Thrown To The Wolves Quotes

All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel. All of them? Sure, he says. Think about it. There's escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist.

Without turning on the light, I went to my bed and lay down, my arm thrown across the mattress, my hand aching because Grace wasn't underneath it

The entire room was so yellow that it looked like the sun had thrown up on the walls and wiped its mouth afterward on the dresser and curtains. ---Cole

not every boy thrown to the wolves becomes a hero.

I missed the sound of her shuffling her homework while I listened to music on her bed. I missed the cold of her feet against my legs when she climbed into bed. I missed the shape of her shadow where it fell across the page of my book. I missed the smell of her hair and the sound of her breath and my Rilke on her nightstand and her wet towel thrown over the back of her desk chair. It felt like I should be sated after having a whole day with her, but it just made me miss her more.

Like a sheep invited to a banquet in his honor thrown by wolves.

It was one frayed rope thrown across the chasm between us. Not enough to get across, but maybe just enough to tell that it wasn't as wide as I'd originally thought.

It was possible that I'd thrown one too many Molotov cocktails over God's fence.

How do I look?” he blurted as they approached the car. He couldn’t help it. “Like you’ve seen some shit,” Park said. “Oh, good. I like to stay on brand.

The point is to face the fears that are going to be thrown at you, face them, and defeat them because the greatest fears are the ones your mind creates. Those are the only fears that can truly have power over you. Don’t let them.

What am I supposed to be doing on this hike? Trying to start a…a…” “Investigation?” Park suggested. “Threesome?” Cooper finished. Park choked. “Okay. We’re obviously not a couple that should be trying to finish each other’s sentences.

Being open isn’t easy for either of us. Shit, maybe not for anyone. But I work on it because, to me, you’re worth it. And you know what, Oliver? I’m worth it, too. So pull your shit together so we can get on with being mates and in love and all that trash.

Accept that you are bad and dirty and cheap and should be thrown to the wolves as scrap meat, and must never bear children, for who knows the faces they would be locked behind from birth until death.

Be gentle, Long Night I don’t belong here. Thrown to the wolves, I shifted nocturnal. Arced up, surrendered to the glowing drum of the full moon, hear my cry.

All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel. All of them? Sure, he says. Think about it. There’s escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist. I

What a strange world this was, that I could come here to lose everything about myself, and instead lose everything but me. It was possible that I’d thrown one too many Molotov cocktails over God’s fence. It would be, after all, a divinely ironic punishment to watch me learn to care and then destroy the things I cared about.

They had thrown them all, mere children and a crumbling man, to the wolves. So Nesta had become a wolf.

By any rights there should be a town crier running through the streets shouting, Two people have been killed, two more have gone missing, the best relationship you've ever had is nose-diving, shot down by secrets you don't even know the scope of! Hear he, fucking hear ye.

Tears carry creative power. In mythos, the giving of tears causes immense creation and heartfelt reunion. In herbal folklore, tears are used as a binder, to secure elements, unite ideas, join souls. In fairy tales, when tears are thrown, they frighten away robbers or cause rivers to flood. When sprinkled, they call the spirits. When poured onto the body, they heal lacerations and restore sight. When touched, they cause conception

unsure whether we will be thrown to the wolves, we become almost immobilized. It is the rustle in the grass, the fear of what may be lurking, that initiates the flow of cortisol into our bloodstreams. It is the cortisol that makes us as paranoid and focused on self-preservation

One person can’t love you enough to make up for all the people who don’t, but Cooper wasn’t trying for all the people. Just the one. Just for right now.

Beware of the false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves. 16You will know them by their fruits. Grapes are not gathered from thorn bushes nor figs from thistles, are they? 17So every good tree bears good fruit, but the bad tree bears bad fruit. 18A good tree cannot produce bad fruit, nor can a bad tree produce good fruit. 19Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. 20So then, you will know them by their fruits.

