The Crucible Truth Quotes

It is rare for people to be asked the question which puts them squarely in front of themselves

We burn a hot fire here; it melts down all concealment.

The case for the humanities is not hard to make, though it can be difficult--to such an extent have we been marginalized, so long have we acceded to that marginalization--not to sound either defensive or naive. The humanities, done right, are the crucible in which our evolving notions of what it means to be fully human are put to the test; they teach us, incrementally, endlessly, not what to do, but how to be. Their method is confrontational, their domain unlimited, their "product" not truth but the reasoned search for truth, their "success" something very much like Frost's momentary stay against confusion.

What potion should I give the night so she’ll always wonder? What potion should I give the night so she’ll always wonder? Her pounding heart’s a rider galloping from the burning wood. Maybe my pharmacist is awake the next street over? In a crucible of  bone, snake tears mixed with herbs. Should I hurry? Call the doctor? A heart like hers is rare. And to tell the truth, if it shattered, what would I do?

The Truth Is That Challenge Is the Crucible for Greatness. The study of leadership is the study of how men and women guide people through uncertainty, hardship, disruption, transformation, transition, recovery, new beginnings, and other significant challenges. It’s also the study of how men and women, in times of constancy and complacency, actively seek to disturb the status quo, awaken new possibilities, and pursue opportunities.

You must confess yourself. It is the way to love the truth. Tell me who sent you, and I will let you sit in the Eel Bath.” “Let me?” This was less incentive than he thought. “And I will let you lick clean the soles of True Believers in the time beyond the Year of Carnage!

I confess that you are a bag of gleet squeezed from the purulent sphincter that is the mouth of Iyachtu Xvim!” He would not listen to the truth; what choice did I have but to return to my earlier strategy? “In the time beyond the Year of Carnage, your god shall empty the chamber pots at the Palace of Eternity, and you shall clean the garderobes!

I will begin with this: Do not roam among the haggard and the meek. Do not fight for scraps of food that are moist with stagnant rains. Do not enter the crucible of egoistic men who compete over dime and dollar. Rise, my student. And insist First upon the glory of Freedom. So that no arena can contain you. And no man can equal you. For your journey is unlike any other man in the field.

Days after the elections of 2016, asha sent me a link to a talk by astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson. We have to have hope, she says to me across 3,000 miles, she in Brooklyn, me in Los Angeles. We listen together as Dr. deGrasse Tyson explains that the very atoms and molecules in our bodies are traceable to the crucibles in the centers of stars that once upon a time exploded into gas clouds. And those gas clouds formed other stars and those stars possessed the divine-right mix of properties needed to create not only planets, including our own, but also people, including us, me and her. He is saying that not only are we in the universe, but that the universe is in us. He is saying that we, human beings, are literally made out of stardust. And I know when I hear Dr. deGrasse Tyson say this that he is telling the truth because I have seen it since I was a child, the magic, the stardust we are, in the lives of the people I come from. I watched it in the labor of my mother, a Jehovah's Witness and a woman who worked two and sometimes three jobs at a time, keeping other people's children, working the reception desks at gyms, telemarketing, doing anything and everything for 16 hours a day the whole of my childhood in the Van Nuys barrio where we lived. My mother, cocoa brown and smooth, disowned by her family for the children she had as a very young and unmarried woman. My mother, never giving up despite never making a living wage. I saw it in the thin, brown face of my father, a boy out of Cajun country, a wounded healer, whose addictions were borne of a world that did not love him and told him so not once but constantly. My father, who always came back, who never stopped trying to be a version of himself there were no mirrors for. And I knew it because I am the thirteenth-generation progeny of a people who survived the hulls of slave ships, survived the chains, the whips, the months laying in their own shit and piss. The human beings legislated as not human beings who watched their names, their languages, their Goddesses and Gods, the arc of their dances and beats of their songs, the majesty of their dreams, their very families snatched up and stolen, disassembled and discarded, and despite this built language and honored God and created movement and upheld love. What could they be but stardust, these people who refused to die, who refused to accept the idea that their lives did not matter, that their children's lives did not matter?

[T]he strongest defense of the humanities lies not in the appeal to their utility — that literature majors may find good jobs, that theaters may economically revitalize neighborhoods — but rather in the appeal to their defiantly nonutilitarian character, so that individuals can know more than how things work, and develop their powers of discernment and judgment, their competence in matters of truth and goodness and beauty, to equip themselves adequately for the choices and the crucibles of private and public life.

