Tor Quotes

There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach.

Jake wasn't about to be seduced like some schoolgirl. Not by a man who went by the unlikely name of Tornado, not by anyone. He stood as firmly as he could in the mud and tore his mouth from the kiss, staring into too dark eyes. As his hands made their way into Tor's wet jeans he said, "This doesn't mean I like you, you know.

Quiet,” he repeated on a growl, “I’m about to fuck my wife and the only words I want her saying when I do it are ‘yes’, ‘Tor’, ‘my prince’, ‘baby’ and ‘oh my God’.

He will apologize, or I'll give him a lesson in swordplay he will not like at all.

Emma this is not a joke. Look at your hands! They're... they're... wrinkled!" "Yes that's because-" "No way. I'm not going down for this. This isn't my fault." "Toraf-" "Galen will find some way to blame me though. He always does. 'You wouldn't have gotten caught if you didn't swim so close to that boat, tadpole.' No it couldn't be the humans fault for fishing in the first place-" "Toraf." "Or how about. 'Maybe if you'd stop trying to kiss my sister, she'd stop bashing your head with a rock.' How does my kissing her have anything to do with her bashing my head with a rock? If you ask me, it's just a result of poor parenting-" "Toraf." "Oh and my favorite: 'If you play with a lionfish, you're going to get pricked.' I wasn't playing with it! I was just helping it swim faster by grabbing its fins-" "TOR-AF." He stops pacing along the water, even seems to remember that I exist. "Yes, Emma? What were you saying?

Aqalmandi Ka Takaza Tou Yehi Hai Kay Insan Khuda Kay Tasawar Ko Sha'ori Tor Par Thek Tarah Say Samajh Lay. Aisa Na Hoa Tou Koi Aur Sha'ay Khuda Ban Kar Apni Pooja Karwaney Lagay Gi".

Sir Tor dressed his shield, and took his spear in his hands, and the other came fiercely upon him, and smote both horse and man to the earth.

I want you to be my first. I want you to be my last. I want you to be all the in-betweens. I want you. Just you. Only you

Oh. Momma told me not to tell you that your bed squeaks. But I think you know, 'cause I could hear it this morning. Jake dropped his fork. Tor, for the first time Jake had ever seen, turned scarlet. Maureen looked at them both and sighed. Christmas is always so interesting with you, Mark.

Habe nun, ach! Philosophie, Juristerei und Medizin, Und leider auch Theologie Durchaus studiert, mit heißem Bemühn. Da steh ich nun, ich armer Tor! Und bin so klug als wie zuvor; Heiße Magister, heiße Doktor gar Und ziehe schon an die zehen Jahr Herauf, herab und quer und krumm Meine Schüler an der Nase herum- Und sehe, daß wir nichts wissen können! Das will mir schier das Herz verbrennen. Zwar bin ich gescheiter als all die Laffen, Doktoren, Magister, Schreiber und Pfaffen; Mich plagen keine Skrupel noch Zweifel, Fürchte mich weder vor Hölle noch Teufel- Dafür ist mir auch alle Freud entrissen, Bilde mir nicht ein, was Rechts zu wissen, Bilde mir nicht ein, ich könnte was lehren, Die Menschen zu bessern und zu bekehren.

There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was a light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. His song in the Tower had been defiance rather than hope; for then he was thinking of himself. Now, for a moment, his own fate, and even his master’s, ceased to trouble him. He crawled back into the brambles and laid himself by Frodo’s side, and putting away all fear he cast himself into a deep untroubled sleep.

He grunted; she recognized it as relief that she wasn't going to nag him further about Tor the Just, who probably wasn't that boring if he could hold off the Notherners for nine days and melt a hole in the hills.

Kill your­self or don’t kill your­self, but stop tor­tur­ing me. I’m try­ing to move on with my life.

There was a long pause while she hated everyone impartially: Tor for behaving like a farmer's son whose pet chicken has just been insulted; her father, for being so immovably kingly; and Perlith for being Perlith.

He gave River a couple of apples and some water, keeping an eye on Tor, who was now standing, shaking with anger. Jake decided it was a good thing he was mad at Tor, 'cause shit, the man was soaked, everything clung to him and he looked hard and lean and completely touchable. Yeah, best to be pissed at the jerk when he looked like that.

Da steh ich nun, ich armer Tor, und bin so klug als wie zuvor.

a silence on the tors that belonged to another age; an age that is past and vanished as though it had never been, an age when man did not exist, but pagan footsteps trod upon the hills. And there was a stillness in the air, and a stranger, older peace, that was not the peace of God.

Bellator silvae servi. Warrior of the forest, I, the alpha, call on thee to serve in this time of need.

Hello, Satan. I know you've been waiting patiently for me since the demise of the good and noble Uncle Tor. I have a feeling I'll be staying here a while.

She'd been trained to survive many things: starvation and bullet wounds. Winter nights and scouring sun. Double-tied knots and interrogations at knifepoint. But this? A boy's lips on hers. Moving and melding. Soft and strength, velvet and iron. Opposite elements that tugged and tor Yael from the inside. Feelings bloomed, hot and warm. Deep and dark.

Don't let the title mislead you," Arlbeth told her. "The king is simply the visible one. I'm so visible, in fact, that most of the important work has to be done by other people." "Nonsense," said Tor. Arlbeth chuckled. "Your loyalty does you honor, but you're in the process of becoming too visible to be effective yourself, so what do you know about it?

