Sanctuary Series Quotes

I am forcing myself out of this apartment. It has been both my sanctuary and my prison

This story is about the Baudelaires. And they are the sort of people who know that there’s always something. Something to invent, something to read, something to bite, and something to do, to make a sanctuary, no matter how small. And for this reason, I am happy to say, the Baudelaires were very fortunate indeed.

Wilderness areas are first of all a series of sanctuaries for the primitive arts of wilderness travel, especially canoeing and packing. I suppose some will wish to debate whether it is important to keep these primitive arts alive. I shall not debate it. Either you know it in your bones, or you are very, very old.

Props?”  She was almost afraid to ask. “Just the usual.  Stethoscope, tongue depressor... scalpel, bone saw, rib spreaders… just the normal stuff.” “Maybe in future you should ditch the props, be less Nurse Ratched and more soft porn first day on the job candy striper.” Darcy look genuinely puzzled for a brief moment. “Where would the fun be in that for me?

As I turned to leave, I looked down. Beside my foot, a sprout of greenery was clawing its way through the pristine nothingness to begin anew. It was later that I realized my haven had sent me a message, and it had shown me that nothing is ever completely lost, unless you cease searching.

Normally, I would have kicked him in the nuts for touching me without my consent.

And I’ll let you in on a little secret. Crying doesn’t mean you aren’t strong. Tears aren’t weak. Emotions aren’t weak. They’re part of what makes us who we are. We can be happy and brave and strong, but we can also be sad and worried and scared. So don’t wipe your tears away, okay?

This was peace. This was everything right and beautiful and good. The music swelled through the room, deep and sonorous and lilting. It was a song full of hope and dreams and love and every good thing that inspired people to feel, that made them human. It was a song to break the world. It was a song to remake it again.

The freest people, like the freest man, is always in danger of re-lapsing into servitude. Wars are almost always fatal to Republics. They create tyrants, and consolidate their power. They spring, for the most part, from evil counsels. When the small and the base are intrusted with power, legislation and administration become but two parallel series of errors and blunders, ending in war, calamity, and the necessity for a tyrant. When the nation feels its feet sliding backward, as if it walked on the ice, the time has come for a supreme effort. The magnificent tyrants of the past are but the types of those of the future. Men and nations will always sell themselves into slavery, to gratify their passions and obtain revenge. The tyrant's plea, necessity, is always available; and the tyrant once in power, the necessity of providing for his safety makes him savage. Religion is a power, and he must control that. Independent, its sanctuaries might rebel. Then it becomes unlawful for the people to worship God in their own way, and the old spiritual despotisms revive.

As long as you can still find beauty, you know you’ll be all right,” he said. “That’s what hope is.

There was no time for tears while the world fell to pieces all around you. The only thing left to do was survive. And surviving, at least, she was good at.

Hey, what are you doing with your hand?”   Eli’s voice came out high pitched in surprise, as she clutched at Rafe’s shoulders. “It’s the best place for leverage if you’re going to make that ladder.” “My ass?  Really?” “What can I say, I’ve done the math, factored in the weight and height ratios and your ass is definitely where I will gain the most leverage in lifting you.

Whatever sets us above even the most intelligent animals. Our ability to love, to be just, to be merciful, to forgive, to dream. To believe in something greater and better than ourselves. To hope.

With the crib seen as a tabernacle and the child as a kind of host, then the home becomes a living temple of God. The sacristan of that sanctuary is the mother, who never permits the tabernacle lamp of faith to go out.

As cited in the previous verse, Judah had offspring from both, Jehovah and the kings of Assyria, and Egypt. That is, legitimate children and illegitimate children. (Ho 2:4) Mixing seed was a wide-ranging principal that Judah’s priests should have noted. “You must not sow your vineyard with two sorts of seed. Otherwise, everything produced from the seed you sow as well as the product of the vineyard will be forfeited to the sanctuary.” –De 22:9 pg 43

He knew he had to have harmony in his home at all times. He had to have a sanctuary where, no matter the horrors he saw, the things he had to do in order to bring justice to those who would harm others, he could find his peace.

