Terror In Resonance Quotes

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If rulers refuse to consider poems as crimes, then someone must commit crimes that serve the function of poetry, or texts that possess the resonance of terrorism.
Hakim Bey (TAZ: The Temporary Autonomous Zone (New Autonomy))
In the hollow steel-lined bin, my unfortunate eruption resonated such that it would have humiliated me if my first concern had been social acceptance. My first concern, however, was survival. At the moment, I didn’t have the capacity for embarrassment because terror filled me.
Dean Koontz (Odd Apocalypse (Odd Thomas #5))
I imagined a dark world where the stars clamor to be inside us. Whatever we invent becomes the history we have to live. In truth, it takes only a handful of history’s shadows to commandeer our dreams It takes a famine of the heart to empty the streets of our words. It takes an imaginary terror to rid ourselves of imagination.
Richard Jackson (Resonance)
The dissolving, uniting forces combine what to us have been incompatible: attraction with repulsion, darkness with light, the erotic with the destructive.  If we can allow these opposites to meet they move our inner resonance to a higher vibratory plane, expanding consciousness into new realms.  It was exciting, through my explorations some of which I share in later chapters, to learn firsthand that the sacred marriage or coniunctio, the impulse to unite seeming opposites, does indeed seem to lie at the heart of the subtle body’s imaginal world. One important characteristic of the coniunctio is its paradoxical dual action.  The creative process of each sacred marriage, or conjoining of opposites, involves not only the unitive moment of joining together in a new creation or ‘third,’ but also, as I have mentioned, a separating or darkening moment.5 The idea that “darkness comes before dawn” captures this essential aspect of creativity.  To state an obvious truth we as a culture are just beginning to appreciate.  In alchemical language, when darkness falls, it is said to be the beginning of the inner work or the opus of transformation. The old king (ego) must die before the new reign dawns. The early alchemists called the dark, destructive side of these psychic unions the blackness or the nigredo.  Chaos, uncertainty, disillusionment, depression, despair, or madness prevails during these liminal times of  “making death.” The experiences surrounding these inner experiences of darkness and dying (the most difficult aspects were called mortificatio) may constitute our culture’s ruling taboo. This taboo interferes with our moving naturally to Stage Two in the individuating process, a process that requires that we pass through a descent into the underworld of the Dark Feminine realities of birthing an erotic intensity that leads to dying. Entranced by our happily-ever-after prejudiced culture, we often do not see that in any relationship, project or creative endeavor or idea some form of death follows naturally after periods of intense involvement.  When dark experiences befall, we tend to turn away, to move as quickly as possible to something positive or at least distracting, away from the negative affects of grieving, rage, terror, rotting and loss we associate with darkness and dying. As
Sandra Dennis (Embrace of the Daimon: Healing through the Subtle Energy Body: Jungian Psychology & the Dark Feminine)
She was halfway to deep sleep when the door creaked, a noise loud enough to rouse her, yet soft enough to doubt her having heard anything. She lay motionless, listening but hearing only the wind outside, the clock, the sounds of an ancient building. Normal sounds, but still her skin prickled. Pressure built in her head. Her pulse beat in her ears. The feeling of pressure thickened, stealing over her, a sense of envelopment, a shift in perception. Not her pulse, but footsteps. Someone pacing. Ten steps toward the fireplace. Ten back to the foot of her bed. The susurration of fabric against fabric. Metal sliding along metal, a low ringing sound, and mixed with that a murmuring. She peered into the darkness but saw nothing. No moving shadows, no figure approaching her bed, just the inert shapes of furniture and the resulting shadows. The resonance in her head grew, half convincing her she heard footsteps and the low, regular sound of breathing. The murmuring began again, a breath, then a whisper. My love. Steps paced near, and she swore she could feel the air thicken. Pain lanced along her temple. My heart. Unendurable pressure. She tried to move, but couldn't. Her limbs were frozen, trapped in her nightmare. More footsteps. A breath on her cheek. Cold air wafted through the room. My own. A face flashed before her eyes. She tried to breathe and couldn't get air into her lungs. She screwed her eyes shut, but the face didn't go away. The features blurred, looming, threatening, laughing. She knew that face, but the recollection refused to come. Terror like she'd known only once before in her life consumed her. Her lungs refused to expand. Or couldn't. She was going to die. She knew it. A scream bubbled in her throat.
