Roque Quotes

You are but a mortal," Roque whispers in my ear, riding his horse alongside the chariot, as per tradition. "And a whorefart," Servo calls from the other side. "Yes," Roque agrees solemnly. "That too.

I can certainly identify with The Villain. A Villain is someone who has a past, who is strongly opinionated, fearless, doesn't get intimated by anything, and went beyond suffering. It's an empowerment figure.

All my images are self-portraits, even when I'm not in them.

Sometimes people are shocked by what I do, but I'm not trying to be liked, I speak my mind and I don't care what people think. I truly do not compromise on who I am.

Creo que el mundo es bello que la poesía es como el pan, de todos. I believe the world is beautiful and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone

I might act like a rhinoceros, but I'm a unicorn.

Do you ever feel lost?” The question hangs between us, intimate, awkward only on my end. He doesn’t scoff as Tactus and Fitchner would, or scratch his balls like Sevro, or chuckle like Cassius might have, or purr as Victra would. I’m not sure what Mustang might have done. But Roque, despite his Color and all the things that make him different, slowly slides a marker into the book and sets it on the nightstand beside the four-poster, taking his time and allowing an answer to evolve between us. Movements thoughtful and organic, like Dancer’s were before he died. There’s a stillness in him, vast and majestic, the same stillness I remember in my father. “Quinn once told me a story.” He waits for me to moan a grievance at the mention of a story, and when I don’t, his tone sinks into deeper gravity. “Once, in the days of Old Earth, there were two pigeons who were greatly in love. In those days, they raised such animals to carry messages across great distances. These two were born in the same cage, raised by the same man, and sold on the same day to different men on the eve of a great war. “The pigeons suffered apart from each other, each incomplete without their lover. Far and wide their masters took them, and the pigeons feared they would never again find each other, for they began to see how vast the world was, and how terrible the things in it. For months and months, they carried messages for their masters, flying over battle lines, through the air over men who killed one another for land. When the war ended, the pigeons were set free by their masters. But neither knew where to go, neither knew what to do, so each flew home. And there they found each other again, as they were always destined to return home and find, instead of the past, their future.

When I was young and I was forced to watch Disney films, I would fast forward the good guys, wasn't interested in princes and princesses, only by the villains.

I'm a Joker. Dangerous and silly at the same time.

What I wear on and off stage is my mask. You see, a mask doesn't hide you, it exposes you.

I love the idea of reincarnation, so just in case it doesn't exist, I decided to be different people in the same lifetime.

I'm a Baroque person. More than Baroque, I'm a Rococo person. I don't draw straight lines.

Roque always did dress up a place. Unfortunately he's got the taste of a ninety-year-old orchestra first chair.

I spent most of my life trying to specialize myself. I went to theater school, film school, music school, mime school ... Finally, I was able to gather enough knowledge to build the confidence to create my own work, that goes utterly against the sense of specialization.

Blood begets blood begets blood begets blood …” Roque’s words into the wind, which carries west toward the long plain and toward the flames that dance in the low horizon. Beyond, the mountains hunker cold and dark. Snow already gathers on their peaks. It’s a sight to steal one’s breath, yet Roque’s eyes never leave my face.

I'm not crazy, I just detest realism.

The first rule on breaking a rule is to know everything about the rule.

And violent hearts set harshest flame,” Roque murmurs from his knee.

I had artistic classical training, and when you learn the classics for so many years, you might gain audacity, power and confidence to subvert everything. I am like the originals buffoons. I love the rules because I can break them.

I have a tendency to break rules and shake things up. I would say that with me people never know what is real and what is fiction. And I like that because reality is relative.

I'm like a circus standing on two legs.

I think we live in a time where artists are very tidy and afraid of what others might think. They hesitate in expressing their views and opinions. So being original is rare. For me, it's about living the life you create for yourself, to create your kingdom. I think we should work on being our unique selves and becoming our greatest versions. I like to remind people to take the power to live their life the way they wish.

You might not believe in our rebellion. But I saw Tactus change before his future was robbed from him. I’ve seen Ragnar forget his bonds and reach for what he wants in this world. I’ve seen Sevro become a man. I’ve seen myself change. I truly do believe we choose who we want to be in this life. It isn’t preordained. You taught me loyalty, more than Mustang, more than Roque. And because of that, I believe in you, Victra. As much as I’ve ever believed in anyone.” I hold out my hand. “Be my family and I will never forsake you. I will never lie to you. I will be your brother as long as you live.” Startled by the emotion in my voice, the cold woman stares up at me. Those defenses she erected forgotten now. In another life we might have been a pair. Might have had that fire I feel for Mustang, for Eo. But not in this life. Victra does not soften. Does not crumble to tears. There’s still rage inside her. Still raw hate and so much betrayal and frustration and loss coiled around her icy heart. But in this moment, she is free of it all. In this moment, she reaches solemnly up to grasp my hand. And I feel the hope flicker in me. “Welcome to the Sons of Ares.