And finally, Felisin. Ah, now who is this woman in a child's raiment? Pleasures of the flesh devoid of pleasure. Selves surrendered one after another. Kindness yearned for behind every cruel word she utters. She believes in nothing. A crucible fired clean, empty. Heboric possesses hands unseen and what they now grasp is a power and a truth that he cannot yet sense. Felisin's hands... ah, they have grasped and touched, they have been slick and they have been soiled, and yet have held nothing. Life slips through them like a ghost.

A problem related to perceptions of Mormonism’s monopoly on truth is the impression that Mormons claim a monopoly on salvation. It grows increasingly difficult to imagine that a body of a few million, in a world of seven billion, can really be God’s only chosen people and heirs of salvation. That’s because they aren’t. One of the most unfortunate misperceptions about Mormonism is in this tragic irony: Joseph Smith’s view is one of the most generous, liberal, and universalist conceptions of salvation in all Christendom. In section 49, when the Lord refers to “holy men” about whom Joseph knew nothing, and whom the Lord had reserved unto Himself, He is clearly indicating that Mormons do not have a monopoly on righteousness, truth, or God’s approbation. That temple covenants may be made and kept here or hereafter, and the ordinances of salvation performed in person or vicariously, means our conception of His church should be as large and as generous as God’s heart. Joseph’s teachings suggest that the Church is best understood as a portal for the saved, not the reservoir of the righteous. As

In sum, disciples might do well to avoid the bibliolatry that characterizes scripture as unerring truth. Parley Pratt made this point himself in The Fountain of Knowledge, a small pamphlet he wrote in 1844. With elegant metaphor, he noted that scripture resulted from revelatory process and was thus the product of revealed truth, not the other way around. We do well to look to a stream for nourishing water, but we do better to secure the fountain. That fountain, Pratt noted, is “the gift of revelation,” which “the restoration of all things” heralds.21 Or, in George MacDonald’s metaphor, we should hold the scriptures as “the moon of our darkness, . . . not dear as the sun towards which we haste." p56

unshackled by the ferocious cleavings of menopause, I was able to smash through a lifetime habit of insisting on piecing together what was terminally broken. I allowed the process of Nigredo to occur. I faced my dead parts, and let them burn away. The truth is, by the time we reach menopause, we’ve all lived with too much loss; we’ve all been broken open. We’ve accumulated too much pain. Menopause is the time to transform it. To stop trying to stitch ourselves back together again into the same old pattern. To put away that darning needle, blunted by our persistent and insistent repair work. To step into the crucible, and let it do its work. We can’t mend everything. We can’t. And, sometimes, we simply shouldn’t.

JAPANESE PSYCHOLOGY AND SOCIAL BEHAVIOR are often explained in terms of tatemae and honne. Tatemae, meaning “front” or “facade,” refers to the face one shows the world, the opinions one expresses in public, or the role one is obligated to play based on one’s rank or position. Honne describes “the truth” or “honest feelings,” shared only within a trusted circle of family and friends. To let slip the mask, revealing honne to another, is a signal of intimacy or trust; it is tantamount to an offer of friendship. These ideas are hardly unique to Japan, and versions of tatemae and honne are alive and well in the West. But in the Japanese way of thinking, it is perfectly natural that tatemae and honne should be at odds, and no one need agonize over the discrepancy, or go out of his way to put them to rights.

Truth is treason in the empire of lies.

There are many faces to the horrors of war-- decimation, mutilation, barbarity, and, of course, death itself. But one of the most savage and dehumanizing consequences of armed conflict is the prison system that springs up to house enemy combatants--and ordinary citizens too. These hellish camps encapsulate the lowest depths of human depravity; ruled by violence and degeneracy, political prisoners are forced to endure unthinkable conditions and unchecked cruelty--all without any chance of reprieve. Uta Christensen's latest novel, Caught: Surviving the Turbulent River of Life, chronicles this appalling consequence of war, weaving a narrative of atrocity that, despite its artful inventions and complex characters, is so starkly based on grim realities... that one cannot help but shudder. Caught tells the story of Janos, a young German boy kidnapped by the Nazis during WWII--and forced into a Russian prison camp. There, Janos must survive against all odds, fighting off starvation and death at every turn as the years march on... and he becomes a man. It is, in fact, within the hardships of this very crucible, that Janos thrives, overcoming the frailties and ignobilities of existence to discover friendship, compassion, and love--making him into the apotheosis of an upstanding, self-reliant citizen: a true model to all his fellow countrymen. Told in flashbacks, Caught: Surviving the Turbulent River of Life explores the intricate nature of suffering and memory, delving into the complexities of how the past--even the most vicious episodes--informs the present... and the very nature of the self. Uta Christensen, with striking prose and a poetic sensibility, brings the darker chapters of history to life in such a way that one is instantly captivated by a concurrent horror and pity, a sense of tragedy, but too a catharsis in overcoming, in human resilience and beauty itself. A truly breathtaking novel, Caught is a tour de force of literary perfection; poignant, unremitting, and painfully real, this book is essential reading for all those willing to face hard truths--and grow from them.