But, as you say, rumours don’t have to be true, and the blind assassin has got hold of the wrong rumour. The dead women really are dead. Not only that, the wolves really are wolves, and the dead women can whistle them up at will. Our two romantic leads are wolf meat before you can say Jack Robinson. You’re certainly an incurable optimist, she says. I’m not incurable. But I like my stories to be true to life, which means there have to be wolves in them. Wolves in one form or another. Why is that so true to life? She turns away from him onto her back, stares up at the ceiling. She’s miffed because her own version has been trumped. All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel. All of them? Sure, he says. Think about it. There’s escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist.

You’re certainly an incurable optimist, she says. I’m not incurable. But I like my stories to be true to life, which means there have to be wolves in them. Wolves in one form or another. Why is that so true to life? She turns away from him onto her back, stares up at the ceiling. She’s miffed because her own version has been trumped. All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel. All of them? Sure, he says. Think about it. There’s escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist.

To man has been given the grief, often, of seeing his gods over-thrown and his altars crumbling; but to the wolf and the wild dog that have come in to crouch at man's feet, this grief has never come. Unlike man, whose gods are of the unseen and the overguessed, vapors and mists of fancy eluding the garmenture of reality, wandering wraiths of desired goodness and power, intangible outcropings of self into the realm of spirit--unlike man, the wolf and the wild dog that have come in to the fire find their gods in the living flesh, solid to the touch, occupying earth-space and requiring time for the accomplishment of their ends and their existence. No effort of faith is neccessary to believe in such a god; no effort of will can possibly induce disbelief in such a god. There is no getting awy from it. There it stands, on its own two hind legs, club in hand, immensely potential, passionate and wrathful and loving, god and mystery and power all wrapped up and around by flesh that bleeds when it is torn and that is good to eat like any flesh.

Without us these isles rose from the sea; without us they acquired a couple of hundred lakes replete with fish; without our help they were settled by capercaillies, hares, and deer, while foxes, wolves, and other beasts of prey never appeared there ... [T]he monks crossed the mother-of-pearl sea in a tiny boat and came to look on this island without a beast of prey as sacred. The Solovetsky Monastery began with them ... Prison thought: How glorious - good stone walls standing on a separate island! What a good place to confine important criminals ... The eighty-year-old and even hundred-year-old monks begged on their knees to be allowed to die on the 'holy soil,' but they were all thrown out with proletarian ruthlessness except for the most necessary among them ... And that is how one of the favorite sayings constantly repeated by the prisoners came true: A holy place is never empty. The chimes of bells fell silent, the icon lamps and candle stands fell dark, the liturgies and the vespers resounded no longer; psalms were no longer chanted around the clock ... And so ... the Archipelago ... began its malignant advance through the nation ...

My dad always told me that there are three types of humans on this planet. First there’s the Sheep. The everyday types who live in denial—spoon-fed by the morning news, chewed up by another monotonous workday, and spit back out across the urban streets of the world like a mouthful of funky meatloaf that’s been rotting in the back of the fridge. Basically, the Sheep are the defenseless majority who are completely unwilling to acknowledge the inevitability of real danger, and trust the system to take care of them. Next you’ve got your Wolves. The bad guys who abide by no societal laws whatsoever but are good at pretending when it suits them. These are the thieves, murderers, rapists, and politicians, who feed on the Sheep until they’re thrown in prison, or better yet, belly up in a landfill alongside sheaves of your grandma’s itchy hand-knit Christmas socks. The ones you ritualistically blow up every year with an M80. And lastly, you have people like us. The McCrackens. The Herders of the world. Sure, our kind may look a lot like Wolves—large fangs, sharp claws, and the capacity for violence—but what sets us apart from the rest is that we represent the balance between the two. We can navigate the flock freely, with the ability to protect or disown as we see fit. My dad says that we’re the select few with the power of choice, and when real danger arises, we’ll be the ones who survive—and not just because we own a 357 Magnum, three glock G19’s, and a Mossberg pump-action shotgun, but because we’ve been prepping, in every possible badass way, since as long as I can remember, for the inevitable collapse of society as we know it.

