Thrown In The Pit Quotes

Belikov is a sick, evil man who should be thrown into a pit of rabid vipers for the great offense he commited against you this morning." "Thank you." I said primly. Then, I considered. "Can vipers be rabid?" "I don't see why not. Everything can be. I think. Canadian geese might be worse than vipers, though." "Canadian geese are deadlier than vipers?" "You ever try to feed those little bastards? They're vicious. You get thrown to vipers, you die quickly. But the geese? That'll go on for days. More suffering." "Wow. I don't know whether I should be impressed or frightened that you've thought about all of this.

Just so you know... Even if I don't break it... alot of people break their own Egg. All those adults walking around with tired faces... they've thrown away the "person they want to be.

And while one is brought up with luxury and caresses, and is thrown bewildered and despairing into a dark pit, another is lifted from the pit and raised to a throne where a jeweled crown is placed on his head. The world has no shame in doing this; it is prompt to hand out both pleasure and pain and has no need of us an our doings.

Real magic is the hand around the bandsaw, the thrown spark in the powder keg, the dimension-warp linking you straight into the heart of a star, the flaming sword that burns all the way down to the pommel. Sooner juggle torches in a tar pit than mess with real magic. Sooner lie down in front of a thousand elephants.

I would rather be thrown in a fiery pit of hell than return to Wales," Unable to tolerate him for another second, Helen stood and said coolly, "I'm sure that can be arranged, Mr. Vance.

There is a prison,” Alfred began grimly, “in a more ancient part of the world. A pit where men are thrown to suffer and die. But sometimes a man rises from that darkness. Sometimes the pit sends something back.

Vetinari,” said Mr. Potts of the Bakers’ Guild. “He does have all street-theater players and mime artists thrown into the scorpion pit,” said Mr. Boggis of the Thieves’ Guild. “True. But let’s not forget that he has his bad points too. The man is capricious.

I looked; and the unseen figure, which still grasped me by the wrist, bad caused to be thrown open the graves of all mankind; and from each issued the faint phosphoric radiance of decay; so that I could see the innermost recesses, and there view the shrouded bodies in their dead and solemn slumber with the worm. But alas! the real sleepers were fewer, by many millions, than those who slumbered not at all; and there was a feebly struggling; and there was a general and sad unrest; and from out of the depths of the countless pits there came a melancholy rustling from the garments of the buried.

I gave him the same ferocious look I’d given Dimitri. This time, it worked. Mason’s face paled. “Belikov is a sick, evil man who should be thrown into a pit of rabid vipers for the great offense he committed against you this morning.” “Thank you.” I said primly. Mead, Richelle (2008-04-10). Frostbite: A Vampire Academy Novel (p. 46). Penguin Young Readers Group. Kindle Edition.

He said he had it against Helmut Schauffler that he was the living, walking, detestable proof of a war won at considerable personal cost by one set of men, and wantonly thrown away by others,

Even Jeremiah, the prophet who delivered these words, had a life that was less than stellar according to our mindset. He was hated, forced from his home, thrown into prison, and tossed into a mud pit. So even for him, this magnificent prophet, the hope for a prosperous and glorious future was more to be realized in the hope of heaven itself than it was to be experienced in the temporal life of the here and now. Reading Hebrews 11, you can see that many of God’s people in history had to have the same kind of future hope.

Husbands in wheelbarrows, sons stoned and deprived of food, forced to labour amidst jeers and finally thrown into pits and buried alive because they were said to be sickening of the plague and might infect the community. The few who succeeded in escaping suddenly reappeared and added new and terrifying details to this picture of horror.

No more absurd or insidious a precept has ever been laid down than “Where there is life, there is hope,” he had averred, and what further proof was required beyond the case of Hezekiah Varner, captain of the doomed Feronia? Life he had, but what hope? His fate was no different from that of the fair virgin thrown into the sacrificial pit of the Oba—nay, it was worse, for that savage feeding frenzy lasted but a few seconds, while the maggots’ endured for weeks.

There's a lot of loose thinking about magic. People go around talking about mystic harmonies and cosmic balances and unicorns, all of which is to real magic what a glove puppet is to the Royal Shakespeare Company. Real magic is the hand around the bandsaw, the thrown spark in the powder keg, the dimension-warp linking you straight into the heart of a star, the flaming sword that burns all the way down to the pommel. Sooner juggle torches in a tar pit than mess with real magic. Sooner lie down in front of a thousand elephants.

Lord, but he was a big, beautiful beast of a man. There was just so much of him. Tall, broad, powerfully muscled. And utterly bare, save for that thin bit of toweling and his thick, dark hair. He had a great deal of hair. Not only plastered in damp curls on his head, but defining the hard line of his jaw. And lightly furring his chest. He had nipples. Two of them. Eyes, Penny. He has two of those, too. Focus on the eyes. Sadly, that strategy didn't help.His eyes were chips of onyx. Chips of onyx dipped in ink, then encased in obsidian, then daubed with pitch, then thrown into a fathomless pit. At midnight.

Employment of this concept of surfaces and gaps, then, gives us many advantages over what could be called slower moving forms of combat, where strength is thrown against strength. Attacking through gaps, avoiding surfaces, gives us an advantage of economy of force. If we are pitting strength against strength, assaulting enemy strong points, we are consuming our manpower as well as ammunition and supplies as we go along. If we go through the gaps, we are practicing economy of force. We are reaching our objective without using up our men. We are leaving the enemy behind. Because we are moving faster, we have the advantage of rapid exploitation.