Truth can hurt, can be blind to consequences. Truth can cut. Truth can sever. Too

History, like nature, abhors a vacuum. Who was this five-star admiral of the Second World War, who left barely a trace of himself in the historical record? In the literature he is usually painted with a few broad strokes of the brush, and the overall effect is unflattering. Four charges have been laid against King, growing simultaneously louder and less coherent as they have reverberated through the historical echo chamber. First, that he was a foul-tempered martinet who was utterly ruthless and as mean as a snake. Second, that he was a narrow-minded navy partisan, who cared only for the parochial interests of his service. Third, that he did not support the “Europe-first” policy, and campaigned to make the Pacific the main theater of the war. Fourth, that he harbored an obsessive animosity against the British, and did his best to undermine the alliance. There was some truth in the first of those four charges, though King’s abrasiveness and ruthlessness have been exaggerated, and were facets of a more complex personality. As for the second, third, and fourth, they do not stick.

Humanity wears the cloak of being rational and civilized. It is a sneering veneer developed, built and used to cope with the brutality of others’ agendas. But this is the cycle that destroys. It is a wheel that never stops turning once you get on it. To break this type of wheel—good intention, follow through and deep pauses are the tools of the crucibles in which we must testify against the norms created in this world. The first step is to speak up in the language or the voice that is your given right.

But here is a truth of Warriordom. Pain makes the Warrior stronger, not weaker. It is the anvil on which all true Warriors are forged, whether it is the muscle burn, sleep deprivation, and cold of Hell Week, the Marine Corps crucible, Ranger training, Delta Force selection—or the kind of life-and-death struggle in which I was now engaged. The ordinary person gets hurt—and he retreats to deal with his pain. The Warrior takes in all that pain, all that hurt, all that agony, and metamorphoses it, transmogrifies it, channels it, into pure, unadulterated, kinetic strength, electric energy, and pure will to win.

Message of Joan of Arc The crucible of love is carried forth in your hearts. The pain and sorrow of past injustices are being transformed through each loving word and deed. As the past merges with the present, physical and emotional bodies respond. There is so much that you carry, so much you transform. The conscious awareness of your soul’s purpose, the knowledge that you have come again to aid in this most transforming time magnifies the outcome of each mission. As past injustices merge with present injustices you respond with an awakening, an awakening of remembrance of all that has gone before and all that feels familiar in your lives and your world of today. And as you perceive and awaken, and as a betrayal or injustice today brings back those of times past, you feel, you weep, you cry out, and you may fall. Then the power within rises, the feminine power of love, the feminine power of strength, the alchemical magic awakens and rises with a power and strength stronger than the past, more powerful than a memory or injustice of today. And as the power rises within, and as you feel, acknowledge and respond, you choose the path of the spiritual warrior with a feminine strength present throughout the ages. For you are bearers of truth and soldiers of freedom. And through your awareness so vigilant and so true, through each conscious kindness, each voice raised in truth, you transform one by one, a hardened heart or bitter injustice. Yes the task is mighty and the road long, and you have walked this path again and again but I ask you now to feel in your heart, the power of love and the root of forgiveness. For only these shall usher in the New World, only these shall move you into the fullness of your true spiritual nature. Walk the path with your head held high feeling and knowing your power and strength. Know that battles once fought for truth and for freedom carry you forth in this time and this place. Feel the protection of your spiritual armour, carry the sword of truth and enlightenment. Work your alchemical magic as you transform and transcend all worldly concerns. Bring forth the balance of masculine and feminine, the strength of the armour and the beauty of love. Know, that which you endure and overcome shall strengthen you…. and that which you forgive shall free you." I (…state name aloud.) bow my head and consecrate my heart and with the greatest love and power I breathe in the Breath of The Holy Spirit and breathe out the names Isis and Magdalene.