MORALEJA SOBRE EL INSTRUMENTO Cuando el picapedrero ve que se rompe su almágana antes de construir su labor cotidiana piensa en tener un instrumento más potente y mejor y no acusa a la piedra de ser ultraizquierdista por su forma de existencia resistente y tenaz PETUAH ALAT PERTUKANGAN Manakala pandai batu mendapati palunya rusak sebelum memulai kerja kesehariannya terpikir olehnya untuk mencari alat yanglebih kuat dan lebih baik dan tidak lantas menuduh batu itu ultra-kiri atas perangainya yang keras dan membangkang

His mother walks in and greets us. She’s traded her green gloves for a T-shirt that says Denmark. Lucio tells her she’s picked the wrong country. His mother explains that she’s trying out a system invented by Dag that involves announcing one’s mood with T-shirts. Denmark is, logically, bad news.

Daylight does not lend itself to terror: objects and people are plain to see; and we encounter there only those things which dare to show themselves in the glare of day. But night, opaque night denser than walls, night, empty and infinite and so black and fathomless that terrifying things reach out and touch us, night when we feel horror stirring, mysteriously prowling―night seemed to him to hide some unknown, imminent, threatening danger. What could it be?

I wouldn’t doubt it,” Jack said gravely. A roque court, a topiary full of hedge animals out front, what next? A life-sized Uncle Wiggily game behind the equipment shed? He was getting very tired of Mr. Stuart Ullman, but he could see that Ullman wasn’t done. Ullman was going to have his say, every last word of it.

Stop trying to figure everything out, and let God work in your life.

Roque continues on a different train of thought. “I … don’t know about Pinks,” Roque says. The idea of a Gold being a Pink offends him.

Beyond, the mountains hunker cold and dark. Snow already gathers on their peaks. It’s a sight to steal one’s breath, yet Roque’s eyes never leave my face.

Croquet is bastardized roque.

La mala suerte no tiene resquicios", dijo él con profunda amargura. "Nací hijo de puta y muero hijo de puta

Don't let them trample you.You are a person too not a cockroach.

You’re a sinister little shit, aren’t you?” Victra asks. “I’m Gold, bitch. What’d you expect? Warm milk and cookies just because I’m pocket-sized?” Roque

I’m Gold, bitch. What’d you expect? Warm milk and cookies just because I’m pocket-sized?” Roque

Pascal (Object Pascal - Free Pascal) for real programmers, Delphi for Nerds... C/C++ for people who always wishes to do things like reinventing the wheel.

Pero ya no habrá tiempo de llorar. Ha terminado la hora de la ceniza para mi corazón. Hace frío sin ti, pero se vive.

And teacher Bertolt Brecht, communist, German playwright and poet (in that order) wrote: “What’s a bank robbery compared with the crime of the establishment of a bank?

I make up a lie, and it is a good one. Vague and boring. He only wants to talk about himself now anyway. After all, this is what Cassius was bred for. There are roughly fifteen kids who have that same quiet gleam in their eye. Not evil. Just excited. And those are the ones to watch, because they’re the born killers. Looking around, it’s easy to see that Roque was right. There weren’t many tough fights. This was forced natural selection. Bottom of the heap getting slaughtered by the top. Hardly anyone is severely injured except a couple of small lowDrafts. Natural selection sometimes has its surprises.

Do you see this shoelace? I’d like to take it and tie your tongue to your uvula, and your uvula to your stomach, and your stomach to your uterus, so that the very first word of your answer leaves you hollow.

Sometimes people can be negative, especially about my confidence. I trust myself, I refuse to obey, and I noticed there is a need to punish me for it. But haters are important because they show you you're doing something right. I'm scared of unanimity, artists who everybody likes. When you speak your mind and you're loud, you will attract negativity. But I have thick skin, I think the fact that I was severely bullied in my childhood helped me build strength and believe in my artistic vision. I deal with rejection very well. I have a lifelong vision and an unbreakable spirit.