Carolyn Jewel (The Spare)
I saw the Tracker—but that’s wrong, really. I saw right to where the tracking thing was. I saw those winnowing tentacles come out again, and the front figure pause, and then—it’s the only word that actually describes it—ooze on again on its via dolorosa. And at that the hind figure seemed to summon all its strength. It seemed to open out a fringe of arms or tentacles, a sort of corona of black rays spread out. It gaped with a full expansion, and even I could feel that there was a perfectly horrible attraction, or vacuum drag, being exerted. That was horrible enough, with the face of the super-suffering man now almost under me resonating my own terror. But the worst thing was that, as the tentacles unwrapped and winnowed out toward their prey, I saw they weren’t really tentacles at all. They were spreading cracks, veins, fissures, rents of darkness expanding from a void, a gap of pure blackness. There’s only one way to say it—one was seeing right through the solid world into a gap, an ultimate maelstrom. And from it was spreading out a—I can only call it so—a negative sunrise of black radiation that would deluge and obliterate everything. Of course it was still only a fissure, a vent, but one realized—This is a hole, a widening hole, that has been pierced in the dike that defends the common-sense, sensuous world. Through this vortex-hole that is rapidly opening, over this lip and brink, everything could slip, fall in, find no purchase, be swallowed up. It was like watching a crumbling cliff with survivors clinging to it being undercut and toppling into a black tide that had swallowed up its base. This negative force could drag the solidest things from their base, melt them, engulf the whole hard, visible world. And we were right on that brink. What was after us, for I knew now I was in its field, was not a thing of any passions or desires. Those are limited things, satiable things—in a way, balanced things, and so familiar, safe even, almost friendly in comparison with this. You know the grim saying, “You can give a sop to Cerberus, but not to his Master.” No, this was—that’s the technical term, I found, coined by those who have been up against this and come back alive—this was absolute Deprivation, really insatiable need, need that nothing can satisfy, absolute refusal to give, to yield. It is the second strongest thing in the universe, and, indeed, outside that. It could swallow the whole universe, and the universe would go for nothing, because in that gap the whole universe could fill not a bit of it. It would remain as empty, as gaping, as insatiable as ever, for it is the bottomless pit made by unstanchable Lack.
Gerald Heard (Dromenon: The Best Weird Stories of Gerald Heard)
I once heard someone on the radio saying that a bee is never more than forty minutes away from starving to death, and this fact has stayed with me because it seems to have a certain personal resonance. My children are in a perpetual proximity to catastrophe: concussion, dehydration, drowning or sunstroke. Keeping them safe requires constant vigilance. I've turned into one of those mothers, full of terror.
Harriet Lane (Her)
Some critics of the prison system have employed the term "correctional industrial complex" and others "penal industrial complex." These and the term I have chosen to underscore, "prison industrial complex," all clearly resonate with the historical concept of a "military industrial complex," whose usage dates back to the presidency of Dwight Eisenhower. It may seem ironic that a Republican president was the first to underscore a growing and dangerous alliance between the military and corporate worlds, but it clearly seemed right to antiwar activists and scholars during the era of the Vietnam War. Today, some activists mistakenly argue that the prison industrial complex is moving into the space vacated by the military industrial complex. However, the so called War on Terrorism initiated by the Bush administration in the aftermath of the 2002 attacks on the World Trade Center has made it very clear that the links between the military, corporations, and government are growing stronger, not weaker.
Angela Y. Davis (Are Prisons Obsolete?)