In his visionary treatises or recitals fashioned after the recitals of Ibn Sina, Suhrawardi uses marvelous symbol and imagery. In the recital titled ‘Aql-surkh or ‘The Red Intellect’ he encounters a personage whose countenance is red. When he asks why he is this color the personage replies that he is a luminous Elder and is really white, but that he was thrown into a black pit, and when mixed with black, every white thing connected to the light appears red, like the sun at its setting or after the dawn. When asked where he comes from, the personage replies that he resides beyond Mount Qaf, and he tells Suhrawardi, who appears in the recital as a trapped falcon, a symbol of the intellect, that his nest is there too, but he has forgotten it

The ordinary reader, when warned against the obscurity of a poem, is apt to be thrown into a state of consternation very unfavourable to poetic receptivity. Instead of beginning, as he should, in a state of sensitivity, he obfuscates his senses by the desire to be clever and to look very hard for something, he doesn't know what-or else by the desire not to be taken ill. There is such a thing as stage fright, but what such readers have is pit or gallery fright. The more seasoned reader, he who has reached, in these matters, a state of greater purity, does not bother about understanding; not, at least, at first. I know that some of the poetry to which I am most devoted is poetry which I did not understand at first reading; some is poetry which I am not sure I understand yet: for instance, Shakespeare's.

She laughed, a sound of pure joy, and she cried more, because that joy was a miracle. 'That's a sound I never thought to hear from you, girl,' Amren said beside her. The delicate female was regal in a gown of light grey, diamonds at her throat and wrists, her usual black bob silvered with the starlight. Nesta wiped away her tears, smearing the stardust upon her cheeks and not caring. For a long moment, her throat worked, trying to sort through all that sought to rise from her chest. Amren just held her stare, waiting. Nesta fell to one knee and bowed her head. 'I am sorry.' Amren made a sound of surprise, and Nesta knew others were watching, but she didn't care. She kept her head lowered and let the words flow from her heart. 'You gave me kindness, and respect, and your time, and I treated them like garbage. You told me the truth, and I did not want to hear it. I was jealous, and scared, and too proud to admit it. But losing your friendship is a loss I can't endure.' Amren said nothing, and Nesta lifted her head to find the female smiling, something like wonder on her face. Amren's eyes became lined with silver, a hint of how they had once been. 'I went poking about the House when we arrived an hour ago. I saw what you did to the place.' Nesta's brow furrowed. She hadn't changed anything. Amren grabbed Nesta under the shoulder, hauling her up. 'The House sings. I can hear it in the stone. And when I spoke to it, it answered. Granted, it gave me a pile of romance novels by the end of it, but... you caused this House to come alive, girl.' 'I didn't do anything.' 'You Made the House,' Amren said, smiling again, a slash of red and white in the glowing dark. 'When you arrived here, what did you wish for most?' Nesta considered, watching a few stars whiz past. 'A friend. Deep down, I wanted a friend.' 'So you Made one. Your power brought the House to life with a silent wish born from loneliness and desperate need.' 'But my power only creates terrible things. The House is good,' Nesta breathed. 'Is it?' Nesta considered. 'The darkness in the pit of the library- it's the heart of the House.' Amren nodded. 'And where is it now?' 'It hasn't made an appearance in weeks. But it's still there. I think it's just... being managed. Maybe it's the House's knowledge that I'm aware of it, and didn't judge it, makes it easier to keep in check.' Amren put a hand above Nesta's heart. 'That's the key, isn't it? To know the darkness will always remain, but how you choose to face it, handle it... that's the important part. To not let it consume. To focus upon the good, the things that fill you with wonder.' She gestured to the stars zooming past. 'The struggle with that darkness is worth it, just to see such things.' But Nesta's gaze had slid from the stars- finding a familiar face in the crowd, dancing with Mor. Laughing, his head thrown back. So beautiful she had no words for it. Amren chuckled gently. 'And worth it for that, too.' Nesta looked back at her friend. Amren smiled, and her face became as lovely as Cassian's, as the stars arching past. 'Welcome back to the Night Court, Nesta Archeron.

So she closed her eyes and swung high, with the wind pushing her hair back and the scent of the day in her lungs. Her feet kicked toward the sun, and she imagined her anger was a fire that could scour everything clean, leaving nothing behind but a single solitary truck buried in the sand. She’d swung like this as a little girl. Back when she’d still thought she could fly. She’d fought gravity and thrown her little body against the chains until the swing arced so high the chains started to go slack, and she got that little excited twist of fear in the pit of her stomach when it felt like nothing was holding her up. She’d always thought she would rip loose from the seat, and wings would sprout from her back and carry her away. She’d laughed until she was dizzy, then screamed happily as the earth dragged her back down in a plunging descent—and she’d always waited for just that perfect moment to thrust her legs out and saw them against the air so she could fight coming to ground for just a few seconds longer. Just a few seconds while her nanny shouted that she’d hurt herself. Seconds when the giggles of the other children sounded like wind-chime music, and she’d felt like she’d had the sky in her veins.

Accordingly tree trunks or very stout boughs were cut and their tops stripped of bark and sharpened; they were then fixed in long trenches dug five feet deep, with their lower ends made fast to one another to prevent their being pulled up and the branches projecting. There were five rows in each trench, touching one another and interlaced, and anyone who went among them was likely to impale himself on the sharp points. The soldiers called them boundary posts. In front of them, arranged in diagonal rows forming quincunxes, were pits three feet deep, tapering gradually towards the bottom, in which were embedded smooth logs as thick as a man’s thigh, with the ends sharpened and charred, and projecting only three inches above ground. To keep the logs firmly in position, earth was thrown into the pits and trodden down to a depth of one foot, the rest of the cavity being filled with twigs and brushwood to hide the trap. These were planted in groups, each containing eight rows three feet apart, and they were nicknamed lilies from their resemblance to that flower. In front of these again were blocks of wood a foot long with iron hooks fixed in them, called goads by the soldiers. These were sunk right into the ground and strewn thickly everywhere.