I love portraits. I've always been fascinated by the fact that when you put a frame on something you create limits for it. It makes it look dead. The same works with labels, which is a popular hobby most people have nowadays, labeling.

I don’t care about your rebellion. I don’t care about your dead wife. Or about finding a family or finding meaning. I want to be able to sleep without them jacking me full of chemicals, Darrow. I want to be able to dream again. I want to forget my mother’s caved-in head and her vacant eyes and her twitching fingers. I want to forget Adrius laughing. And I want to repay Antonia and Adrius for their hospitality. I want to stand above them and that piece of shit, Roque, as they weep for the end as I gouge out their eyes and pour molten gold into the sockets so they scream and writhe and spread their urine upon the floor and beg forgiveness for ever thinking they could put Victra au Julii in a gorydamn cage.

América Latina El poeta cara a cara con la luna fuma su margarita emocionante bebe su dosis de palabras ajenas vuela con sus pinceles de rocío rasca su violincito pederasta. Hasta que se destroza los hocicos en el áspero muro de un cuartel.

They believe civilization weakens natural selection. They do nature’s work so that we do not become a soft race. The Passage, it seems, is a continuation of that policy. Only we were the tools they used. My … victim … was, bless his soul, a fool. He was from a family of no worth, and he had no wits, no intelligence, no ambition,” he frowns at the words before sighing, “he had nothing the Board values. There is a reason he was to die.” Was there a reason Julian was to die? Roque knows what he does because his mother is on the Board. He loathes his mother, and only then do I realize I should like him. Not only that, I take refuge in his words. He disagrees with the rules, but he follows them. It is possible. I can do the same until I have power enough to change them.

El toro impávido ante la lengua de los muertos / la muerte derramada bajo los cascos implacables / la impiedad del caballo entre el dolor de las lámparas / y el amor mío por el sueño / deslumbrado de pronto / por el remordimiento. (Descubrimiento del Guernica)

Even stranger, I desperately want him to like me. Why? I think it is because I feel as though he is the only one, including Roque and Cassius, who understands life. He is ugly in a world where he should be beautiful, and because of his deficiencies, he was chosen to die. He, in many ways, is no better than a Red.

Everything has the right time, but not all the time going on the stuff.

A red nose is the clown's mask and my moustache is mine.

I love to laugh. Specially at myself. Sometimes I spend hours doing it.

My only career goal is to be an halloween icon.

Pop is about speaking everybody's language. The imagery and iconography we instantly recognize. When you can rely on things that the public already knows, you're dealing with Pop.

I have a transgressive spirit, and Pop is transgression's best friend.

Fascinated by the great symbols of the collective history, I use them as an alphabet to communicate.

No olvides nunca que los menos fascistas de entre los fascistas también son fascistas.

Advice That Is No Longer Necessary Anywhere in the World but Here in El Salvador . . . Don’t ever forget that the least fascist among fascists also are fascists.

Papini interrupts to say that his mother’s coffin contains only a leg. We waste a moment imagining what it must be like to bring flowers to a leg. No one asks what happened to the rest of his mother.

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun Nor the furious winter’s rages, Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must As chimney sweepers come to dust “Per aspera, ad astra,” my Golden friends whisper, even Sevro. And with a press of a button, Roque disappears from our lives to begin his last journey to join Ragnar and generations of fallen warriors in the sun.

At night we come up with daring plans that would change us completely, were they to become a reality. But these plans dissolve in the morning light, and we go back to being the same mediocrities as before, doggedly ruining our own lives.

Roque, darling,” Victra calls up to the cameras in the ceiling as Holiday and her team set up the drill on the door. “How I have pined for you since the garden. Are you there?” She sighs. “I’ll just assume you are. Listen, I understand. You think we must be wroth with you, what with the murder of my mother, the execution of our friends, the bullets in the spine, the poison, and a year of torture for dear Reaper and I, but that’s not so. We just want to put you in a box. Maybe several. Would you like that? It’s very poetic.” Holiday

The greatest thing about our times is that you don't need permission to express yourself the way you wish. Sometimes people tell themselves they can't do it, because they're missing this or that, but historically, specialization is a recent convention. Most of us are born natural polymaths.