Tor: I've always loved how unconditionally you love me Ah. The power that words can hold is nothing short of amazing. They

Brassa,' she whispered, 'what is the moon? Why does it grow in the sky?' 'Because the moon is the goddess Tor,' answered Brassa softly, smiling down at Larka, 'looking down on us all. As some say the fury of the sun is the hunter Fenris snarling at the Varg, so they say the moon is the wolf goddess, opening her eyes wider and wider and stroking the world with her kindness.

I caught my reflection in the tall mirror. I looked like one of Henry VIII’s wives who’d been told she’d soon be replaced.

Tearing the paper means you've stopped believing in the infinite possibilities of a square.

I never got to see a proper striptease. Not anything even remotely close. I was stupid and went to literary cafés and spent my time on artistic nonsense instead. Now it is too late. I am old and blind. I must content myself with hearing the garments fall. I dictated this.

Identify you as messenger...to other Riders." The words were gasped as if he were forcing air in and out of his lungs by sheer will to extend his life. "Fly...Rider, with great speed. Don't read m-message. Then they can't tor-torture...it from you. If captured, shred it and toss it to the winds." Then, because his voice had grown so faint, she had to lean very close to hear his final words. "Beware the shadow man." A cold tremor ran through Karigan's body. "I'll do my best," she told him.

Ella finished her burger and dug into a side of fries. Hi watched, enraptured. She couldn't help but notice. “Would you like one?” “What? Sure.” Hi smiled, made no move. After a moment, Ella nudged the bowl his way. “Careful, they're still hot.” “Oh, no problem.” Hi fumbled for a fry. “I like food that's hot.” I caught Shelton slowly shaking his head. “Oh, shoot!” Ella winced. “I forgot to stop by the office. My mother had to drop off my shin guards.” She slid her fries over to Hi. “Enjoy. They're hot, which apparently you like.” “Got that right. Hot hot hot!” Hi awkwardly shoved another fry into his mouth. “Okay, wow.” Ella gathered her things, then brushed my cheek with a kiss. “Later, Tor.” Shouldering her bag, she hurried from the cafeteria. A loud thunk drew my attention back to the table. Hi's forehead was resting on his tray. “Tell me that wasn't as bad as I think.” “Worse,” Shelton said. “So, so much worse.” Then head rose, then thunked back down. “I don't remember parts. I think I lost time.” I patted his shoulder. “That's probably for the best.” “Such.” Thunk. “A.” Thunk. “Dumbass.” Thunk. Shelton laughed nervously. “See? That's why I don't talk.” Hi's face shot up. “Tell her I have brain seizures. A serious medical condition. Or that I have an evil twin who sometimes takes my place, but can't talk for crap.” “Got it," I promised. His head dropped once more.

Taalim-o-tadrees ki barhi bad naseebi yeh hai ky aam ustaad amuman oast darjay ka shakhs hota hai aur woh zehni, jismani aur jazbaati tor per lakiir key fakiir qisam ki batin sochta hai. Isy zabt-o-nazam sy middle calss logo sy aur parhaku talbah ko parhany sy muhabbat hoti hai. Lykin sara din woh barhi qadar awar shakhsieto aur in ky karnaamo ki misalen dyta hai. Aysy log jinhuny kabhi mawshray ky saath mutabqat na ki. aam tareen hoty hoy woh aysy logo ki taalim-e-aam kerta hai jin ki satah per woh soch bhi nahi sakta , jin ki satah per woh soch bhi nahi sakta. Is ka apna kirdaar in bechu ko aam banany per masar rehta hai aur iski taalim bechu ko khaas banany per uksati hai. School sy bhaag jany waly bechu ki jagah school mai nahi hoti lykin inhi baaghi bechu ko bench per kharha ker ky in azeem shakhsieto ki rosahn misalen di jati hain jo khud school sy bhagy hoty hyn. Woh bechu ko geniouses ki kitaaben padha ker aam bnany ki koshish kerta hai aur yehi taalim ka sub sy barha almiyah hy." Bano Qudsia

Nev tossed his pen down. “Fine. Here goes: Ren and Cals lives may be torrid for the young ones in Vail are quite horrid Bine and Cos aren’t too frail Dax and Fey never pale while Ansel and Bryn might get sordid Bryn spit Diet Coke all over the table. Mason and Ansel clapped. I was too dumbfounded to react. This is qhat quiet Nev does in his spare time? “‘Bine’?” Sabine frowned while Cosette mopped up the soda that flowed to their end of the table. “Since when am I ‘Bine’? And we never call Cosette ‘Cos.’” “It’s about cadence,” Nev said. “Sorry. I said it wasn’t very good.” “Why aren’t you and Mason in it?” Ansel asked. “Oh, he has another one about us.” Mason wiggled his eyebrows.

Ansel sighed. “You know, this is the problem with you alphas, you’re so concerned about taking over the new pack that you don’t notice what’s happening right in front of your face.

Nothing is set in stone. A bird can be refolded into a boat, a fish, a kimono, or any other extravagant vision. At other times it aches to return to its original folds. The paper begins to fray. It tires, rebels.

They could at least part with love. It was like Tor to make the gesture; her father, for all his kindness, was too proud—or too much a king; and she was too proud, or too bitter, or too young.