The finding of the Valley is paramount for your kind. Survival for your race…even survival for the human race…depends on it. This quest is more important than you can ever understand. It will affect every living thing in this world for millennia to come. Do not waver from the search, no matter how difficult it may be.

Gregori stepped away from the huddled mass of tourists, putting distance between himself and the guide. He walked completely erect,his head high, his long hair flowing around him. His hands were loose at his sides, and his body was relaxed, rippling with power. "Hear me now, ancient one." His voice was soft and musical, filling the silence with beauty and purity. "You have lived long in this world, and you weary of the emptiness. I have come in anwer to your call." "Gregori.The Dark One." The evil voice hissed and growled the words in answer. The ugliness tore at sensitive nerve endings like nails on a chalkboard. Some of the tourists actually covered their ears. "How dare you enter my city and interfere where you have no right?" "I am justice,evil one. I have come to set your free from the bounaries holding you to this place." Gregori's voice was so soft and hypnotic that those listening edged out from their sanctuaries.It beckoned and pulled, so that none could resist his every desire. The black shape above their head roiled like a witch's cauldron. A jagged bolt of lightning slammed to earth straight toward the huddled group. Gregori raised a hand and redirected the force of energy away from the tourists and Savannah. A smile edged the cruel set of his mouth. "You think to mock me with display,ancient one? Do not attempt to anger what you do not understand.You came to me.I did not hunt you.You seek to threaten my lifemate and those I count as my friends.I can do no other than carry the justice of our people to you." Gregori's voice was so reasonable, so perfect and pure,drawing obedience from the most recalcitrant of criminals. The guide made a sound,somewhere between disbelief and fear.Gregori silenced him with a wave of his hand, needing no distractions. But the noise had been enough for the ancient one to break the spell Gregori's voice was weaving around him. The dark stain above their heads thrashed wildly, as if ridding itself ot ever-tightening bonds before slamming a series of lightning strikes at the helpless mortals on the ground. Screams and moans accompanied the whispered prayers, but Gregori stood his ground, unflinching. He merely redirected the whips of energy and light, sent them streaking back into the black mass above their heads.A hideous snarl,a screech of defiance and hatred,was the only warning before it hailed. Hufe golfball-sized blocks of bright-red ice rained down toward them. It was thick and horrible to see, the shower of frozen blood from the skies. But it stopped abruptly, as if an unseen force held it hovering inches from their heads. Gregori remained unchanged, impassive, his face a blank mask as he shielded the tourists and sent the hail hurtling back at their attacker.From out of the cemetery a few blocks from them, an army of the dead rose up. Wolves howled and raced along beside the skeletons as they moved to intercept the Carpathian hunter. Savannah. He said her name once, a soft brush in her mind. I've got it, she sent back instantly.Gregori had his hands full dealing with the abominations the vampire was throwing at him; he did't need to waste his energy protecting the general public from the apparition. She moved out into the open, a small, fragile figure, concentrating on the incoming threat. To those dwelling in the houses along the block and those driving in their cars, she masked the pack of wolves as dogs racing down the street.The stick=like skeletons, grotesque and bizarre, were merely a fast-moving group of people. She held the illusion until they were within a few feet of Gregori.Dropping the illusion, she fed every ounce of her energy and power to Gregori so he could meet the attack.