Las Feas Palabras En la garganta de un beodo muerto se quedan las palabras que despreció la poesía. Yo las rescato con manos de fantasma con manos piadosas es decir ya que todo lo muerto tiene la licuada piedad de su propia experiencia. Furtivamente os las abandono: feas las caras sucias bajo el esplendor de las lámparas babeantes sobre su desnudez deforme los dientes y los párpados apretados esperando el bofetón. Amadlas también os digo. Reñid a la poesía la limpidez de su regazo. Dotadlas de biografía ilustre. Limpiadles la fiebre de la frente y rodeadlas de serenas frescuras para que participen también de nuestra fiesta.

Funny thing is, only one tribe has a silvershit’s idea what is going on. And it’s not ours. It’s not Antonia’s. And it sure as hell isn’t Titus’s. It’s Sevro’s, and I’m nearly certain he’s the only member in that tribe, unless he’s adopted wolves by now. It is hard to say if he has or hasn’t. Our House does not have family dinners. Though occasionally we’ll see him running along the hillsides at night in his wolfskin, looking, as Cassius put it best, “like some sort of hairy demonchild on hallucinogens.” And once Roque even heard something, not a wolf, howling in the shrouded highlands. Some days Sevro walks around all normalish—insulting everything that moves, except for Quinn. He makes an exception for her, delivering meats and edible mushrooms instead of insults. I think he’s sweet on her even though she’s sweet on Cassius. We

،هــر روز که می‌گـذرد ،مـــرده‌ها گسـتـاخ‌تر می‌شوند .اول آرام بودند با گل و لباس مرتب بالای سرشان می‌رفتیم .نامشان را به احـترام می‌بردیم کنارِ قـهــرمانانِ ملی ارواحِ گذشتگان بناهای یادبود مرمرین مرده‌ها به صــف می‌ایستادند، در صف افتخار مراسم سان در طنینِ سرود کهن وای، نه حالا دیگر فرق کرده ،مــرده‌ها فرق کرده‌اند ،امروز گســتـاخ شده‌اند ،ســــؤال می‌کـنــند ،گــویی حالا فـهــمیـده‌اند ...اکـثــریت با آن‌هــاســـت

December 9: The Mexican literary mafia has nothing on the Mexican bookseller mafia. Bookstores visited: the Librería del Sótano, in a basement on Avenida Juárez where the clerks (numerous and neatly uniformed) kept me under strict surveillance and from which I managed to leave with volumes by Roque Dalton, Lezama Lima, and Enrique Lihn. The Librería Mexicana, staffed by three samurais, on Calle Aranda, near the Plaza de San Juan, where I stole a book by Othón, a book by Amado Nervo (wonderful!), and a chapbook by Efraín Huerta. The Librería Pacífico, at Bolívar and 16 de Septiembre, where I stole an anthology of American poets translated by Alberto Girri and a book by Ernesto Cardenal. And in the evening, after reading, writing, and a little fucking: the Viejo Horacio, on Correo Mayor, staffed by twins, from which I left with Gamboa's Santa, a novel to give to Rosario; an anthology of poems by Kenneth Fearing, translated and with a prologue by someone called Doctor Julio Antonio Vila, in which Doctor Vila talks in a vague, question mark-filled way about a trip that Fearing took to Mexico in the 1950s, "an ominous and fruitful trip," writes Doctor Vila; and a book on Buddhism written by the Televisa adventurer Alberto Montes. Instead of the book by Montes I would have preferred the autobiography of the ex-featherweight world champion Adalberto Redondo, but one of the inconveniences of stealing books - especially for a novice like myself - is that sometimes you have to take what you can get.

I worked at three high altitude professional astronomy sites. My ranking for the biological toxicity of those sites is: 1) Mauna Kea. 2) Kitt Peak. 3) Roque de los Muchachos.

Next up is Papini, who doesn't demand an apology because he is citric and happy: we aren't here to discuss his trespasses. His skeletons skitter back into the closet.

Ledesma explains that the rest of our instructions will be ready by Sunday, but that we should start clearing our consciences as soon as possible. He suggests confession or mass for the religious among us and aerobic exercise for the rest.

If the experiment is a success and Sylvia's head does indeed speak, I know it will say something about flies. I look forward to the widespread confusion, the frenzy of interpretations.

During the rescue, I want so badly to tell everyone that I could burst. But the story of how Sisman fell in love with Sylvia, maintained a secret relationship with her, promised to get her discharged, and then participated in her decapitation is just too juicy for a summary. I decide to save it for afternoon tea.

The strange scent of burning trailed the riverbanks down Balangiga, toward San Roque, out by Guiuan and Giporlos. The news spread through their noses, this sweet and terrible smell, this news that was not benevolent, the news of burning rice.