Dehumanization But despite it all, they were people like you and me. Who are you? The living thrown into the madness, Killed with clubs and stabbed, Here crucified and no cross for you. But O, you humans, Your bones in the bottomless pit, They were people like you and me, Killed in the golden freedom. As you pass by, stop for a while, Think of your wrists bleeding in the dark night, Barbed wire wrapped around them, As they, cursing, goad you on, Beaten, naked, a corpse still living, You can hear the blows of the rifle butts, The screams, the groans, the terror turning into the sweetness Of approaching death. The fear, the pain, are vanishing, The footsteps echoing towards the void. In the bottomless pit countless numbers of them lie, But despite it all: they were people like you and me. PS: A curse be upon anyone who might attempt to erase this record. Imagine yourself as victim, the poem orders its readers. Think yourself into the skin of another human, for then – sunk into a different being – you will surely find yourself unable to inflict suffering. It is as unsettling a text as I know: the vividness of the scene of execution it conjures, the curse it threatens as protection against its own erasure. The poem at once challenges and charges its reader, both forbidding and demanding response. Above all, it is a poem about compassion – about feeling as another feels. To the poem’s author, the darkness of the ‘bottomless pit’ represents the utter failure of empathy that characterized the war in those regions, as it must of necessity characterize war at all times and in all places.

Mr. Edwards and the Spider" I saw the spiders marching through the air, Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day In latter August when the hay Came creaking to the barn. But where The wind is westerly, Where gnarled November makes the spiders fly Into the apparitions of the sky, They purpose nothing but their ease and die Urgently beating east to sunrise and the sea; What are we in the hands of the great God? It was in vain you set up thorn and briar In battle array against the fire And treason crackling in your blood; For the wild thorns grow tame And will do nothing to oppose the flame; Your lacerations tell the losing game You play against a sickness past your cure. How will the hands be strong? How will the heart endure? A very little thing, a little worm, Or hourglass-blazoned spider, it is said, Can kill a tiger. Will the dead Hold up his mirror and affirm To the four winds the smell And flash of his authority? It’s well If God who holds you to the pit of hell, Much as one holds a spider, will destroy, Baffle and dissipate your soul. As a small boy On Windsor Marsh, I saw the spider die When thrown into the bowels of fierce fire: There’s no long struggle, no desire To get up on its feet and fly It stretches out its feet And dies. This is the sinner’s last retreat; Yes, and no strength exerted on the heat Then sinews the abolished will, when sick And full of burning, it will whistle on a brick. But who can plumb the sinking of that soul? Josiah Hawley, picture yourself cast Into a brick-kiln where the blast Fans your quick vitals to a coal— If measured by a glass, How long would it seem burning! Let there pass A minute, ten, ten trillion; but the blaze Is infinite, eternal: this is death, To die and know it. This is the Black Widow, death.

The count, fearing to yield to the entreaties of her he had so ardently loved, called his sufferings to the assistance of his hatred. “Revenge yourself, then, Edmond,” cried the poor mother; “but let your vengeance fall on the culprits,—on him, on me, but not on my son!” “It is written in the good book,” said Monte Cristo, “that the sins of the fathers shall fall upon their children to the third and fourth generation. Since God himself dictated those words to his prophet, why should I seek to make myself better than God?” “Edmond,” continued Mercedes, with her arms extended towards the count, “since I first knew you, I have adored your name, have respected your memory. Edmond, my friend, do not compel me to tarnish that noble and pure image reflected incessantly on the mirror of my heart. Edmond, if you knew all the prayers I have addressed to God for you while I thought you were living and since I have thought you must be dead! Yes, dead, alas! I imagined your dead body buried at the foot of some gloomy tower, or cast to the bottom of a pit by hateful jailers, and I wept! What could I do for you, Edmond, besides pray and weep? Listen; for ten years I dreamed each night the same dream. I had been told that you had endeavored to escape; that you had taken the place of another prisoner; that you had slipped into the winding sheet of a dead body; that you had been thrown alive from the top of the Chateau d’If, and that the cry you uttered as you dashed upon the rocks first revealed to your jailers that they were your murderers. Well, Edmond, I swear to you, by the head of that son for whom I entreat your pity,—Edmond, for ten years I saw every night every detail of that frightful tragedy, and for ten years I heard every night the cry which awoke me, shuddering and cold. And I, too, Edmond—oh! believe me—guilty as I was—oh, yes, I, too, have suffered much!

By that time, already, his life as he once knew it had separated from him like an ill-fated shadow hewn from its bearer and thrown over the cliff into a bottomless pit of oblivion, and even through all these years, he could still hear its dark voice screaming as it continued its fall.

Before I could give it too much thought, my attention snagged on Darius as he charged across the pitch like a stampeding rhino, tackling a member of the other team so hard that I heard something crack. My breath caught in my throat as the Starlight player groaned on the ground while Darius snatched the ball from him and launched it across the pitch with the force of a torpedo. A timer was counting down as the Starlight player failed to get up and Darius raced away from him without a backwards glance. I knew it was part of the game but it was insanely brutal. Although if I was being totally honest, watching all of them brawl like that and seeing the power they exuded even while they were losing, was totally hot too. Darius’s muscles pumped fiercely as he sprinted away from me and I found myself staring at his legs which were splattered with mud and somehow looked even better because of it. “Olef you’re Out!” Prestos yelled but the Starlight player still didn’t move. A pair of medics jogged onto the pitch and gave him a quick inspection. “Broken back!” one of them yelled. “This is a long heal, call in a sub once his time out is up.” My lips parted, I stared on in shock and I couldn’t quite believe what I’d heard. “Did he just say that Darius broke that guy’s back?” I asked in disbelief. “That’s the risk you take when you play,” Orion said darkly as he walked past me to regain his seat. Darcy raised her eyebrows at me and I returned my gaze to the match just as Geraldine tore up the pitch with a rumble of writhing earth magic, knocking the Starlight Waterguard off of her feet and forcing her to drop the ball. A huge -5 flashed into place on the Starlight scoreboard and I leapt from my seat in excitement to applaud my friend. “Go Geraldine!” I screamed and she flashed me a smile as she somehow managed to hear me. Seth almost missed the ball as it was thrown to him next while he was distracted by scratching his head. He managed to wrangle it with a gust of air magic and started sprinting for the Pit as the timer above us ticked down to ten seconds. The crowd started counting down, “Nine! Eight! Seven-” Seth leapt into the air, propelling himself forward with his magic but the two air Elementals on the opposing team threw their own magic up to counter him. “Three! Two-” Seth gritted his teeth as he threw even more power into his propulsion but he was out of time. The ball in his arms exploded in a blast of pure air which snapped his head back and sent him tumbling out of the sky. He hit the ground hard as the crowd oooohed in disappointment. For three whole seconds my heart didn’t beat at all as I stared at his prone body in the mud, wondering if he was dead. Seth coughed, pushing himself into a sitting position just as Darius appeared to offer him a hand up. He shook his head to clear it and my eyebrows rose all the way into my hairline. “This game is crazy,” Darcy breathed, her eyes wide with the thrill of it. “I think I love it,” I agreed. (tory)