Marcelina loved that miniscule, precise moment when the needle entered her face. It was silver; it was pure. It was the violence that healed, the violation that brought perfection. There was no pain, never any pain, only a sense of the most delicate of penetrations, like a mosquito exquisitely sipping blood, a precision piece of human technology slipping between the gross tissues and cells of her flesh. She could see the needle out of the corner of her eye; in the foreshortened reality of the ultra-close-up it was like the stem of a steel flower. The latex-gloved hand that held the syringe was as vast as the creating hand of God: Marcelina had watched it swim across her field of vision, seeking its spot, so close, so thrillingly, dangerously close to her naked eyeball. And then the gentle stab. Always she closed her eyes as the fingers applied pressure to the plunger. She wanted to feel the poison entering her flesh, imagine it whipping the bloated, slack, lazy cells into panic, the washes of immune response chemicals as they realized they were under toxic attack; the blessed inflammation, the swelling of the wrinkled, lined skin into smoothness, tightness, beauty, youth. Marcelina Hoffman was well on her way to becoming a Botox junkie. Such a simple treat; the beauty salon was on the same block as Canal Quatro. Marcelina had pioneered the lunch-hour face lift to such an extent that Lisandra had appropriated it as the premise for an entire series. Whore. But the joy began in the lobby with Luesa the receptionist in her high-collared white dress saying “Good afternoon, Senhora Hoffman,” and the smell of the beautiful chemicals and the scented candles, the lightness and smell of the beautiful chemicals and the scented candles, the lightness and brightness of the frosted glass panels and the bare wood floor and the cream-on-white cotton wall hangings, the New Age music that she scorned anywhere else (Tropicalismo hippy-shit) but here told her, “you’re wonderful, you’re special, you’re robed in light, the universe loves you, all you have to do is reach out your hand and take anything you desire.” Eyes closed, lying flat on the reclining chair, she felt her work-weary crow’s-feet smoothed away, the young, energizing tautness of her skin. Two years before she had been to New York on the Real Sex in the City production and had been struck by how the ianqui women styled themselves out of personal empowerment and not, as a carioca would have done, because it was her duty before a scrutinizing, judgmental city. An alien creed: thousand-dollar shoes but no pedicure. But she had brought back one mantra among her shopping bags, an enlightenment she had stolen from a Jennifer Aniston cosmetics ad. She whispered it to herself now, in the warm, jasmine-and vetiver-scented sanctuary as the botulin toxins diffused through her skin. Because I’m worth it.

Although many reviews have compared my novels to those written by Garrison Keillor, Phil Gulley, or Jan Karon, I personally try to stay clear of comparing and contrasting one author or series to another. What I can say, though, is that Lumby — its valleys, streets, townsfolk and stories — is an escape...a gentle, quirky sanctuary from life's harsher realities. At the heart of the town is the decency, levity and honorableness of good people who are carving out the best lives they know how. It is a town that is reminiscent of yesteryear, a community as it was intended to be—caring, forthright, ethical and authentic. And within that wonderful place, humor is a mainstay and an antidote (as I think it is in life) where the moral compass always points due north unless someone has dropped it in the PortiPotty at the county fair. With the help of the two well-intentioned inn keepers, the monks from Saint Cross Abbey (who make a tremendous rum sauce), a trustworthy newspaper publisher and a cast of unforgettable characters along Main Street, Lumby has a place in all of our hearts. From Christian Book Previews: "The Lumby Lines goes straight to the heart. The simplicity, humor, and downright friendliness make reading it a pleasure. Readers will close the book with a sigh of contentment and a desire to visit Lumby again. The author has faithfully carved out a slice of small-town living and topped it off with a large helping of humor. This reviewer can't wait for her next visit to Lumby!