To the infra-human specimens of this benighted scientific age the ritual and worship connected with the art of healing as practiced at Epidaurus seems like sheer buncombe. In our world the blind lead the blind and the sick go to the sick to be cured. We are making constant progress, but it is a progress which leads to the operating table, to the poor house, to the insane asylum, to the trenches. We have no healers – we have only butchers whose knowledge of anatomy entitles them to a diploma, which in turn entitles them to carve out or amputate our illnesses so that we may carry on in cripple fashion until such time as we are fit for the slaughterhouse. We announce the discovery of this cure and that but make no mention of the new diseases which we have created en route. The medical cult operates very much like the war office – the triumphs which they broadcast are sops thrown out to conceal death and disaster. The medicos, like the military authorities, are helpless; they are waging a hopeless fight from the start. What man wants is peace in order that he may live. Defeating our neighbor doesn’t give peace any more than curing cancer brings health. Man doesn’t begin to live through triumphing over his enemy nor does he begin to acquire health through endless cures. The joy of life comes through peace, which is not static but dynamic. No man can really say that he knows what joy is until he has experienced peace. And without joy there is no life, even if you have a dozen cars, six butlers, a castle, a private chapel and a bomb-proof vault. Our diseases are our attachments, be they habits, ideologies, ideals, principles, possessions, phobias, gods, cults, religions, what you please. Good wages can be a disease just as much as bad wages. Leisure can be just as great a disease as work. Whatever we cling to, even if it be hope or faith, can be the disease which carries us off. Surrender is absolute: if you cling to even the tiniest crumb you nourish the germ which will devour you. As for clinging to God, God long ago abandoned us in order that we might realize the joy of attaining godhood through our own efforts. All this whimpering that is going on in the dark, this insistent, piteous plea for peace which will grow bigger as the pain and the misery increase, where is it to be found? Peace, do people imagine that it is something to cornered, like corn or wheat? Is it something which can be pounded upon and devoured, as with wolves fighting over a carcass? I hear people talking about peace and their faces are clouded with anger or with hatred or with scorn and disdain, with pride and arrogance. There are people who want to fight to bring about peace- the most deluded souls of all. There will be no peace until murder is eliminated from the heart and mind. Murder is the apex of the broad pyramid whose base is the self. That which stands will have to fall. Everything which man has fought for will have to be relinquished before he can begin to live as man. Up till now he has been a sick beast and even his divinity stinks. He is master of many worlds and in his own he is a slave. What rules the world is the heart, not the brain, in every realm our conquests bring only death. We have turned our backs on the one realm wherein freedom lies. At Epidaurus, in the stillness, in the great peace that came over me, I heard the heart of the world beat. I know what the cure is: it is to give up, to relinquish, to surrender, so that our little hearts may beat in unison with the great heart of the world.

If brute force wouldn't suffice, however, there was always the famous Viking cunning. The fleet was put to anchor and under a flag of truce some Vikings approached the gate. Their leader, they claimed, was dying and wished to be baptized as a Christian. As proof, they had brought along the ailing Hastein on a litter, groaning and sweating.  The request presented a moral dilemma for the Italians. As Christians they could hardly turn away a dying penitent, but they didn't trust the Vikings and expected a trick. The local count, in consultation with the bishop, warily decided to admit Hastein, but made sure that he was heavily guarded. A detachment of soldiers was sent to collect Hastein and a small retinue while the rest of the Vikings waited outside.  Despite the misgivings, the people of Luna flocked to see the curiosity of a dreaded barbarian peacefully inside their city. The Vikings were on their best behavior as they were escorted to the cathedral, remaining silent and respectful. Throughout the service, which probably lasted a few hours, Hastein was a picture of reverence and weakness, a dying man who had finally seen the light. The bishop performed the baptism, and the count stood in as godfather, christening Hastein with a new name. When the rite had concluded, the Vikings respectfully picked up the litter and carried their stricken leader back to the ships.  That night, a Viking messenger reappeared at the gates, and after thanking the count for allowing the baptism, sadly informed him that Hastein had died. Before he expired, however, he had asked to be given a funeral mass and to be buried in the holy ground of the cathedral cemetery.  The next day a solemn procession of fifty Vikings, each dressed in long robes of mourning, entered the city carrying Hastein's corpse on a bier. Virtually all the inhabitants of the city had turned out to witness the event, joining the cavalcade all the way to the cathedral. The bishop, surrounded by a crowd of monks and priests bearing candles, blessed the coffin with holy water, and led the entire procession inside.  As the bishop launched into the funerary Mass, reminding all good Christians to look forward to the day of resurrection, the coffin lid was abruptly thrown to the ground and a very much alive Hastein leapt out. As he cut down the bishop, his men threw off their cloaks and drew their weapons. A few ran to bar the doors, the rest set about slaughtering the congregation.  At the same time – perhaps alerted by the tolling bell – Bjorn Ironside led the remaining Vikings into the city and they fanned out, looking for treasure. The plundering lasted for the entire day. Portable goods were loaded onto the ships, the younger citizens were spared to be sold as slaves, and the rest were killed. Finally, when night began to fall, Hastein called off the attack. Since nothing more could fit on their ships, they set fire to the city and sailed away.97 For the next two years, the Norsemen criss-crossed the Mediterranean, raiding both the African and European coasts. There are even rumors that they tried to sack Alexandria in Egypt, but were apparently unable to take it by force or stealth.