Se escuchan los sonidos del universo en tu hocico del futuro En tu cuerpecito panal de abejas Eres Roque verdadero El pequeño dado de alegrías raras Catarata del vuelo En un cacto viejo y prieto

Mr. Allomby, who sits inside pretending to be a person, says he can breathe without difficulty.

Is the severed head still Juan or Luis Pérez, to pull a name out of a hat, or does it become the head of Juan or Luis Pérez?" The question, which concerns me directly (I keep the written record of the experience), reminds me that Papini's mother's leg has its own tombstone.

I smile at him like someone who smiles all the time.

It’s the so-called qualitative leap, Quintana. At night we come up with daring plans that would change us completely, were they to become a reality. But these plans dissolve in the morning light, and we go back to being the same mediocrities as before, doggedly ruining our own lives. This doesn’t happen to you? With

The government replaced the real story of what had happened with lavish propaganda about how the military had fended off bloodthirsty communist hordes. The National Library removed references to the events from its records. Newspaper accounts were destroyed. Government files from the time were hidden or burned. What remained, the American historian Thomas Anderson wrote in 1971, was a “paranoiac fear of communism that has gripped the nation ever since. This fear is expressed in the continual labeling of even the most modest reform movements as communist or communist inspired.” Roque Dalton, the Salvadoran poet and activist, put it more succinctly: “We were all born half dead in 1932.

lo sónico es el elemento más importante del apocalipsis.

I write these last lines on Sauvie's Island - the Wappatto of the Indians - sitting upon the bank of the river, beneath the gnarled and ancient cottonwood that still marks the spot where the old Columbia trail led up from the water to the interior of the island. Stately and beautiful are the far snow-peaks and the sweeping forest. The woods are rich in the colors of an Oregon autumn. The white wappatto blooms along the marshes, its roots ungathered, the dusky hands that once reaped the harvest long crumbled into dust. Blue and majestic in the sunlight flows the Columbia, river of many names -- the Wauna and the Wemath of the Indians, the St. Roque of the Spaniards, the Oregon of poetry -- always vast and grand, always flowing placidly to the sea. Steamboats of the present; batteaux of the fur traders; ships, Grey's and Vancouver's, of discovery; Indian canoes of the old unknown time -- the stately river has seen them all come and go, and yet holds its way past forest and promontory, still beautiful and unchanging. Generation after generation, daring hunter, ardent discoverer, silent Indian -- all the shadowy peoples of the past have sailed its waters as we sail them, have lived perplexed and haunted by mystery as we live, have gone out into the Great Darkness with hearts full of wistful doubt and questioning, as we go; and still the river holds its course, bright, beautiful, inscrutable. It stays; we go. It there anything beyond the darkness into which generation follows generation and race follows race? Surely there is an after-life, where light and peace shall come to all who, however defeated, have tried to be true and loyal; where the burden shall be lifted and the heartache shall cease; where all the love and hope that slipped away from us here shall be given back to us again, and given back forever Via crucis, via lucis.

That’s very Roque of him. Likely coiled around a book. I should fetch him.

shoot Mr. Allomby a conspiratorial glance. We’re not actually conspiring, but it’s important to look at people like that every now and then because that’s how real relationships are forged.

Most of the donors have a hundred-word vocabulary, including articles and prepositions. Under these conditions, it would be hard not to lapse into poetry. At least, Ledesma says, we won’t run into too much irony, which complicates interpretation. Gigena purses his lips and, after a little “hmm” that softens his disagreement, says that irony is not the exclusive purview of the educated, and that it can be seen outside small-town corner stores in the form of insulting nicknames. Oinking, for example, at a slim young woman.

The child prodigy is a repulsive creature. It can be measured according to the degree of its anomaly, the fence around its isolation: its so-called talent.

El perfume nos tranquiliza primero hablándonos de nosotros y después nos cautiva hablándonos de él mismo.

However, LaRoque’s arguments were so stale they could be used for croutons.

vivimos en una época en que hasta para ser hijo de puta cabe ser original.

me alegro de no haberme entristecido en el velorio de quien solía llenarlo todo de alegría y juventú

27 AÑOS ES UNA cosa seria tener veintisiete años en realidad es una de las cosas más serias en derredor se mueren los amigos de la infancia ahogada y empieza a dudar uno de su inmortalidad.