Test all statements (about God, theology, morality, faith, life) based on whether such statements would be credible in the kind of world in which two-year-olds have been thrown alive into pits of fire. I would hasten to add: the kind of world in which Jewish two-year-olds have been burned alive mainly by baptized Christians.24

How can you give to God, who dwells in the highest heaven? You reach up by reaching down, or by reaching across. No gift given here in the right way goes missing in the final tally (Mt. 10:42). With every form of unrighteous mammon, you have the opportunity to extend grace to your fellow creatures, in the hope that they will receive you into glory (Lk. 16:9). But every gift given here in the wrong spirit is just thrown into the bottomless pit, that ultimate rat hole (Lk. 12:34; Jas. 5:3).

A pattern is taking shape in these verses. A version of the terrible events of thirteen years ago seems to be happening again, but in reverse. Thirteen years ago, Joseph was first stripped of his clothes and then thrown in a pit; now, he is first taken out of a “pit,” and then given new clothes. And it is not just the order in which the events occur that is reversed; their significance is reversed, as well. Last time around, Joseph was thrown into a pit, and now he is pulled out of one. Last time around, Joseph was stripped of clothes; now he’s getting new ones. The pattern of reverses continues. The next thing Pharaoh does is the reverse of something that happened thirteen years ago, before Joseph was thrown in a pit, and before he was stripped of his new clothes. Here’s how the text describes the event: And Pharaoh sent for Joseph (Genesis 41:14) The opposite of being brought close to someone, is being sent away from someone. And that’s exactly what happened to Joseph before he was stripped of his clothes: He was sent away from Jacob. His father had sent him to go check on his brothers. That event—his father’s decision to send him—was the first in a series of terrible dominoes that culminated in Joseph’s sale into slavery. It was the initial step toward that first “pit.” Now, that whole disastrous chain of events would be redeemed. Instead of a man sending him away toward a pit, another man would now bring him close, after pulling him out of a “pit.” That man was Pharaoh. Through this pattern, the Torah may well be telling us something about the relationship Pharaoh is beginning to create with Joseph. Pharaoh is acting out a precise inverse of Jacob’s role in this story. Whatever disappointment Joseph might have felt toward his own father—How could you have sent me away? Where were you when I was stripped, and begging to be taken out of the pit?—it is all being redeemed by the actions of Pharaoh, who will be a father-in-exile for him. Thirteen years ago, his father sent him away. Now, a new father will bring him close.

In Scripture, Joseph had a big dream in his heart, and when he was a young man, God promised that he would be a great leader and even help rule a nation. But before that dream came to pass Joseph had many adversities. His brothers were jealous of him. They threw him into a deep pit. They left him there to die. But Joseph understood what it says in 2 Corinthians 4:18: “The things that are seen are temporary.” One translation says the things that are seen are “subject to change. But the things that are unseen are eternal.” The things we see with our physical eyes are only temporary, but the things we see through our eyes of faith are eternal. Yet too often we allow temporary things to discourage us and cause us to give up on our dreams. Anything that doesn’t line up with the vision God placed in your heart should be seen not as permanent but as subject to change. Joseph understood this principle. When he was thrown into the pit, he knew that his fate did not line up with the vision God had painted on the canvas of his heart.

And it is amazing how often the most trustworthy trustees are those who have personally experienced the worst that idolatry and injustice can do. There is good news for all those who have been thrown into the pit by the Nietzschean power plays of every human structure and system—God does not forget his image bearers even in the deepest and darkest prison. And there is hard news for those who seem like the children of privilege, the ones who are handed the robe and ring even before they deserve it; they too will be broken by the very institutions they thought they would rule, and will have to choose whether to forgive and serve them nonetheless, to seek destructive dominance, or to descend into a hell of their own disappointment. It might seem like it should not be this way. Surely institutional problems require institutional solutions. But this is not the witness of Scripture. Instead, over and over, both the most likely suspects and the most unlikely ones are called by God to become trustees. God works through the favorite son Joseph, and God works through the Canaanite prostitute Rahab. God calls Saul, the tall and dominant warrior, and God calls David, the youngest son keeping the sheep. Esther and Ruth, Nehemiah and Ezekiel, Hezekiah and Jeremiah—the story of the institutions of the world hinges not on institutions but on persons. It hinges on image bearers, and on their very personal responses to the injustice and idolatry that surround them, whether they become caught up in god playing or humbled in worship, corroded by cynicism or sustained by hope, bitter or forgiving. So the institutions of our time will be changed not by impersonal institutional forces; they will be changed by trustees, the image bearers who face their institutions’ failings, forgive them and lead toward a better way. One of them is named S. Kandaswamy. One of them could be you.