A parede de escudos. Ela aterroriza. Não há lugar mais terrível que a parede de escudos. É o lugar onde morremos, onde conquistamos e ganhamos reputação. Toquei o martelo de Tor, rezei para Eduardo estar vindo e me preparei para lutar. Na parede de escudos.

That part I didn’t know,” Cresta said. “I just lied to Tor so he’d get me out.” She flashed an unrepentant grin — the expression transforming her face enough that Kiva heard Caldon suck in a swift breath — and said, “He wasn’t very happy with me. Naughty Cresta.

Look, I really hate it when people say this sort of things... Do you know who I am? He lean a little closer and whisperer something. ALERT it cried, head spinning from side to side . EMERGENCY! IT IS THE DOC-TOR!

There’s a ter­ri­ble dark joy when the on­ly per­son who knows all your se­crets is fi­nal­ly dead. Your par­ents. Your doc­tor. Your ther­apist. Your case­work­er. The sun’s out­side the bath­room win­dow try­ing to show us we’re all be­ing stupid. All you have to do is look around.

Są ludzie do pewnych spraw zrodzeni, Którzy nim na tor prawdziwy trafią, Nieznaczącymi się zdają I oczekują swej godziny. A gdy ich los postawi Na drodze, którą obrać powinni, Z dnia na dzień rosną i stają się RÓŻNYMI OD INNYCH!

Ik tors drie lasten: ik ben homoseksueel, ik ben katholiek, en ik ben blank. Moet ik mij daarvoor schamen? Geenszins! (Goedkeurend gemompel.) Homoseksueel ben ik bij geboorte, en rooms-katholiek ben ik door genade: aan geen van beide is dus ene moer meer te doen. En kan men mij verwijten dat ik blank ben? Ik zoude niet weten hoe. Ik schaam mij er niet voor dat ik blank ben, en ik houd het ook niet geheim: ik zoude dat niet eens willen. (Geroep: "Die man die heb gelijk!")

A few years ago, Tor Wager, a neuroscientist at Columbia University, wanted to figure out why placebos were so effective. His experiment was brutally straightforward: he gave college students electric shocks while they were stuck in an fMRI machine. (The subjects were well compensated, at least by undergraduate standards.)

Gods, that you would have granted me this boon when she wed me and with it gave me one night of this hot, greedy tart rather than the cold, selfish fish you gave me,” he muttered, my eyes moved to him and I saw he was speaking to the ceiling in audible prayer.

It was a good ten minutes before I realized Roman and I had been sitting in silence. I stole a look at him out of the corner of my eye, but he seemed unbothered by quiet as I was. For the first time in a long while, I didn't feel like I had to say anything. There was no one to comfort tor convince. There was no one to charm or encourage. I disappeared into myself as I drove on, trying to find my center. I could breathe. Be still. What I hadn't expected was how much Roman seemed to need it, too. Some people feared silence. They did anything to fill it, talking about things that didn't matter, asking questions just to hear some kind of response. it seemed to me that a lot of people saw it as a kind of failure. Evidence that they weren't interesting enough, or that a bond wasn't strong enough. Or maybe they were just nervous about what it would reveal about themselves.

Hvorfor er det så viktig å finne sin rette hylle – helst så fort som mulig? Hva i all verden skal vi sitte der for – og dingle med bena resten av livet?

As he fought, he prayed. Tor keep her safe. I'll do anything if you keep her safe...

Habe nun, ach! Philosophie, Juristerei und Medizin, Und leider auch Theologie Durchaus studiert, mit heißem Bemühn. Da steh ich nun, ich armer Tor! Und bin so klug als wie zuvor;

Es bleibt doch endlich nach wie vor Mit ihren hunderttausend Possen Die Welt ein einzig großer Tor

You can't all be the greatest knight in England." "Why not?" Gawain smiled suddenly. "It makes for better stories that way.

There was a silence on the tors that belonged to another age; an age that is past and vanished as though it had never been, an age when man did not exist, but pagan footsteps trod upon the hills. And there was a stillness in the air, and a stranger, older peace, that was not the peace of God.

You can possess a book without really owning it, though. Beyond ownership in a commercial or legal sense, there’s ownership of an emotional or metaphysical kind - when a book speaks so powerfully to us that we feel it’s ours exclusively: that it exists just tor us. People we meet sometimes have this effect too; they look into our eyes, and speak in a hushed, intimate voice, and make us feel we’re uniquely important to them - before going on to do the same to someone else. In life, we call these people flirts. The best books are flirtatious, too, since they seem to be ours alone when in reality they’re anyone’s.

Ich begriff, dass ich das Gleichgewicht des Tages, das ungewöhnliche Schweigen des Strandes zerstört hatte, an dem ich glücklich gewesen war. Dann schoss ich noch viermal auf einen leblosen Körper, in den die Kugeln eindrangen, ohne dass man es sah. Und es waren gleichsam vier kurze Schläge an das Tor des Unheils.

The other night I discovered that 50 feet from our house,through a break in the trees, you can see St Michael's Tor at Glastonbury...There is no question that there is magic here and all kinds of magic. (Bruton 1959)

He and Alexis had met on his first day in Velik Tor. He had been eleven, she ten. They had bonded almost instantly, and had been like brother and sister ever since. They were, after all, the only family they really had.

