can be helpful to man has never had much popular appeal, for men as a rule are more preoccupied with the danger that threatens their life than in the biological forces on which they depend,” he wrote. “The history of warfare always proves more glamorous than accounts of co-operation. Plague, cholera, and yellow [fever] have found their way into the novel, the stage, and the screen, but no one has made a success story of the useful role played by microbes in the intestine or the stomach.”29

Other Novels Bring Back Yesterday (1961) Rendezvous on a Lost World (1961) (aka When the Dream Dies) The Hamelin Plague (1963) Beyond the Galactic Rim (1963) Glory Planet (1964) The Deep Reaches of Space (1964) The Sea Beasts (1971) The Bitter Pill (1974) Up to the Sky in Ships (1982) Kelly Country (1983) Frontier of the Dark (1984) From Sea to Shining Star (1990)

THE LESS OF a man I became, and the more of an automaton, so the dreams and half-memories ceased to plague me. It was as if they had deliberately driven me into this mindless rôle; so long as I continued to be a creature without remorse or conscience they would reward me with their absence. If I again showed signs of ordinary Humanity, then they would punish me with their presence.

the generations broken, the family broken, to be repaired like a dropped pot or snarled ark of reeds, that unshakeable Jew belief in continuity, narrative, plot, in plopping myself in creaky unreclinable chairs around tables of prickly leaves to commiserate through recitation: flight into Egypt, plagues, flight out of Egypt, desert and plagues—a travail so repeated without manumission that it becomes its own travail, and so the tradition is earned.

You need to take Joe back to Tinker,” Rachel said.  “He’s a virologist and has an idea the Colonel needs to hear.” “No way he’s a virologist.  Really?”  Scott blurted. “Fuck you, white man!”  Joe bristled.  “You think I can’t have an education because I’m an Indian?” Scott barked out a laugh. "Relax, dude.  I don't give a shit if you're Indian or not.  I just can't believe that we find the last guy alive in the middle of nowhere at the end of the world and he happens to be a fucking virologist.  What are the chances?  It's like something out of a third rate zombie novel.

They hurt him so bad it summoned the plague.

Her feeling was rather that, given the nature of the human couple, the love of man and woman is a priori inferior to that which can exist (at least in the best instances) in the love between man and dog, that oddity of human history probably unplanned by the Creator. It is a completely selfless love: Tereza did not want anything of Karenin; she did not ever ask him to love her back. Nor had she ever asked herself the questions that plague human couples: Does he love me? Does he love anyone more than me? Does he love me more than I love him? Perhaps all the questions we ask of love, to measure, test, probe, and save it, have the additional effect of cutting it short.

In Laurus we experience the Christian ideal in all its difficulty. The novel transmits knowledge by the experience of reading it, such that one cannot say Laurus is “about” any certain plotline or reduce the novelistic truth to a sound bite. Instead, reading the novel introduces you to holiness; it becomes palpable in the life of this fictional character. His extreme sanctity increases our desire for holiness. The story is set in fifteenth-century Russia, where the realities of sin and faith permeate all of life. Because the plague has killed both of his parents, our protagonist Arseny is raised by his grandfather Christofer, an elderly and devout healer who resides beside a graveyard so that it will be easy to carry his dead body a short distance for burial. Christofer trains Arseny in the art of healing. When Christofer dies, Arseny takes over as the medicine man for his village, Rukina Quarter. He falls in love with an abandoned woman Ustina, and she becomes pregnant. Ashamed of their unholy union, Arseny refuses to allow her to go to confession or to have a midwife at her birth, and thus she dies without forgiveness of her sins, and the baby dies as well. Arseny thereafter surrenders his life for the one he feels that he robbed from her, traveling the country to heal others, risking his life during the plague, spending time as a holy fool, pilgrimaging to Jerusalem, and finally dying back in Rukina Quarter as a different man than the one who left. Some might even say a saint.

The caterpillar who inches along the ground, plagued by shadows and predators, who can’t even see the sky—does she still imagine being in it? Does she dream of flying, of sunlight flashing off iridescent wings? Does she feel that primal urge within her cells, a flickering deep within her DNA, like a whisper—that she wasn’t made for this? That there’s more, so much more—but she’ll have to destroy herself to reach it. It will be her destruction or her salvation. She doesn’t know which. She spins her own coffin anyway.