I would never have done it had it not been for the girl. But she had been quite correct, back there in the Other Place, to appeal to me in Ptolemy’s name. As she’d instantly perceived, that was my weak spot, my open wound. And two thousand years of accumulated cynicism hadn’t managed to heal it up, try as I might. For all that long and weary time I’d carried round the memory of his hope—that djinn and humans might one day act together, without malice, without treachery, without slaughter. Let’s face it, it was a stupid idea and I didn’t believe it for an instant—there was simply too much evidence to the contrary. But Ptolemy had believed it and that was enough. Just the echo of his faith was powerful enough to win me over when Kitty repeated his great gesture, and came across to meet me. She’d renewed his bond. And once that was done, my fate was sealed. No matter what the groans and cussing of my better judgement, I’d have thrown myself into a pit of fire for Ptolemy, and the same was true for Kitty now. Mind you … pit of fire? Vat of acid? Bed of nails? Any of them would’ve been preferable to what I was about to do.

We did not know, as yet, which was the better side, right or left, which road led to prison and which to the crematoria. Still, I was happy, I was near my father. Our procession continued slowly to move forward. Another inmate came over to us: “Satisfied?” “Yes,” someone answered. “Poor devils, you are heading for the crematorium.” He seemed to be telling the truth. Not far from us, flames, huge flames, were rising from a ditch. Something was being burned there. A truck drew close and unloaded its hold: small children. Babies! Yes, I did see this, with my own eyes…children thrown into the flames. (Is it any wonder that ever since then, sleep tends to elude me?) So that was where we were going. A little farther on, there was another, larger pit for adults. I pinched myself: Was I still alive? Was I awake? How was it possible that men, women, and children were being burned and that the world kept silent? No. All this could not be real. A night- mare perhaps…Soon I would wake up with a start, my heart pounding, and find that I was back in the room of my childhood, with my books… My father's voice tore me from my daydreams: “What a shame, a shame that you did not go with your mother…I saw many children your age go with their mothers…” His voice was terribly sad. I understood that he did not wish to see what they would do to me. He did not wish to see his only son go up in flames.

But mostly Aladdin thought about Princess Jasmine. If he had never met her, he wouldn't have been thrown into prison by the royal guards, he wouldn't have fallen in with the crazy, oil old man, and he wouldn't be there now, trying to dig himself out of a black, suffocating pit in the middle of the desert. And still he wouldn't have changed a thing. He thought about her eyes when she was looking into his. He thought about her eyes when she had seen the beggar children. He had witnessed the single moment she began to comprehend the world he lived in. He replayed the graceful skill with which she handled her tiny silver dagger. He thought about her descending from the sky at the end of her pole vault like a warrior angel. Thinking about all that made him forget that his fingers were rubbed raw and the inside of his mouth felt like the sand he dug through.

But mostly Aladdin thought about Princess Jasmine. If he had never met her, he wouldn't have been thrown into prison by the royal guards, he wouldn't have fallen in with the crazy, evil old man, and he wouldn't be there now, trying to dig himself out of a black, suffocating pit in the middle of the desert. And still he wouldn't have changed a thing. He thought about her eyes when she was looking into his. He thought about her eyes when she had seen the beggar children. He had witnessed the single moment she began to comprehend the world he lived in. He replayed the graceful skill with which she handled her tiny silver dagger. He thought about her descending from the sky at the end of her pole vault like a warrior angel. Thinking about all that made him forget that his fingers were rubbed raw and the inside of his mouth felt like the sand he dug through.

If you ever get thrown into a bottomless pit, do not panic. Go deeper, search for your purpose, and let it be your motivation out of that pit. Go on and do amazing things.

I found the mass grave at Gate of Heaven cemetery in Hawthorne, New York,” she told me. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a very large pit with AstroTurf thrown over it, which you could actually lift up. Under it one could see dozens of plain wooden coffins, haphazardly stacked. There may have been 100 of them. I learned there was more than one child’s body in each.

there are three kinds of pits: the kind we jump into, the kind we accidentally slip into, and the kind we’re thrown into.

When thrown into the pit, a prayerful woman always finds a way out because God comes to her rescue.

GOLF (Men’s Journal, 1992) The smooth, long, liquid sweep of a three wood smacking into the equator of a dimpled Titleist … It makes a potent but slightly foolish noise like the fart of a small, powerful nature god. The ball sails away in a beautiful hip or breast of a curve. And I am filled with joy. At least that’s what I’m filled with when I manage to connect. Most of my strokes whiz by the tee the way a drunk passes a truck on a curve or dig into the turf in a manner that is more gardening than golf. But now and then I nail one, and each time I do it’s an epiphany. This is how the Australopithecus felt, one or two million years ago, when he first hit something with a stick. Puny hominoid muscles were amplified by the principles of mechanics so that a little monkey swat suddenly became a great manly engine of destruction able to bring enormous force to bear upon enemy predators, hunting prey, and the long fairway shots necessary to get on the green over the early Pleistocene’s tar pit hazards. Hitting things with a stick is the cornerstone of civilization. Consider all the things that can be improved by hitting them with a stick: veal, the TV, Woody Allen. Having a dozen good sticks at hand, all of them well balanced and expertly made, is one reason I took up golf. I also wanted to show my support for the vice president. I now know for certain that Quayle is smarter than his critics. He’s smart enough to prefer golf to spelling. How many times has a friend called you on a Sunday morning and said, “It’s a beautiful day. Let’s go spell potato”? I waited until I was almost forty-five to hit my first golf ball. When I was younger I thought golf was a pointless sport. Of course all sports are pointless unless you’re a professional athlete or a professional athlete’s agent, but complex rules and noisy competition mask the essential inanity of most athletics. Golf is so casual. You just go to the course, miss things, tramp around in the briars, use pungent language, and throw two thousand dollars’ worth of equipment in a pond. Unlike skydiving or rugby, golf gives you leisure to realize it’s pointless. There comes a time in life, however, when all the things that do have a point—career, marriage, exercising to stay fit—start turning, frankly, golflike. And that’s when you’re ready for