So I was startled when Parker lifted me into his arms and strode out of the room and to a car parked right outside.

Only one other time in his career as a spy had Henry felt as if he were thrown to the wolves. He'd nearly lost his life that first time, and he was certain he would this time. It wasn't so much that he was going to die, but the fact that everything he knew --- or thought he knew --- wasn't the whole story. All he had to do was look into the gold eyes and know that Ulrik held all the cards in this particular game. No matter what the Dragon Kings did, no matter if M15 got rid of all the traitors, no matter if the Dark Fae left Earth, Ulrik was going to win it all.

As much as I loved their mother — and fuck, I loved their mother — I’d have thrown us both to the fucking wolves if those girls needed it. That’s love.

Botulfr could almost feel the hand of destiny. If he didn’t strike at the belly of the beast, his world would be swallowed, and its pages overwritten by the Kristin priests. History was written by the victors, and so his people would be penned as ravagers and despoilers, malicious wolves set on destruction. The Valkyrja and the Nornir would be recast as winged angels, and Óðinn thrown down as a son of Shaitan. His world would be eclipsed as surely as the Garm-hound would swallow the sun.

When not reading, writing, or reviewing, she enjoys spending time with her amazing family, going on date nights with her wonderful husband, and attending parties thrown

We can’t wish our problems away with denial, it simply gives them the opportunity to sneak up on us when our guard is down,

We’re going to absolutely ruin each other in the best of ways, aren’t we, angel? The only thing that will ever quench my thirst will be the taste of you on my tongue, and you’ll never be able to look at me again without remembering how I feel between your legs.

Their pain didn’t outweigh mine, and it wasn’t my responsibility to make them feel better while I was falling apart, too. I’ve seen enough people fall into that guilt trap; shoulder the burdens to keep everyone else happy like their feelings weren’t as important, and it slowly killed their spark.

Throw me to the wolves, and I will come back leading the pack.’ I was thrown to the Vipers, and now they are mine.

It'd cost him too much, but the attendant, her lipstick game sharp as a paper cut, had thrown in her number, and Philip always folds for wolves in girl-skin clothing.

They were not using blanks. This was for real, and he knew with sudden shock, that it was as he had earlier deduced. He was being thrown to the wolves.

Loving you is the privilege of my already overprivileged life. I never wanted you to feel like I was hiding you from them. I was trying to hide them from you.

What started as a business deal has now become my life. There’s an old quote, ‘Throw me to the wolves, and I will come back leading the pack’. I was thrown to the Vipers, and now they are mine.

They had thrown them all, mere children and a crumbling man, to the wolves. So Nesta had become a wolf. Armed herself with invisible teeth and claws, and learned to strike faster, deeper, more lethally. Had relished it. But when the time came to put away the wolf, she'd found it had devoured her, too.

That’s not good enough. I’m not leaving you to fight this battle by yourself.” Keris’s chest tightened with emotion he couldn’t quite put words to that the man he’d once thrown to the wolves was willing to risk so much for him.

I wasn’t afraid. Why should I be? I had an army of wolves at my back who accepted me. The rabbit shifters had made a mistake.  They’d thrown me to the wolves, but I’d come back… leading the pack.