But Spain in the immediate post-war period remained a place of frighteningly separate social worlds. Alongside savage poverty and widespread terror, there existed other milieux of ease, security, and order regained. As Republican women were shaved and dosed with castor oil by the ‘victors’ of their villages, or transported with their children across Spain in cattletrucks, or raped in police stations, women of the southern landed aristocracy or from affluent provincial middle-class families in Spain’s conservative heartland celebrated the redemption of their private family sphere and revelled in the upsurge of public Catholic ceremonial. As one woman who had been close to the conservative Catholic party, CEDA, commented resonantly many decades later: there was an absence of freedom, but logically for those of us who had well-ordered lives, those of us who were professionals and saw things from the personal viewpoint only, we felt very much at ease and happy.
Helen Graham (The Spanish Civil War: A Very Short Introduction (Very Short Introductions))
I imagined a dark world where the stars clamor to be inside us. Whatever we invent becomes the history we have to live. In truth, it takes only a handful of history’s shadows to commandeer our dreams It takes a famine of the heart to empty the streets of our words. It takes an imaginary terror to rid ourselves of imagination. from “Involuntary Beginnings
Richard Jackson (Resonance)
Ideology without grievances doesn't resonate. Grievances without ideology aren't acted upon.
Mubin Shaikh
BDS on college campuses is a savvy, well-funded political operation whose sponsors and organizers include groups and individuals with ties to Islamist agendas. I didn’t make this up. A much smarter person than me said this in his sworn testimony in front of the United States Congress. Here is Dr. Jonathan Schanzer, former terrorism finance analyst for the United States Department of the Treasury: The overlap of former employees of organizations that provided support to Hamas who now play important roles [in the BDS movement]… speaks volumes about the real agenda of key components of the BDS campaign.10 Schanzer, now senior vice president at the Washington, DC–based think tank the Foundation for Defense of Democracies, is an expert in uncovering financial ties that are designed to be hidden. In his testimony, Dr. Schanzer describes a head-spinning web of financial and personal connections between BDS and supporters of terrorism. The BDS US campus operation represents a savvy rebranding of the Palestinian cause to make it more palatable—and, you know, less terror-y—for the American people. Key figures in the BDS movement come from a particularly uncompromising strain of Palestinian nationalism that calls for a State of Palestine to stretch from the river to the sea (yes, without Israel). Apparently, when they saw that their message was not resonating with Western society (not surprisingly, I would say), they decided to pivot and started pouring their resources into American colleges in order to influence future leaders and voters in America and Europe. “Investing in the future they are,” as Yoda would say.
Noa Tishby (Israel: A Simple Guide to the Most Misunderstood Country on Earth)
Hardly had I gone to bed when the two telephones at my bedside started ringing, almost continuously. At the other end, there were voices of alarm, of concern, of fright, sometimes muted voices of men too terror-stricken to speak. "Tonight is our last night," moaned one voice. "By morning, we -- all Kashmiri Pandits -- would be butchered," said another voice. "Send us aeroplanes; take us out of the Valley; evacuate us at night if you do not want to see our corpses in the morning," pleaded another. "Our womenfolk, our sisters, our mothers, would be abducted, and we menfolk slaughtered," shrieked yet another voice. Some callers told me that they would just hold on to their telephones so that I could hear the terrible slogans and exhortations that were emanating from hundreds of loudspeakers fitted on the mosques. The noises, they said, were deafening, and it appeared that a number of recorded tapes were being simultaneously played at a very loud pitch, causing horrible effects in resonance and permeating the atmosphere with terror and fear of imminent death.
Jagmohan (My Frozen Turbulence in Kashmir)
Flanked on both sides, the relentless pursuit of the creatures intensified, their rampage tearing through the forest with a destructive force. The deafening cacophony of snapping branches and splintering trees reverberated through the air, echoing like the collision of runaway locomotives, piercing their very souls with terror. During the chaos, Ajax's presence remained steadfast. His strident barks kept reminding the family of his valiant presence as he kept up with the attackers. His resiliency to defend his family-pack resonated throughout the turmoil. God knows what they’ll do to him if they get their… hands on him, now thought Carter, fully admitting to himself that these were indeed Sasquatches—the dreaded Bigfoots of legend.