Wilhelm Rau has compiled the Vedic references to pottery from the oldest strands of the Black Yajurveda and found that although the potter’s wheel was known, it was hand made pottery that was prescribed for the ritual sphere. This suggests to him that “the more primitive technique persisted in the ritual sphere while in secular life more advanced methods of potting had already been adopted.” Should this assumption be correct, “we can pin down the transition from hand-made to wheel-thrown pottery, as far as the Aryans are concerned, (down) to the earlier phases of Vedic times” (Rau 1974, 141).12 Of relevance to this line of argument is a verse from the Taittīrlya Samhitā (4, 5, 4), stating that what is turned on the wheel is Āsuric and what is made without the wheel is godly (e.g., Kuzmina 1983, 21). According to Rau’s philological investigations, the characteristic of this oldest pottery was that it was made of clay mixed with various materials, some of them organic, resulting in porous pots. These pots were poorly-fired and ranged in size from about 0.24 m to 1.0 m in diameter at the opening and from 0.24 m to 0.40 m in height. Furthermore, they showed a lack of plastic decoration and were unpainted (Rau 1974, 142). Of further relevance is the fact that firing was accomplished by the covered baking method between two layers of raw bricks in a simple open pit. In later times this was done with materials producing red color. Rau advises excavators to be “on the lookout for ceramics of this description among their finds” (142).

The rotten fruit… The rotten fruit be of the same rotten spirit of the soul that has thrown themselves to the burning pit to be destroyed. As the rotten tree gives of the rotten sour fruits what can you possibly do with bad luck of bad food. The fortune of the futures for told in the roots of the trees that communicate with the earth. To give the language of Mother Earth power to speak to every living thing a purpose tomorrow. The rotten fruit be of the destruction of the planet that causes the confusion of the concern to whatever the wars are about. When you have a bad apple, you don’t leave it in the bunch. The rot spreads quickly. If you don’t separate them from the rest. As it starts the decomposition process of returning to the soil. See the rotten fruit have the purpose of the leaves, the trees as well as the roots. However, the rot be spread of the disease to the sickly of saplings it becomes of the poison ivy. I be lying if I said I didn’t think it was deserved. It just wasn’t of my doing. The rotten fruit is not of my core of character it be of yours though. Clearly, I can prove it. I will throw a pebble into the population of many people you have hurt. As the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree now does it. A lot to be said about rotten fruit don’t you think. Now you may speculate on what it all means.

The Snake Pit, a 1948 movie starring Olivia de Havilland, portrayed the treatment of a young woman thrown into a cruel psych ward. The Shame of States, a book written by journalist Albert Deutsch, was an examination of the brutality of mental hospitals. Add to that Life magazine’s “Bedlam 1946,” a long, clearly told exposé that outlined the atrocities happening inside mental institutions.

now I found myself next to an enormous pit with raging flames of fire leaping high into an open cavern. As I looked up into that dark, eerie, tomb-like atmosphere, it seemed to be like a mouth that had swallowed her dead. The flames of her ravenous appetite were never satisfied with the pitiful screams of untold multitudes. The heat was far beyond unbearable, and I desperately wanted to escape before I too would be thrown into that inferno. As I look back on the experience now, I am reminded of the devastation of the twin towers of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, when some people, rather than facing the two-thousand-degree heat, chose to plummet to their death by leaping out a window. That fall, especially from such great heights, must have been horrendous. It was reported that a person subjected to that temperature would be completely incinerated in about fifteen seconds. Those people chose to make that leap rather than face the intensity of those flames for even fifteen seconds. Some scientists have reported that the core temperature at the center of the earth is approximately twelve thousand degrees. To endure that for an eternity is unfathomable.

Lilian?” Kevin needed a moment to register that, indeed, Lilian was standing before him. “What are you doing here? I thought you were taking a bath with the others.” “I was going to,” Lilian admitted, “but then I realized that my mate and I haven’t been able to spend much time alone together because my family kept getting in the way, and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity for us to bond.” “Bond?” He studied the girl, and eventually realized that she wasn’t looking at his face. Feeling a sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach, Kevin looked down. His face grew red. He let out a loud “eep!” and tried to cover himself with his hands. “Ufufufu,” Lilian chuckled. “You’re still too cute when you get embarrassed like that.” Kevin tried to glare at her, but the blush on his face lessened the effect. “It’s got nothing to do with being embarrassed and everything to do with common decency,” he insisted, lying through his teeth. “Most people don’t stand around in the nude while someone else is present, not even if they’re dating that person.” “Most people aren’t mated to a kitsune.” “Ugh…” She had him there. “Kevin” Lilian’s eyes were warm and so incredibly earnest that Kevin was unable to look away, “you are my mate; the person I love more than anyone else in this world.” Delicate hands reached up and cupped his face. “This isn’t some random person wanting to see you naked. This is me, your mate, who wants to become more intimate with you. If it helps, I promise not to touch anything below the belt.” Staring at the girl with an uncomprehending gaze, Kevin’s mind became a warzone, a battle the likes of which no one had ever seen before—mostly because it was all happening in his mind. *** The desolate wasteland spread out for miles, its borders traveling far beyond the distant horizon. Cracks traversed the ground like a myriad system of interconnecting spiderwebs. There was no flora or fauna in this wasteland. It was the perfect place… for war. Two forces stood on opposite ends of each other, armies of nearly equal might. Multi-segmented plates clicked together as figures moved and jostled each other. Horned helms adorned the many heads, their faceplates masking their identities. Hands gripped massive halberds with leaf-shaped blades that gleamed like a thousand suns. The army on the northern border wore white armor, while those in the southern quadrant wore red. A moment of silence swept through the clearing. A tumbleweed rolled across the ground. It was the unspoken signal for the battle to start, and the two forces rushed in toward the center, yelling out their battle cries. “For Lilian!!” “For chastity!!” Thunder struck the earth as these two titanic armies fought. Bodies were thrown into the air with impunity. Halberds clashed, the sound of metal on metal, steel ringing against steel, rang out in a symphony of chaos. Sparks flew and shouts accompanied the maelstrom of combat. It was, indeed, a battle worthy of being placed within the annals of history. A third party soon entered the fray. From one of the many cliffs surrounding the battlefield, an army appeared. Unlike the two forces duking it out down below, this army was bereft of nearly all their clothes. Wearing nothing but simple loincloths and bandoleers similar to Tarzan’s, the group of individuals looked identical. Messy blond hair framed bright blue eyes that glared down at the battlefield. With nary a thought, this force surged down the cliff, their own battle cry echoing across the land. “DEATH TO THE CHERRY!!” And so more chaos was unleashed upon the battlefield. ***