Habe nun, ach! Philosophie, Juristerei und Medizin, Und leider auch Theologie Durchaus studiert, mit heißem Bemühn. Da steh' ich nun, ich armer Tor, Und bin so klug als wie zuvor! Heiße Magister, heiße Doktor gar, Und ziehe schon an die zehen Jahr' Herauf, herab und quer und krumm Meine Schüler an der Nase herum - Und sehe, daß wir nichts wissen können!

It is not what we say to each other every day that establishes all the meaning and beauty and truth, it is everything we think before we speak

A master of origami said he tried to express with paper the joy of life, and the last thought before a man dies.

The last page of a book is a sacred space that even lovers respect.

Does it mean that Piebald will die?" said Tinidril at last. "I do not think so," said Tor. "I think that any of his race who has breathed the air that he has breathed and drunk the waters that he has drunk since he came to the Holy Mountain will not find it easy to die.

Among the dog leads, phones and hats, there would be babies hoped for and lost. All this would be remembered: missed opportunities, mislaid friends, the smile of a wife. It would be a place for lost things.

Living with illness or pain was part of my daily life. Part of the exhaustion. But why did my clients have these problems? It seemed like access to healthy foods, gym memberships, doc- tors, and all of that would keep a person fit and well. Maybe the stress of keeping up a two-story house, a bad marriage, and maintaining the illusion of grandeur overwhelmed their systems in similar ways to how poverty did mine.

We have a lot of In-SPECK-tor Gadgets in the body of Christ not qualified to remove specks! What do I look like telling you to take a bath if I stink? What do you look like telling me to brush my teeth when your breath smells horrible? Jesus would answer, “You look like a Hypocrite!

Civilization is about removing information about our surroundings; discarding information about nature so our senses are not burdened with all that information and our consciousness can concentrate on other matters.

Ignoring the unwelcome flicker of her self-consciousness. "Do you like what you see?" "Always," said Tor. Wren bit back her smile. "You're doing magic again." There was a note of caution in his voice as he drifted into the orchard, his wolf padding softly at his side. "Show me." "Say please.

And so will all our sons and daughters be changed in the time of their ripeness, until the number is made up which Maleldil read in His Father's mind before times flowed." "And that," said Ransom, "will be the end?" Tor the King stared at him. "The end?" he said. "Who spoke of an end?" "The end of your world, I mean," said Ransom. "Splendor of Heaven!" said Tor. "Your thoughts are unlike ours. About that time we shall be not far from the beginning of all things.

I am not a capitalist in the simplistic left/right sense. But I do believe in the power of the global free-market economy and in using capitalist tools. I believe in the power of teh free market and the power of capital in the marketplace. I also believe that providing unemployment benefits is not the best way to address poverty. The able-bodied poor don't wan tor need charity. The dole only increases their misery, robs them of incentive and, more important, of self-respect.

Hey, ya'll!" I shouted and waved. At my greeting, the cheer rose so high it nearly took the roof off. Cool! I smiled. Tor's arm around my waist squeezed. "Princess," he clipped into my ear. Oh shit. Right. I stopped waving like a friendly person, close my fingers, cupped my hand slightly and started waving like a royal person. This had no effect on the crowd who kept shouting, clapping and stamping then someone yelled, "We love you, Princess Cora." "Isn't that sweet?" I yelled back in the direction from where the words came even though I had no clue who said it. "Deliver me." I heard Tor mutter from beside me and I looked to the side and up at him. "What?" I asked. "Just, gods, please sit down and eat," he said. "Sure," I said, smiled at the crowd, did the royal wave again then Tor let me go and we sat down.

There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. His song in the Tower had been defiance rather than hope; for then he was thinking of himself. Now, for a moment, his own fate, and even his master's, ceased to trouble him. He crawled back into the brambles and laid himself by Frodo's side, and putting away all fear he cast himself into a deep untroubled sleep.

The words are merely references to something not present

The least interesting aspect of good conversation is what is actually said. What is more interesting is all the deliberations and emotions that take place simultaneously

A thing not structured and organized contains more information, because it is more difficult to describe

It is a movement and a rest, you and I.

Stand in nature before anyone else has woken and most people find something to believe in.

the scent of overpriced coffee was like the armpit of God.

To be aware of an experience means that it has passed

You sense far more than you are conscious of. Whether you want to or not

She mourns the stillbirth of anything that craves to be born. It doesn't have to be a child. It can be an artwork, an idea, or a miscarried love.

Human age, he thinks, lying there in the darkness, should be measured in heartbeats.

But Doc knew that was the key to successful lying. People judged what other people would do by what they themselves would do. You could tell a hell of a lot about a man by what he assumed others got up to. If you're looking for a thief, bet on the man who's always accusing his neighbors.

Dieses ganze Naturschuttgebiet zwischen Fernsehturm und Frankfurter Tor bildet eine architektonische Rotfront rund um den alten Alexanderplatz herum mit dem Centrum Warenhaus drauf, später Malaria-Kaufrausch.

Oh, God in heaven, kill me now…” Rachel groaned. “I hate going to see Mrak. I always feel awkward going back to Velik Tor. After being a Scorpion for so long, after everything Oron’s told us about Mrak’s past…” she shook her head darkly. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist the temptation to perforate his bowels.” Notak looked back down at the letter. “Post script,” he read aloud. “Rachel, please leave Mrak alive and unharmed. We still need him, unfortunately, no matter how tempting it is to perforate his bowels.” “You made that up, he did not say that!” Notak handed her the letter, pointing. “Right there at the bottom.” Rachel squinted at the writing. “Faul.