At its root, The Crucible is such a terrifying and illuminating piece of work not because it involves witches and because witches do not exist, but because it depicts the gradual victory of delirium over reason and of passion over truth. In the heat of a hysterical moment, a putatively civilized community elects to abandon the vital traditions that have been slowly built up over centuries and to hand over its institutions to the transient anxieties of an unruly and jealous mob. 'It were better that ten suspected witches should escape than one innocent person be condemned,' warned Increase Mather, a critic of the trials. 'Not on your life,' replied the crowd; for we have some evils to spike. Free expression? Damn you to hell. Presumption of innocence? Hie thee to a monastery. All that we have held dear? Abandon it now, for there are monsters at the gate, and they need to be destroyed post haste.

If Joseph initially thought only Mormons had access to truth or goodness, he was abruptly corrected of his misperception a year into the Church's founding. In an 1831 revelation, the Lord told him that most of the world was under sin, "except those which I have reserved unto myself, holy men that ye know not of." The words were a poignant indication that while Joseph might be a true prophet, the Lord's disciples were not limited to those who found themselves in the restored Church. p88

I am a scientist—a seeker of truths, My heart a crucible, my mind a laboratory. With my steed, Curiosity, I ride. I peer through the lens of discovery, behold—wonder.

Your Honor, the courtroom is a crucible. In it we burn away irrelevancies until we are left with a pure product, the truth for all time.

The essence of deep and profound suffering, as articulated through the lens of individuals grappling with akathisia, reveals a universal truth about human resilience and the quest for meaning amidst adversity. Suffering, in its most unbearable forms, strips away the superficial layers of our existence, confronting us with the rawest facets of our being. It is in this crucible of despair that the depth of human strength is truly tested, and paradoxically, where the seeds of hope are sown. Throughout history, philosophers, poets, and survivors of great hardship have all echoed a similar sentiment: there is a profound transformation that occurs in the heart of suffering. It is not merely an ordeal to be endured but a powerful catalyst for growth and self-discovery. The pain that once seemed to diminish us eventually serves to expand our empathy, deepen our understanding of life's fragility, and enhance our appreciation for moments of joy and connection. In the narrative of overcoming akathisia, the raw and relentless nature of such suffering becomes a testament to the indomitable human spirit. This condition, characterized by an inner restlessness that can torment the mind and body, becomes a battleground upon which the battle for mental and emotional freedom is fought. The victory, hard-won, lies not in eradicating the condition but in mastering the art of resilience, in discovering that hope is not obliterated by despair but made more precious by it. To conclude, deep and profound suffering is an unyielding force, capable of either crushing the human spirit or refining it into something stronger and more beautiful. The choice of which direction we turn depends largely on our ability to find meaning in our pain, to reach out for support, and to believe in the possibility of regeneration. Like the phoenix rising from its ashes, individuals who traverse the dark night of the soul can emerge transformed, bearing the scars of their battles as badges of honor. These experiences whisper to us of the extraordinary resilience that resides within, urging us to keep moving forward, even when every step seems impossible. The power of the human spirit to transcend suffering reminds us that even in our darkest moments, there is always a path leading towards the light.

He does not say, “Whatsoever Apostles,—whatsoever evangelists, pastors, and teachers,—whatsoever your Bishops,—whatsoever your ministers tell you is truth, that you are to believe.” No! he says, “Prove all things.” He does not say, “Whatsoever the universal Church pronounces true, that you are to hold.” No! he says, “Prove all things.” The principle laid down is this: “Prove all things by the Word of God;—all ministers, all teaching, all preaching, all doctrines, all sermons, all writings, all opinions, all practices,—prove all by the Word of God. Measure all by the measure of the Bible.—Compare all with the standard of the Bible.—Weigh all in the balances of the Bible.—Examine all by the light of the Bible.—Test all in the crucible of the Bible. That which can abide the fire of the Bible, receive, hold, believe, and obey.

The significance of free speech extends beyond individual liberties; it serves as a guardian of truth and a catalyst for societal introspection. By allowing dissenting opinions to flourish, we invite the crucible of debate to forge a refined understanding of complex issues. This unfettered exchange of ideas challenges the status quo, prevents the entrenchment of dogma, and empowers societies to adapt and evolve in the face of ever-changing circumstances.

In a world inundated with information, free speech emerges as a guiding principle that helps discern truth from misinformation. It empowers individuals to think critically, question authority, and participate in the collective pursuit of knowledge. The unfettered marketplace of ideas, where even the most unconventional notions find a platform, is the crucible in which intellectual resilience is forged, enabling societies to navigate the complexities of an ever-evolving global landscape.