Over and again, you allow the hard logic of the market to usurp human choice and so you create a society with the morality of an anthill, where all human life is reduced to labour, all freedom flattened by the demand for efficient production, all weakness punished, all violence justified, where schools and hospitals are cut while crime and alienation flourish and millions are thrown into the deep pit of unemployment.

Hypocrites and fire pits will both burn in lies they spit People used to whisper their obscenities As if they knew a whisper was enough. Enough to create a chill so deep it formed icicles which Drip from these lashes whilst I sleep. Enough to create a flicker of doubt in my mind. Spark a fire that turned the strength in me to dust. It was enough. for me to leave myself behind. Now people speak boldly. loud. and open. . What they say hits me and sinks. The way rocks do in a creek crystal clear. Stone. After. Stone. dropped . thrown . released . Disturbing your reflection. You keep going. Creating these. endless. ripples. so you can dwell in Avoidance. But just as the water will always still; come back to itself. No matter the amount of stones I will always return to myself And just as your reflection will become clear once again. You'll have no way to repent. For you'll find your reflection in all that you do. From the truth inside you. To the words that you spew. And one day you will realize. Every rock you launched out to the world around you. Was one. you. Shot. at. you. too.

Orson Welles, Bill Johnstone, and Bret Morrison were the best-known voices of the Shadow. Welles was a 22–year-old unknown, a regular toiling in anonymity on The March of Time, when he won the role in audition. His salary, $185 a week, seemed a fortune for a half-hour weekly job that required no rehearsal. His agreement with Blue Coal allowed him to go on without as much as a prior peek at his script: thus, as he told film director Peter Bogdanovich, when he was thrown into a snake pit, he didn’t know how he’d get out till the show ended.

When thrown in the pit, a prayerful woman always finds a way out, because God comes to her rescue.

You have treasure in you. There is talent and skill that will cause you to be noticed. Proverbs 22:29 says, “Do you see a person skilled in their work? They will stand before kings and great men.” Keep sharpening your skills. Cream always rises to the top. This is what Joseph did in the Bible. He started off at the very bottom. He was thrown into a pit and sold into slavery by his brothers. Joseph didn’t wait for vindication. He decided to be his best. Even as a slave, he developed his gifts. Joseph made himself so valuable that he was put in charge of his master’s house. When he was falsely accused and put in prison, he was so organized, so wise, so skillful that they put him in charge of the whole prison. Joseph was cream rising to the top. When Pharaoh needed someone to run the country, and administer the nationwide food program, Pharaoh didn’t choose one of his own people. He didn’t choose his department head, or a cabinet member. He chose Joseph, a prisoner, and a foreigner. Why? Joseph developed his skills right where he was, and his gifts made room for him. Don’t use where you are as an excuse to not grow. Don’t say, “I’m not in a good job. I don’t like my position. I’ve had unfair things happen. That’s why I’ve lost my passion.” Remember, the treasure is still in you. God is saying it’s time to use your gifts. Stretch yourself. Take some courses. Sharpen your skills. You should be so productive, so filled with wisdom no matter where you are, like Joseph, you will rise to the top.

Under authoritarian governments, vital communities will tend to coalesce in political opposition as they bump into regime surveillance and control. The regime still controls the apparatus of repression. It can deny service, physically attack, imprison, or even kill H. informaticus—but it can’t silence his message, because this message is constantly amplified and propagated by the opposition community. Since the opposition commands the means of communication and is embedded in the global information sphere, its voice carries beyond the reach of any national government. This was the situation in Egypt before the uprising of January 25, 2011. This is the situation in China today. The wealth and brute strength of the modern state are counterbalanced by the vast communicative powers of the public. Filters are placed on web access, police agents monitor suspect websites, foreign newscasters are blocked, domestic bloggers are harassed and thrown in jail—but every incident which tears away at the legitimacy of the regime is seized on by a rebellious public, and is then broadcast and magnified until criticism goes viral. The tug of war pits hierarchy against network, power against persuasion, government against the governed: under such conditions of alienation, every inch of political space is contested, and turbulence becomes a permanent feature of political life.

But by 1989–90, it became obvious that the majority of thrown materials didn’t fall into the reactor’s pit and didn’t fulfill their tasks. The combination of rated and measured curves should, most likely, be considered a result of the “hypnotic influence” of high science upon the results of incorrect measuring. Let’s consider some facts. The first one. Consider the Central Hall of the reactor. It’s covered by huge hills of thrown materials. This could be observed from the helicopters before completion of the Shelter that encased the reactor; and it was proved by the exploratory groups that got inside the hall after a long preparatory period. But this doesn’t exclude the fact that the major part of the materials landed in the reactor’s pit. The second fact. In the middle of 1988, with the help of optical instruments and TV cameras, researchers managed to see what was inside the pit of the reactor. They found practically no thrown materials. But here one can object that these materials fell into an area of extraordinarily high temperatures, and they melted and spread over the lower rooms of the reactor. Such a process could take place. On the lower floors, they did discover great accumulations of solid lava-like masses that contained nuclear fuel. The third fact. The presence of lead would indicate that those lava-like masses contained not only materials of the reactor itself—concrete, dolomite, sand, steel, zirconium, etc.—but also materials thrown from the helicopters. But there is no lead in the reactor and the nearest rooms, even though over two thousand tons of it was thrown in! After investigation of dozens of samples, it was found that the quantity of lead in the lava masses was too small. That meant the lead didn’t get into the pit. The other components of the thrown materials fell in such a small quantity, they couldn’t influence the behavior of the release. These are the known facts.