Tears carry creative power. In mythos, the giving of tears causes immense creation and heartfelt reunion. In herbal folklore, tears are used as a binder, to secure elements, unite ideas, join souls. In fairy tales, when tears are thrown, they frighten away robbers or cause rivers to flood. When sprinkled, they call the spirits. When poured onto the body, they heal lacerations and restore sight. When touched, they cause conception.

Love was supposed to be this beautiful thing, like in the movies, but for me, it had poisoned me and made me unrecognizable, and for a while I couldn’t figure out how to get myself back. The good parts that I’d liked about myself had all been thrown away to make a man happy. So when I finally got them back, I vowed to not get close to a man like that ever again, because love wasn’t happiness. It

Love was supposed to be this beautiful thing, like in the movies, but for me, it had poisoned me and made me unrecognizable, and for a while I couldn’t figure out how to get myself back. The good parts that I’d liked about myself had all been thrown away to make a man happy. So when I finally got them back, I vowed to not get close to a man like that ever again, because love wasn’t happiness. It was pain.” She

I once dreamed of a life where my happily ever after was waiting for me. Waiting for me to grab on with both hands and hold tight. All of the romance novels I’d ever read bragged such things, tempted me with a reality which simply didn’t exist. Not for me, at least. My whole world had been turned upside-down in the blink of an eye. I racked my brain to try and figure out what I’d done to deserve Fate’s cruel hand, but I’d come up blank. I was a good person. I didn’t deserve to be thrown to the wolves. Knowing there were many other people who had worse problems than me, I did my best to summon the strength needed to push through each and every day. I was alive. I was healthy. I had good friends.

Not every boy thrown to the wolves becomes a hero. -John Barth, attributed, 'A Heart-Breaking Work of Staggering Genius'.

another young FLDS woman get thrown to the wolves that spring. Like

When someone is thrown to the wolves by the vicissitudes of life, they will either be devoured or become a wolf them self.

Is your heart made of stones? You've changed, you look the same but I longer know you. What happened to you? All these years? I was thrown to the wolves. I built an empire on wolves' milk. What did you expect? That I will come back still a dog?

So just how good a chess player are you?” she challenged impudently. An hour later Mikhail leaned back in his chair to watch her face as she studied the board. She was frowning in concentration, trying to puzzle out his unfamiliar strategy. She could sense that he was leading her into a trap, but she couldn’t find it. Raven leaned her chin on the heel of her hand, relaxed, in no hurry. She was patient and thorough and twice had gotten him into trouble simply because he was too sure of himself. Suddenly her eyes widened, a slow smile curving her soft mouth. “You are a cunning devil, aren’t you, Mikhail? But I think your cleverness may have gotten you into a bit of trouble.” He watched her with hooded eyes. His teeth gleamed white in the firelight. “Did I happen to mention, Miss Whitney, that the last person impertinent enough to beat me at chess was thrown in the dungeon and tortured for thirty years?” “I believe that would have made you about two at the time,” she teased, her eyes glued to the chessboard. He sucked in his breath sharply. He had been comfortable in her presence, felt totally accepted. She obviously believed he was mortal, with superior telepathic powers. Mikhail lazily reached across the board to make his move, saw the dawning comprehension in her eyes. “I believe what we have is checkmate,” he said silkily. “I should have known a man who walks in the forest surrounded by wolves would be devious.

By the time the older girls began to contort, additional forces had come into play. The five who were to become the most vociferous accusers stepped in only after Tituba’s high-voltage testimony. Every one was a servant. They had reached the age when one ecstatically ambushes the grown-ups, when dependence grades into revolt. They may have had an agenda, which they pursued more subtly than did Abigail Hobbs. They knew stresses the younger girls did not, having ventured farther into the forest of sin and temptation that Elizabeth Knapp so brilliantly charted. They were more attuned to adult collisions, demands, confidences, advances, to wolves in sheep’s clothing. Was there a sexual element at play? One can make what one will of the piercing and pecking and pricking, of pitchforks thrown down, of backs arched suggestively upward and knees locked fiercely together.

Elodie was one of the most brutalized children I met in the DRC. She had been thrown to a pack of wolves by a system of such merciless calculation that it somehow managed to transform her degradation into shiny gadgets and cars sold around the world.