DANCING ANGELS During October 2001, the Lord began to speak to me about traveling to Newfoundland, Canada. I had no desire to go there, especially in the middle of the winter! At this time I was still concerned about my inability to “feel the Lord” and began to press into God all the more. At times I locked myself into the little house and fasted and prayed for up to seven days, or until the presence of God fell. After many confirmations in the spirit, I pooled all of my earthly wealth and made the trip to the great white North. The night before I was to depart, the Lord instructed me to “pray in tongues all the way to Newfoundland.” Somehow through the grace of God I succeeded in praying in the Spirit for about 18 hours until I touched down in Canada. In Springdale, Newfoundland, Canada, the Lord began instructing me to complete a series of prophetic actions. I attended an intercessory prayer meeting on Wednesday, November 21. We were interceding for an upcoming series of healing meetings. During this meeting, I began to “see” into the spirit. As the Lord opened my spiritual eyes, I incrementally saw the heavens open over Living Waters Ministries Church. In addition to this, I also began to hear angelic voices singing along with the worship team. At one point during the meeting, I saw a stream of golden oil pour out from Heaven and land on a certain spot in the sanctuary. At the leading of the Lord, I knelt upon that spot. The glory and anointing began to flow into and over my body. The sensation and anointing was very similar to what I experienced when the angel put his hands upon me the night of August 22, 2001. As I knelt under the spot where the golden oil was beginning to pour onto the altar, I was praying earnestly. I could feel the liquid oil raining down on my body. I could sense and smell this heavenly oil as it rolled off my head. The Holy Spirit began to talk to me in a very clear and direct way that I had never experienced before. I collapsed onto the carpet in a pool of golden oil and laid there in the anointing of the Holy Spirit. Then I sensed angels dancing all around the pool and me. I felt an angel as it brushed its wings across my face. I had a “knowing” that the angel was asking me to raise my hands into the air. When I raised my hands up to about two feet, the angel would push my hands back down with its strong, warm hands. I tried again, and when my hands were almost totally up, the angel tickled my nose with the feathers of its wings. I laughed, and my hands fell. The angel and I continued to interact in this fashion for nearly an hour. I did not actually see this angel, but the force and reality of its touch was very tangible. There was no doubt that I was interacting with a heavenly being. This experience was both refreshing and real. SEEING IS BELIEVING On Thursday, November 22, the healing meetings started; they would last through Sunday, the 25th. In these meetings God began to open my spiritual eyes beyond anything I could have ever imagined. On the first night of these meetings, I began to see an “open heaven” forming in the sanctuary. I could also hear and sense the activity of angels as the heavens continued to open up to a greater degree. On Friday, I began to see “bolts of light” shoot through the church, and again the stream of golden oil was flowing from the open heaven in a greater volume. On Saturday night during the worship service, I began to see feathers falling around the church and

You look like you could be the love child of a grizzly bear and a navy destroyer.

But what do we expect will become of students, successfully cocooned from uncomfortable feelings, once they leave the sanctuary of academe for the boorish badlands of real life? What becomes of students so committed to their own vulnerability, conditioned to imagine they have no agency, and protected from unequal power arrangements in romantic life? I can’t help asking, because there’s a distressing little fact about the discomfort of vulnerability, which is that it’s pretty much a daily experience in the world, and every sentient being has to learn how to somehow negotiate the consequences and fallout, or go through life flummoxed at every turn.

courage is a choice, made in spite of fear, in spite of despair, if not because of it.

You may feel done with the world, but clearly the world is not done with you.

Every hour we delay, there is room for courage to falter and doubt to creep in,

Part of leaving your past behind,” Alaric said, “is learning to forgive yourself for past failings, while resolving never to make the same mistake again.

This is my role. I bring to light by absurdity what others dare not say.

Every step you take in this world, you're treading on someone's grave,

A tyrant always rises, you see, and heroes must rise to combat them.

if I can't be unserious when certain death is coming for all of us, I just don't know where I would fit in,

She’d fought too hard, lost too much to go back. Her father’s approval no longer determined her worth. Only she decided that.

Books are my sanctuary from the world, and I have always embraced them with my whole heart.

gaze

matter how simple or grand, your home is a sanctuary, and you have the power to define how you want to live in it. Over the course of five television series, I’ve tackled more than

But what do we expect will become of students, successfully cocooned from uncomfortable feelings, once they leave the sanctuary of academe for the boorish badlands of real life?

danger.

People are going to pull you in all directions. Where you end up is a direct result of how wise your decisions are.

Though even if it were a sanctuary, God himself could not impede Cade in his mission.

It feels like a mixture of modern and macabre at the same time—the perfect sanctuary for a twenty-first century Dracula.

To be exact, your collar is short one ruby. I had my jeweler start working on it the day after you came back to me. That night at The Sanctuary was when I knew I wanted you to be my forever.