Consciousness is not about information but about its opposite: order. Consciousness is not a complex phenomenon; it is what consciousness is _about_ that is complex. It is presumably this fact that is the reason many scientists over the decades have tended to perceive information as something involving order and organization. Because consciousness is about an experience of order and organization. Because consciousness is a state that does not process much information - consciously. Consciousness consists of information no more than a person who consumes large amounts of food can be said to consist of food. Consciousness is nourished by information the same way the body is nourished by food. But human beings do not consist of hot dogs; they consist of hot dogs that have been eaten. Consciousness does not consist of hots dogs but consists of hot dogs that have been apprehended. That is far less complex.

Dieser junge Bursche, der sich in einem Alter nach Jerusalem begibt, in dem die meisten seiner Gefährten sich kaum erst vor das eigene Tor wagen, ist vielleicht nicht gerade ein Adler an Scharfsinn, kein Ausbund an Intelligenz, unsere Achtung verdient er aber dennoch, er trägt, wie es selbst erklärte, eine Wunde in der Seele, und da seine Natur es ihm verwehrt, darauf zu warten, dass die schlichte Gewohnheit, mit ihr zu leben, diese heilte, bis sie sich in gutgewillter Vernarbung schlösse, die im Nichtdenken besteht, begab er sich statt dessen auf die Suche nach der Welt, um, wer weiß, die Wunden vielleicht zu vervielfachen und aus ihnen allen einen einzigen und endgültigen Schmerz zu bereiten.

But that's just it. I ... I don't want to go. I don't want to see that..." She glanced aside at Mouse and shuddered. "Blood, like that. I don't remember what happened when you and Mother saved me from Arctis Tor. But I don't want to see more of that. I don't want it to happen to me. I don't want to hurt anyone." I let out a low, non-committal sound. "Then why are you here?" "B-because," she said, searching for words. "Because I need to do it. I know that what you're doing is necessary. And it's right. And I know that you're doing it because you're the only one who can. And I want to help." "You think you're strong enough to help?" I asked her. She bit her lip again and met my eyes for just a second. "I think ... I think it doesn't matter how strong my magic is. I know I don't ... I don't know how to do these things like you do. The guns and the battles and ..." She lifted her chin and seemed to gather herself a little. "But I know more than most." "You know some," I admitted. "But you got to understand, kid. That won't mean much once things get nasty. There's no time for thinking or second chances." She nodded. "All I can promise you is that I won't leave you when you need me. I'll do whatever you think I can. I'll stay here and man the phone. I'll drive the car. I'll walk at the back and hold the flashlight. Whatever you want." She met my eyes and her own hardened. "But I can't sit at home being safe. I need to be a part of this. I need to help.

Guter Rat Laß dein Grämen und dein Schämen! Werbe keck und fordre laut, Und man wird sich dir bequemen, Und du führest heim die Braut. Wirf dein Gold den Musikanten, Denn die Fiedel macht das Fest; Küsse deine Schwiegertanten, Denkst du gleich: Hol euch die Pest! Rede gut von einem Fürsten, Und nicht schlecht von einer Frau; Knickre nicht mit deinen Würsten, Wenn du schlachtest eine Sau. Ist die Kirche dir verhaßt, Tor, Desto öfter geh hinein; Zieh den Hut ab vor dem Pastor, Schick ihm auch ein Fläschchen Wein. Fühlst du irgendwo ein Jücken, Kratze dich als Ehrenmann; Wenn dich deine Schuhe drücken, Nun, so zieh Pantoffeln an. Hat versalzen dir die Suppe Deine Frau, bezähm die Wut, Sag ihr lächelnd: Süße Puppe, Alles was du kochst ist gut. Trägt nach einem Schal Verlangen Deine Frau, so kauf ihr zwei; Kauf ihr Spitzen, goldne Spangen Und Juwelen noch dabei. Wirst du diesen Rat erproben, Dann, mein Freund! genießest du Einst das Himmelreich dort oben, Und du hast auf Erden Ruh.

Pe-o mare bântuită de furtună... Pe-o mare bântuită de furtună Viaţa mea sosi cu barca spartă În portul ce păcatele nu iartă Şi nu primeşte decât fapta bună. Văd bine cum greşit-am împreună. Şi eu şi fantezia mea deşartă Ce idol şi monarh făcea din artă - Şi tor omu-şi vrea spre rău - nebună... Iar azi când merg spre două morţi, din care De una-s sigur şi mă paşte alta, Iubirea vană unde mă va duce ? Nu-mi dă odihnă pensula nici dalta, Ci doar Acel ce pentru-mbrăţişare Spre noi desface braţele pe cruce ...

The dark breaks wide in fragile rays. Dawn on Ithiss-Tor is more subtle than other sunrises. I have lost count of the worlds where I have stood and watched the light rise, peeling away the sky, sometimes in quiet colors, and sometimes in raw, violent slashes, as if the goddess I don't believe in has cut her veins. And sometimes, as on Gehenna, the sky changes not at all, just endless night, or endless brilliance--and after a time, the constant uniformity makes you feel as if you are the thing that must give way.