First, they threw materials containing boron. These were to prevent spontaneous chain reactions, because boron is one of the most effective neutron absorbers. Putting some dozens of kilograms of boron into a working reactor is enough to stop its nuclear reaction forever. But during the first days after the accident, they threw about forty tons of boron-containing materials into the reactor's ruins, thousands of times more than should have been needed. In this way, they fought against nuclear hazard. Other materials were also thrown in. They were intended to fill the reactor's pit and form a filtering barrier to stop the spreading radioactivity. Among them were clay, sand, and dolomite. Two thousand six hundred tons during the first days. Last, various things that contained metallic plumbum—lead—were thrown: shot, billets, and other items. The lead was supposed to melt when it came into contact with the hot materials of the reactor. In this way, it would neutralize some of the heat-release. To prevent China Syndrome, about 2400 tons of lead materials were thrown into the reactor. According to the initial plan, the pit of the reactor was to be covered gradually with dry substances. That would diminish radioactive release, and at the same time reduce the heat. Experts considered that these combined actions would cause a decrease in the release, then an increase—a breaching—of hot gases, and then a final decrease. Many reasons prevented these experts from correctly estimating the quantity of released activity. Mistakes in measuring were immense. Nevertheless, these measurements showed first the decrease of radioactive release, and then the increase. And then … hurrah! The release was diminished by hundreds of times. It happened on the evening of May 6.

Boron-containing materials got into the Central Hall, where there were numerous fragments of active zone and fuel dust that had been thrown during the explosion. When they fell on the fuel, these materials made it nuclear safe. Sand, clay, dolomite covered a thick layer of radioactive materials in many places, and later they made the work of constructors and researchers easier. A small portion of these materials got into the pit and facilitated the forming of the lava. What is more important: we needed about three years of really hard work to realize these facts.

To prevent China Syndrome, about 2400 tons of lead materials were thrown into the reactor. According to the initial plan, the pit of the reactor was to be covered gradually with dry substances. That would diminish radioactive release, and at the same time reduce the heat. Experts considered that these combined actions would cause a decrease in the release, then an increase—a breaching—of hot gases, and then a final decrease. Many reasons prevented these experts from correctly estimating the quantity of released activity. Mistakes in measuring were immense. Nevertheless, these measurements showed first the decrease of radioactive release, and then the increase. And then … hurrah! The release was diminished by hundreds of times. It happened on the evening of May 6.

being alone does not at ALL count as with somebody but being alone is half ass better then with somebody because if your not with the right person your life is damned in the same pit theirs was thrown in there for your life is dead get away pull away and learn of the life that you still have a chance at without them being in it

The end of the pageant was truly amazing, although I don't quite remember how the story got there. It ended with the Second Coming of Christ and the Great White Throne Judgment during which the resurrected Jesus either allowed people to enter heaven or sent them off to hell. In a resounding voice, Jesus announced to the unsaved, "Depart from me. I never knew you," and waved them away. I vividly remember the pastor's son playing the devil and dragging these people off the stage begging and screaming, only to be thrown into the pits of hell that awaited them in the wings, where there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

He died without any grave at all. Thrown into a mass pit on top of the previous corpses. And this is something so terrible to think about, so horrible, that it cannot be endured, and one cannot know just how horrible without having lived through it. It’s not the heap of bodies, not at all; it’s the disappearance of that body in the mass of other bodies. It’s his, his own body, thrown into the trench, without a word. Except a prayer for all the dead.

Some Indian nationalists opine that Persian rule would have been preferable.10 But as the British historian Michael Axworthy noted, “the massacre of perhaps 30,000 people perpetrated by Nader while he was in Delhi would hardly have been an auspicious curtain-raiser for permanent Persian rule there.”11 When Nader returned home, he gouged out his son’s eyes, castrated his military commander, and had eight merchants who had purchased a royal carpet chained together by the neck, thrown into a pit, and burned alive. Thousands more perished in his various pogroms. To the Hindu on the street, the arrival of the British East India Company must have seemed a godsend.

She had always been my Lilith. The reason I fell from grace, tumbling through the clouds and thrown into the pits of hell. Damned to live an eternity in the flames because of her.

Cherries, did she know that the pits contain cyanide everyone savor this sweet exterior ignoring the deadly concoction at its heart the piece that got cut out and thrown away.

Human beings have no idea what they’re capable of until they’re thrown into the pits of hell with no armor, no reinforcements, and no way out. When your back is against the wall, you use that wall to stay standing. When your life flashes before your eyes, you turn those flickers into light—a light at the end of the tunnel. You take each day as it comes, knowing it’s another chance to make your way to the other side.

White supremacy, whether in the US or Europe, is absolutely patriarchal—those far-right parties offer no gender equality...white women who vote for those parties are examples of women who accept crumbs thrown to them in return for limited power in the form of protection and privilege gained via proximity to powerful white men. They whip up xenophobia among white women voters by pitting immigrants against white families, portraying refugees, asylum seekers, and migrants as a drain on resources that should go instead to those white families. They want white women to have more white babies.

So did yours. Joseph’s pit came in the form of a cistern. Maybe yours came in the form of a diagnosis, a foster home, or a traumatic injury. Joseph was thrown in a hole and despised. And you? Thrown in an unemployment line and forgotten. Thrown into a divorce and abandoned, into a bed and abused. The pit. A kind of death, waterless and austere. Some people never recover. Life is reduced to one quest: get out and never be hurt again. Not simply done. Pits have no easy exits.