Kyle Steel (The Siege at Simeon Heights: Bigfoot Fiction Thriller - Drama Novel - Family Adventure - Action Adventure - Sasquatch - Cryptid Suspense)
The world of cryptocurrency is a thrilling roller coaster soaring highs of potential, heart-stopping dips of volatility, and the ever-present hum of uncertainty. While the rewards can be immense, the risks are equally daunting, none more so than the chilling prospect of losing your hard-earned digital assets. This is where Digital web Recovery steps in, not just as a technical savior, but as a beacon of hope in the digital abyss. My story is unfortunately familiar. A seemingly innocuous phishing attack, a moment of carelessness, and my digital wallet, once brimming with promise, lay empty. The pit of despair was bottomless; the fear of financial ruin was paralyzing. Desperation led me down a rabbit hole of online forums and recovery "experts," each promising a solution, each leaving me with a deeper sense of helplessness. Then, I stumbled upon Digital Web Recovery. Their services, unlike the others, exuded a quiet confidence, and a sense of professionalism that resonated with my desperation. The testimonials, heartfelt and genuine, offered a glimmer of hope, a fragile spark in the darkness. I reached out to Digital Web recovery with a hesitant plea for help, and was met not with skepticism, but with genuine empathy and a meticulous understanding of my predicament. The recovery process itself was transparent. Every step was explained in clear, concise terms, and my questions were answered with patience and understanding. The Digital Web Recovery team never sugarcoated the challenges, but they never wavered in their determination to find a solution. Days turned into weeks, each update a nail-biting cliffhanger, until finally, the news arrived,my cryptocurrency, every precious Satoshi, had been recovered. The relief was overwhelming, a tidal wave of gratitude washing away the months of anxiety. But beyond the sheer joy of regaining my assets, it was the human touch that truly resonated. Digital Web Recovery wasn't just a recovery service; they were my digital lifeline, Contact them via; digitalwebrecovery(@)mail-me.com Telegram User; @digitalwebrecovery my unwavering support system in a time of crisis. My experience demonstrates Digital Web Recovery unwavering devotion to their clients as well as their technical expertise. They are aware of the psychological effects of losing cryptocurrencies, including the terror and despair that can overcome even the most experienced investor. They tackle every case with kindness and commitment, viewing each missing currency as a personal issue that must be solved.
Elaine Wallace (Creating Powerful Brands)
[My father’s] survival was his way of saying ‘Mulen Labe’ to his oppressors and murderers of his family. His people. In the Krakow Ghetto, in the camps of Auschwitz, Birkenau, Buna Monowitz, Buchenwald. The ability to fight was within him. In his blood. The challenge chose him. No spartan training. How did Dad confront the Nazi terror with no Spartan warrior to mentor him? The frustration and choked cries of rebellion were already internalised in his soul. Later, the frustration and choked back screams resonated in my soul as well when nourished by the relentless, gruelling training. When I was growing up coming my father told me a few stories that stayed with me through the long marches and along the IDF service. His story of the death March from Buna Monowitz to Gliviz through deep snow and freezing cold. It began January 17 and ended the night of January 22, 1945. The night of January 21 was especially cold. There was no place to get warm. As night fell, my father found a bare wooden door and covered himself with it. A little after midnight the freezing temperatures woke him. He attempted to wake up the people around him, shouting at them, “Wake up, wake up. You're going to freeze to death if you don't move.” A few woke up and joined him in stepping in place to warm up. Others remained unmoving and perished. That night thousands froze to death. The next morning, which was the 6th day of the death march, my father got up with a piercing pain in his hip. He could not take even one step, he told me the ball of the hip bone ground against the hip socket “like sandpaper”. When he asked to be left alone, his friends didn't listen and insisted on carrying him. He argued, “I will cause you to fall behind”. They were adamant. With their last ounce of energy, they put his arms over their shoulders, lifted him up and began to look forward. Supported by his two friends, he moved in a line with the rest of the dead. He continued to beg them to abandon him and they refused, insisting on helping him. After a few hundred yards, his joints warmed and he was able to leap forward on his own. Marching as part of the endless column of human suffering. So they marched, supporting each other, until they arrived that night at the train in Gliviz that was to take them to Buchenwald. When he told me this story, I felt immense gratitude to his friends. How did he do it? The hopeless atmosphere, the scant odds of surviving, inability to control your fate, the deep frustration, the desire to defeat a cruel enemy. All of these feelings are part of me. I tapped into them during my training with the Unit…. I recall after finishing very difficult marches, asking my father to tell me about the Death March. Time and again, everything fell into perspective. Each time I understood that no matter what hardships we endured, we would never come close to measuring up to the strength and courage of my dad and his friends.