It’s love that gives us strength, courage, and hope. It’s love that’s going to get us through this.

Here lies Horace Benbow in a fading series of small stinking spots on a Mississippi sidewalk

If you smell shite at the start, don't proceed to the finish,

There are camps for parents like you, who’d rather make your kid hate himself than just accept your son is gay.

Losing a person you loved meant you lost a chunk of your heart, raw and pulsing and elemental. You weren’t yourself after. You had to learn to live without that person, like learning to live without a limb. But you also had to learn to live within your own skin again. You were the same and not the same.

his sense of purpose was stronger than his fear.

Death wasn’t the worst thing. He refused to let anyone take his soul from him. If he died, he would die by his own terms.

If I had to kill an innocent person or steal the last bit of food someone else needed to survive in order for me to live, I wouldn’t do it.” “You would rather die?” “I would rather die with honor than live as a coward. If the cost is my soul, my humanity, then it’s too high. I refuse to pay it.

An eye for an eye, and the world goes blind.

Her own fear was her greatest threat, her greatest weakness. Her fear made her forget. She was a survivor.

Fablehaven as you knew it is finished,” Cloudwing asserted boldly. “Be glad the centaurs are here to keep the sanctuary from degenerating into gated chaos.” “Don’t you mean be glad the centaurs are here to bully and enslave the weaker creatures?” Doren asked.

We can’t just fight against the bad. We have to fight for the good.

Sometimes good people had to do things they weren’t proud of to protect the people they loved.

Hope is a thing with feathers.

Losing a person you loved meant you lost a chunk of your heart, raw and pulsing and elemental. You weren’t yourself after. You had to learn to live without that person, like learning to live without a limb. But you also had to learn to live within your own skin again. You were the same and not the same. You were less, somehow. Diminished. Colors weren’t as bright. The sun wasn’t as warm. Everything was dulled, dimmed, lessened. But it wasn’t the world that changed. It was you.

Guns weren’t a stranger to Frank,

This was a tough world, so she just had to be tougher.

Garret played me Trent Reznor’s music video “Broken,” a series of cut-and-paste video clips of animal pornography and people shooting themselves. I didn’t understand it, though Garret tried to explain it to me—something about American culture being overwhelmed by commodification and the resulting depression we feel at being controlled by the hidden politics of a truly fascist state. Or something like that. I wanted to know how Garret found out what a particular song meant, or about Danzig and “She Sells Sanctuary” by the Cult, or when Skinny Puppy was putting out their next album, or who Bauhaus was.

hum of

Then we burn that bridge when we come to it.

old takeout boxes and dirty dishes that have yet to be washed.

fear.

still around,” Warren said, not elaborating that he had spent the previous few years as a catatonic albino. “Kendra, you’ve met Dougan’s brother.” “His brother?” Kendra asked. Then she realized why Dougan looked familiar. “Oh, Maddox! That’s right, his last name was Fisk.” Dougan nodded. “He’s not officially a Knight, hears his own drum beating too loudly for that, though he’s helped us out on occasion.” “But here we are, monopolizing the conversation!” Warren apologized. “Gavin Rose, you say? Any relation to Chuck Rose?” “M-m-my father.” “No joke? I never knew Chuck had a kid. He’s one of our best guys. Why isn’t he here with you?” “He died seven months ago,” Gavin said. “Christmas day, in the Himalayas. One of the Seven Sanctuaries.” Warren’s smile vanished. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve been out of the loop.” “P-p-p-people wonder why I want to follow in his footsteps,” Gavin said, looking at the floor. “I never knew Mom. I have no siblings. Dad kept me a secret from all of you because he didn’t want me to get

Every day, she grew in strength and skill and prowess. With every fading bruise, her body grew harder, more resilient. She could take a punch in the face and bounce back up again, spitting blood and ready to return the favor. She was still short and chubby; still plain, invisible Willow. But she was tough. She could fight. She could shoot. She could kill a man if she had to. And that made all the difference.

We aren’t responsible for the sins of others. Don’t ever forget that.