When ego, unopposed, assumes its throne, The world, in fragments, reaps the seeds it’s sown. A kaleidoscope of discord and divide, Where separate streams in ceaseless turmoil bide. Through ego’s lens, reality transforms, A battleground where rampant desire storms. A sphere of strife, of victory and loss, Where fortunes shift as dice of fate are tossed. In ego’s solitary, narrow view, The world is painted in a hue so skewed. Confined by fears, by selfish dreams confined, Its canvas bears the limits of the mind. Thus, perception, in its manifold grace, Reflects the light of ego and soul’s face. In balance, may the truest sight be found, Where essence and ego in harmony abound. In the crucible where essence blends with sight, A wondrous transformation takes its flight. Where once division’s shadow coldly lay, Interconnection’s dawn breaks forth in day. What opposition’s harsh gaze once discerned, To harmonies of concord is now turned. The essence, with its ancient wisdom’s glow, Unveils the unity that lies below. Each leaf and stone, each soul that wanders free, A note within reality’s grand symphony. Essential, bound within the vast expanse, In life’s intricate, cosmic dance. This alchemical shift in vision’s sphere, Brings forth changes profound, both far and near. Challenges, once daunting, now unfold, As growth’s opportunities, bright and bold. Foes, once clad in enmity’s harsh guise, Transform to teachers, wise beneath the skies. Each joy, each pain, in life’s intricate weave, Threads of our evolution, we perceive. No longer a stage for vain rivalry’s play, But a landscape where learning’s blossoms sway. Growth and learning, in rich abundance, thrive, In this new world where our spirits come alive. Where once the ego’s voice, in solo strain, Ruled with iron will, in self’s domain, Now in harmony with the soul’s sweet song, It finds a place where it truly belongs. No longer master, but a partner kind, Guiding through life with a humble mind. It learns compassion’s tongue, intuition hears, Acts with mindfulness, as purpose nears. In perception’s alchemy, a journey grand, From fractured states to unity’s soft hand, From discord’s harsh cacophony to peace, A path that leads where true essences release. This sacred path, evolving as it weaves, Into our nature’s heart, where spirit cleaves. The veil of separation gently falls, As interconnectedness softly calls. Upon this path, with every step we tread, Our world transforms, new visions in its stead. The mundane now with sacredness imbues, The ordinary in extraordinary hues. Each day becomes a picture, rich and vast, For deepest truths, in vibrant colors cast. Through alchemy of sight, our roles transcend, Not mere observers, but creators bend. In world’s unfolding tale, we play our part, Co-architects, with collective heart. A reality, where highest potentials shine, In this, your design, our spirits intertwine.

Do not roam among the haggard and the meek. Do not fight for scraps of food that are moist with stagnant rains. Do not enter the crucible of egoistic men who compete over dime and dollar. Rise, my student. And insist First upon the glory of Freedom. So that no arena can contain you. And no man can equal you. For your journey is unlike any other man in the field.

That flaming hair should have warned him. Somehow, she was his crucible, burning away everything but the truth. Forcing him to speak it aloud and purify himself before her.

The truth was that no one, not even Admirals Fletcher or Spruance, knew precisely how the battle was unfolding. It was too big, too spread out; too much was happening at once, and what little data could be pieced together may or may not be reliable. They were all feeling their way through the fog of war.

It was in this crucible that Murdock and his team reshaped the culture of O.C. Tanner. “We tweaked it,” he said. “We didn’t want to touch the core values—the integrity, the commitment to continuous improvement, the customer intimacy. Obert believed in truth, goodness, and beauty, and so did the rest of us. But we had to add some new values, like humility and learning. Those came from me because I didn’t know what to do.” Murdock also encouraged a level of debate that hadn’t gone on previously. “We got into a Hegelian dialectic. I wanted forces to clash so that synergy could emerge. Before, bad news would stay down, out of sight. I wanted a war of ideas, and no silos. Anyone could speak to anyone else.

Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails. 1 Corinthians 13:4-8a

No one person, however brilliant or well-informed in the Mysteries, can come in one lifetime to such fullness of understanding as to safely judge and dismiss the customs or institutions of his society. These customs are the culminations of the wisdom of generations of experiment in the crucible of history. A youth boiling with emotions will wonder why he—or she—should not give full freedom to his or her desires. Alas, we have learned from sad experience that if the young are left unchecked by customs, morals, or traditions, they may well ruin their lives before they mature sufficiently to understand this essential truth; desire is a river of living fire that must be banked, cooled, and channeled by copious measures if it is not to consume in a flood of burning chaos both the individual and society.” —Lady Corinne of Pavenham Sky