To the north of them the great continental glacier had dipped southward, as though straining to encompass the beautiful icy mountains within its overwhelming frozen embrace. They were in the most frigid land on earth, between the glistening mountain tors and the immense northern ice, and it was the depths of winter. The air itself was sucked dry by the moisture-stealing glaciers greedily usurping every drop to increase their bloated, bedrock-crushing mass, building up reserves to withstand the onslaught of summer heat. The battle between glacial cold and melting warmth for control of the Great Mother Earth was almost at a standstill, but the tide was turning; the glacier was gaining. It would make one more advance, and reach its farthest southward point, before it was beaten back to polar lands. But even there, it would only bide its time.

Ten thousand years ago, her husband, Abraham the Mage, had presented her with the weapons and armor. “To keep you safe,” he said, his speech a slurred mumble. “Now and always. When you wear it, think of me.” “I’ll think of you even when I’m not wearing it,” she promised, and never a day went by when she did not think of the man who had worked so hard and sacrificed so much to make and save the world. The memory of him was vivid. Abraham stood tall and slender in a darkened room at the top of the crystal tower, the Tor Ri. He was wrapped in shadow, turned away from her so she wouldn’t see the Change that had almost completely claimed his flesh, transforming it to solid gold. She remembered turning him to the light so she could look at him for what she knew might be the very last time. Then she had held him, pressing his flesh and metal against her skin, and wept against his shoulder. And when she looked into his face, a single tear, a solid bead of gold, rolled down his cheek. Rising up on her toes, she had kissed the tear off his face, swallowing it. Tsagaglalal pressed her hands to her stomach. It nestled within her still.

What is this that we feel, Tor?' said Tinidril. 'I don't know,' said the King. 'One day I will give it a name. This is not a day for making names.' 'It is like a fruit with a very thick shell,' said Tinidril. 'The joy of our meeting when we meet again in the Great Dance is the sweet of it. But the rind is thick—more years thick than I can count.' 'You see now,' said Tor, 'what that Evil One would have done to us. If we had listened to him we should now be trying to get at that sweet without biting through the shell.' 'And so it would not be "That sweet" at all, said Tinidril.

It’s not the thought of death. No, that’s not the reason you ache in the springtime, like the chill you get by drinking water after you’ve sucked on a cough drop, although it’s not really an ache either, but a sorrow, a stab of worry, over what?, you wonder, and continue: over life unlived.

Mere springs and coils produced the inward movements of our clockwork man. He might be termed a Puritan. One essential dislike, formidable in its simplicity, pervaded his dull soul: he disliked injustice and deception. He disliked their union—they were always together—with a wooden passion that neither had, nor needed, words to express itself. Such a dislike should have deserved praise had it not been a by-product of the man’s hopeless stupidity. He called unjust and deceitful everything that surpassed his understanding. He worshiped general ideas and did so with pedantic aplomb. The generality was godly, the specific diabolical. If one person was poor and the other wealthy it did not matter what precisely had ruined one or made the other rich: the difference itself was unfair, and the poor man who did not denounce it was as wicked as the rich one who ignored it. People who knew too much, scientists, writers, mathematicians, crystalographers and so forth, were no better than kings or priests: they all held an unfair share of power of which others were cheated. A plain decent fellow should constantly be on the watch tor some piece of clever knavery on the part of nature and neighbor.

At the same time, he expressed accurately and powerfully the state of mind of the countless underground fighters dying in the battle against Nazism. Why did they throw their lives into the scale? Why did they accept tor­ture and death? They had no point of support like the Fuhrer for the Germans or the New Faith for the Communists. It is doubtful whether most of them believed in Christ. It could only have been loyalty, loyalty to something called fatherland or honor, but something stronger than any name. In one of his stories, a young boy, tortured by the police and knowing that he will be shot, gives the name of his friend because he is afraid to die alone. They meet before the firing squad, and the betrayed forgives his betrayer. This forgiveness cannot be justified by any utilitarian ethic; there is no reason to forgive traitors. Had this story been written by a Soviet author, the betrayed would have turned away with disdain from the man who had succumbed to base weakness.

Faced with a totally controlled, monitored and owned online world, in which every utterance is immediately scanned and filed away, many have yet to make the connection that the best solution may not be running Tor and eighteen proxies, but writing things down on paper and talking face-to-face. Remember the mail? Remember conversations? Yeah, those still exist. Want to shake somebody out of their online trance? Send them a letter. Send them art. Want to record something that will last longer than a few seconds on Facebook or Twitter? Write a book. The physical world didn’t go anywhere. In fact, physical artifacts and experiences have only grown in totemic power the more we’ve pushed them away.

That's what love is, Tor," Darcy said in exasperation. "It's taking a leap of faith. It's opening yourself up and letting your walls down and allowing someone to see every dark and broken corner of your soul. It's truth and honesty with yourself and them. It's raw and brutal and terrifying and real. You can't just claim to want it, but refuse to allow yourself to be vulnerable to it. That's not how it works. If you love someone, truly love them, you'll bear you soul to them and let them be the keeper of your heart no matter how fragile or damaged it might be. And if they love you then they'll do everything in their power to keep it safe, to nurture and protect it and heal over all the old wounds.