Ouri Tsafrir (Along the Trail)
an ideology may resonate among a particular community due to a broad range of political issues like incompetent, authoritarian or corrupt governments, as well as economic issues like widespread poverty or unemployment. In many instances, the political and socioeconomic grievances that lead to terrorism are tied to a government’s legitimacy, or lack thereof.
James J.F. Forest (The Terrorism Lectures)
We’re talking about fundamentals here; the fundamental physical laws pertaining to the day-to-day running of the universe. Physicists call them the fundamental constants—things like the masses of atomic particles, the speed of light, the electric charges of electrons, the strength of gravitational force.… They’re beginning to realize just how finely balanced they are. One flip of a decimal point either way and things would start to go seriously wrong. Matter wouldn’t form, stars wouldn’t twinkle, the universe as we know it wouldn’t exist and, if we insist on taking the selfish point of view in the face of such spectacular, epic, almighty destruction, nor would we. The cosmic harmony that made life possible exists at the mercy of what appear, on the face of it, to be unlikely odds. Who or what decided at the time of the Big Bang that the number of particles created would be 1 in 1 billion more than the number of antiparticles, thus rescuing us by the width of a whisker from annihilation long before we even existed (because when matter and antimatter meet, they cancel each other out)? Who or what decided that the number of matter particles left behind after this oversize game of cosmic swapping would be exactly the right number to create a gravitational force that balanced the force of expansion and didn’t collapse the universe like a popped balloon? Who decided that the mass of the neutron should be just enough to make the formation of atoms possible? That the nuclear force that holds atomic nuclei together, in the face of their natural electromagnetic desire to repulse each other, should be just strong enough to achieve this, thus enabling the universe to move beyond a state of almost pure hydrogen? Who made the charge on the proton exactly right for the stars to turn into supernovas? Who fine-tuned the nuclear resonance level for carbon to just delicate enough a degree that it could form, making life, all of which is built on a framework of carbon, possible? The list goes on. And on. And as it goes on—as each particularly arrayed and significantly defined property, against all the odds, and in spite of billions of alternative possibilities, combines exquisitely, in the right time sequence, at the right speed, weight, mass, and ratio, and with every mathematical quality precisely equivalent to a stable universe in which life can exist at all—it adds incrementally in the human mind to a growing sense, depending on which of two antithetical philosophies it chooses to follow, of either supreme and buoyant confidence, or humble terror. The first philosophy says this perfect pattern shows that the universe is not random; that it is designed and tuned, from the atom up, by some supreme intelligence, especially for the purpose of supporting life. The other says it’s a one in a trillion coincidence.
Martin Plimmer (Beyond Coincidence: Amazing Stories of Coincidence and the Mystery and Mathematics Behind Them)
resonance cascade
Mia Archer (Villains Don't Save Heroes! (Night Terror Book 2))
Come to me, Raven. Mikhail’s voice resonated with power, yet for her there was a soothing gentleness. Mikhail did not take his eyes from the vampire, holding him helpless with his mind alone. So great was his fury, he hardly required Gregori’s mind merge to assist him. One by one the Carpathian males materialized, their faces masks of condemnation. Raven could feel the human couple’s terror rising, approaching near madness. She staggered to them, wrapping her arms protectively around Monique. “He will save us,” she whispered to them. “He is like the other,” Alexander rasped hoarsely. “No, he is good. He will save us.” Raven stated the truth simply, with great conviction. It is good to see the way your woman rushes to obey you, Gregori said for Mikhail’s ears alone, earning him a quick, dark glare. Saving his retort for later, Mikhail released the vampire.
Christine Feehan (Dark Prince (Dark, #1))