As we was leaving, Mother said to him: “Never mind Charley’s nonsense, Frank. He is just mad because you beat him all hollow pitching horseshoes and playing cards.” She said that to make up for my slip, but at the same time she certainly riled me. I tried to keep ahold of myself, but as soon as we was out of the house she had to open up the subject and begun to scold me for the break I had made. Well, I wasn’t in no mood to be scolded. So I said: “I guess he is such a wonderful pitcher and card player that you wished you had married him.” “Well,” she said, “at least he ain’t a baby to give up pitching because his thumb has got a few scratches.” “And how about you,” I said, “making a fool of yourself on the roque court and then pretending your back is lame and you can’t play no more!” “Yes,” she said, “but when you hurt your thumb I didn’t laugh at you, and why did you laugh at me when I sprained my back?” “Who could help from laughing!” I said. “Well,” she said, “Frank Hartsell didn’t laugh.” “Well,” I said, “why didn’t you marry him?” “Well,” said Mother, “I almost wished I had!” “And I wished so, too!” I said. “I’ll remember that!” said Mother, and that’s the last word she said to me for two days.

Home isn't where you're from, it's where you find light when all grows dark." Roque (Golden Son)

In what world should you be afraid of me?

Su estado de ánimo ante la Mica era un caso especial, diferente del estado de ánimo de sus amigos. Y si no, ¿por qué Roque, el Moñigo, o Germán, el Tiñoso, no adelgazaban tres kilos si la Mica marchaba a América, o un par de ellos si solo se desplazaba a la ciudad, o engordaban lo perdido y un kilo más cuando la Mica retornaba al valle por una larga temporada?

Lorn leaves. And I hold my friend as he dies, his eyes fading to some distant place, where perhaps he’ll find that peace Roque always wished for him.

Victra stands to the side listening to enemy chatter. “Response teams inbound. More than two thousand mixed units.” She’s also patched to the strategic command on Orion’s ship, so she can gather battle data from the huge sensor arrays on the flagship. Looks like Roque launched more than fifteen thousand men at us in his leechCraft. Most will be in the Pax by now. Burrowed through to find me. Silly bastards. Roque gambled big, bet wrong. And I’ve just brought three thousand crazed Obsidian berserkers to a mostly empty warship. The Poet is going to be pissed.

Roque, if he is remembered by his people, will forever be known as The Man Who Lost the Fleet. A modern Gaius Terentius Varro, the fool who let Hannibal encircle him at Cannae. Or Alfred Jones. The American general who went mad and lost his Imperium’s dreaded mech division in the Conquering. To my people, he is just another Gold who thought himself immortal till the Reaper showed him otherwise. It

Ultimadamente, ¿qué es un escritor? Un tipo que hace diccionarios incompletos, que hurta los significados de sus palabras, un ladrón.

Roque knows what he does because his mother is on the Board. He loathes his mother, and only then do I realize I should like him. Not only that, I take refuge in his words. He disagrees with the rules, but he follows them.

Matansa. It means massacre in the Chamorro language, and is a nickname for the village of San Roque in the northern part of the island of Saipan that endured the most brutal slaughtering as a punishment for Chamorro resistance by Imperial Japan in WWII, which was part of an ongoing ethnic cleansing campaign that almost completely wiped out the Chamorro population from the face of the earth. San Roque is my family’s village.

It’s a cache of Lagavulin. Lorn’s gift to Roque after the Siege of Mars.” Cassius

St. Paul. ‘As many of you as have been baptized into Christ, have put on Christ’.182 Erasmus. ‘Paul does not seem,’ in Rom. v. 14, ‘to treat about infants.—It was not yet the custom for infants to be baptized.’183 Luther. ‘It cannot be proved by the sacred scripture, that infant baptism was instituted by Christ, or begun by the first Christians after the apostles.’184 M. De La Roque. ‘The primitive church did not baptize infants: and the learned Grotius proves it, in his annotations on the Gospel.’185 Ludovicus Vives. ‘No one, in former times, was admitted to the sacred baptistery, except he was of age, understood what the mystical water meant, desired to be washed in it, and expressed that desire more than once.’186 Chambers. ‘It appears, that in the primitive times none were baptized but adults.’187 Bishop Barlow. ‘I do believe and know, that there is neither precept nor example in scripture, for pedobaptism, nor any evidence for it, for about two hundred years after Christ.’188 Salmasius and Suicerus. ‘In the first two centuries, no one was baptized, except, being instructed in the faith and acquainted with the doctrine of Christ, he was able to profess himself a believer; because of those words, He that believeth, and is baptized.