One night, around the campfire after a dinner of bully-beef stew, someone opened an extra bottle of rum. ‘As it grew darker, the men began to sing, at first slightly self-conscious and shy, but picking up confidence as the song spread.’ Their songs were not the martial chants of warriors, but the schmaltzy romantic popular tunes of the time: ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’, ‘My Melancholy Baby’, ‘I’m Dancing with Tears in My Eyes’. The bigger and burlier the singer, Pleydell noted, the more passionate and heartfelt the singing. Now the French contingent struck up, with a warbling rendition of ‘Madeleine’, the bittersweet song of a man whose lilacs for his lover have been left to wilt in the rain. Then it was the turn of the German prisoners who, after some debate, belted out ‘Lili Marleen’, the unofficial anthem of the Afrika Korps, complete with harmonies: ‘Vor der Kaserne / Vor dem grossen Tor / Stand eine Laterne / Und steht sie noch davor …’ (Usually rendered in English as: Underneath the lantern, by the barrack gate, darling I remember, how you used to wait.) As the last verse died away, the audience broke into loud whistles and applause. To his own astonishment, Pleydell was profoundly moved. ‘There was something special about that night,’ he wrote years later. ‘We had formed a small solitary island of voices; voices which faded and were caught up in the wilderness. A little cluster of men singing in the desert. An expression of feeling that defied the vastness of its surroundings … a strange body of men thrown together for a few days by the fortunes of war.’ The doctor from Lewisham had come in search of authenticity, and he had found it deep in the desert, among hard soldiers singing sentimental songs to imaginary sweethearts in three languages.

Όποιος πατά με τα δύο πόδια στη γη δεν κινείται.

Then a silence fell between them. She had ceased to lean against him, and he missed the cosy friendliness of it. Now that their voices and the cawings of the rooks had ceased, there was nothing heard but the dry rustle of the leaves, and the plaintive cry of a buzzard hawk hunting over the little tor across the river. There were nearly always two up there, quartering the sky. To the boy it was lovely, that silence—like Nature talking to you—Nature always talked in silences. The beasts, the birds, the insects, only really showed themselves when you were still; you had to be awfully quiet, too, for flowers and plants, otherwise you couldn't see the real jolly separate life there was in them. Even the boulders down there, that old Godden thought had been washed up by the Flood, never showed you what queer shapes they had, and let you feel close to them, unless you were thinking of nothing else.

Of course, I don’t remember any of this time. It is absolutely impossible to identify with the infant my parents photographed, indeed so impossible that it seems wrong to use the word “me” to describe what is lying on the changing table, for example, with unusually red skin, arms and legs spread, and a face distorted into a scream, the cause of which no one can remember, or on a sheepskin rug on the floor, wearing white pajamas, still red-faced, with large, dark eyes squinting slightly. Is this creature the same person as the one sitting here in Malmö writing? And will the forty-year-old creature who is sitting in Malmö writing this one overcast September day in a room filled with the drone of the traffic outside and the autumn wind howling through the old-fashioned ventilation system be the same as the gray, hunched geriatric who in forty years from now might be sitting dribbling and trembling in an old people’s home somewhere in the Swedish woods? Not to mention the corpse that at some point will be laid out on a bench in a morgue? Still known as Karl Ove. And isn’t it actually unbelievable that one simple name encompasses all of this? The fetus in the belly, the infant on the changing table, the forty-year-old in front of the computer, the old man in the chair, the corpse on the bench? Wouldn’t it be more natural to operate with several names since their identities and self-perceptions are so very different? Such that the fetus might be called Jens Ove, for example, and the infant Nils Ove, and the five- to ten-year-old Per Ove, the ten- to twelve-year-old Geir Ove, the twelve- to seventeen-year-old Kurt Ove, the seventeen- to twenty-three-year-old John Ove, the twenty-three- to thirty-two-year-old Tor Ove, the thirty-two- to forty-six-year-old Karl Ove — and so on and so forth? Then the first name would represent the distinctiveness of the age range, the middle name would represent continuity, and the last, family affiliation.

ОБЯЗАТЕЛЬНЫЙ УРОК Ты переворачиваешь камень, лежащий на сырой земле, потому что тебе нравится смотреть на муравьев, желтоватых червей и двухвосток, которыми, конечно, кишит земля под камнем. Тебе первому дано открыть эти маленькие существа, застать их врасплох. Но на этот раз с оборотной стороны камня на тебя смотрит лицо, и оно начинает говорить невнятным голосом, пока комья земли шевелятся вокруг рта. Из этой сиплой и властной речи ты понимаешь, что наступает твоя очередь лежать лицом к земле, пока кто-то не придет и не перевернет тебя по случайности в порыве детского любопытства.

Năzuinţa omului spre „liberul arbitru“, în înţelesul superlativ şi metafizic care din păcate mai domneşte încă în creierele semidocte, vrerea de a purta întreaga şi ultima responsabilitate pentru actele sale, descărcând-o din spinarea lui Dumnezeu, a lumii, a eredităţii, a întâmplării, a societăţii, este nici mai mult, nici mai puţin decât dorinţa de a fi însăşi causa sui. Cu o cutezanţă mai mare decât aceea a baronului de Munchhausen, omul încearcă, trăgându-se de păr, să se smulgă din mlaştina neantului, pentru a se înălţa în existentă. Iar de s-ar hotărî vreunul să-i facă vânt neroziei rustice a acestei noţiuni faimoase a „liberului arbitru“ şi să şi-o scoată din cap l-aş ruga să mai facă un pas pe calea „iluminării“ sale şi să procedeze aşijderea şi în privinţa contrariului acestei pseudonoţiuni a „liberului arbitru“: mă refer la „vrerea încătuşată“ care conduce la un abuz al noţiunilor de cauză şi efect. „Cauza“ şi „efectul“ nu trebuie concretizate, precum o fac în mod greşit naturaliştii (şi toţi cei care naturalizează azi în gândire, asemenea lor), care se conformează neroziei mecaniciste dominante ce îşi imaginează cauza drept ceva care trage şi împinge până în momentul în care este obţinut efectul: trebuie să ne folosim de „cauză“ şi de „efect" doar ca de nişte noţiuni pure, adică în chip de ficţiuni convenţionale în scopul desemnării, al comunicării, şi nu pentru cel al explicaţiei. Noţiunea de „în sine“ nu conţine nici un dram de „legătură cauzală“, de „necesitate“, de „determinism psihologic“, în cazul ei efectul nu este urmarea cauzei, în cadrul ei nu domneşte nici o „lege“. Noi singuri am fost cei care am inventat cauzele, succesiunea, reciprocitatea, relativitatea, obligativitatea, numărul, legea, libertatea, temeiul, ţinta; iar când introducem şi amestecăm în lucruri această lume de semne născocite de noi înşine, în chip de lucruri „în sine“, procedăm iarăşi precum am făcut întotdeauna, şi anume mitologic. „Voinţa încătuşată“ este un mit: în realitate, se poate vorbi doar despre voinţe puternice şi slabe. - Când un gânditor simte că a descoperit deodată în întreaga „înlănţuire cauzală" şi în întreaga „necesitate psihologică“ ceva ce seamănă a constrângere, a necesitate, a succesiune obligatorie, a presiune, a încătuşare - aceasta este mai întotdeauna semnul că în cazul lui ceva nu este în regulă: a simţi astfel e un simptom revelator, - respectivul se demască pe sine; şi, în general, în caz că observaţiile mele sunt exacte, problema determinismului este cercetată sub două aspecte diametral opuse, însă întotdeauna într-un mod profund personal: unii nu vor să cedeze cu niciun preţ din „responsabilitatea“ lor, din credinţa în sine, din dreptul personal asupra meritelor tor (acesta e cazul raselor vanitoase), ceilalţi, dimpotrivă, nu vor să-si asume responsabilitatea şi vinovăţia pentru nimic, dorind, dintr-un tăinuit dispreţ de sine, să poată da bir cu fugiţii, indiferent în ce direcţie, din faţa eului lor. Când scriu cărţi, aceştia din urmă obişnuiesc să ia apărarea în zilele noastre răufăcătorilor; deghizarea lor preferată este un fel de compătimire socialistă. Si, într-adevăr, fatalismul celor cu voinţa slabă se înfrumuseţează uimitor din momentul în care reuşeşte să se dea drept la religion de la souffrance humaine: este felul său de a-si demonstra „bunul gust“.

DOAMNA SMITH, Pompierului: Încă una, căpitane. POMPIERUL: Oh, nu, e prea târziu. DOMNUL MARTIN: Spuneţi totuşi. POMPIERUL: Sunt prea obosit. DOMNUL SMITH: Haideţi, de dragul nostru. DOMNUL MARTIN: Vă rog. POMPIERUL: Nu. DOAMNA MARTIN: Aveţi o inimă de gheaţă. Ne-aţi pus pe jar. DOAMNA SMITH, cade la picioarele lui, plângând sau nu: Vă implor. POMPIERUL: Fie. DOMNUL SMITH, la urechea Doamnei Martin: A acceptat! Iar o să ne plictisim. DOAMNA MARTIN: Fir-ar să fie! DOAMNA SMITH: Ghinion. Am exagerat cu politeţea. POMPIERUL: Guturaiul. „Cumnatul meu avea un văr primar din partea tatălui, al cărui unchi din partea mamei avea un cumnat al cărui bunic din partea tatălui se recăsătorise cu o tânără din partea locului al cărei frate întâlnise într-una din călătoriile lui o fată de care se îndrăgostise până peste urechi şi cu care a avut un fiu care s-a însurat cu o farmacistă curajoasă, nimeni alta decât nepoata unui şef de cart anonim din marina britanică, al cărui tată adoptiv avea o mătuşă care vorbea spaniola la perfecţie şi era, poate, una dintre nepoatele unui inginer mort în tinereţe, la rândul lui nepotul unui podgorean ale cărui vii dădeau un vin mediocru, dar care avea un verişor, om la casa lui, plutonier, al cărui fiu luase de nevastă pe-o tânără tare drăguţă, divorţată, al cărei prim soţ era fiul unui sincer patriot care a ştiut să-i bage în cap uneia din fiicele lui pofta de căpătuială, iar ea a luat de bărbat un vână-tor care-l cunoscuse pe Rotschild, şi al cărui frate, după ce-a schimbat mai multe meserii, s-a însurat şi a avut o fată al cărei străbunic era sfrijit şi purta nişte ochelari primiţi de la un văr de-al lui, cumnatul unui portughez, fiul natural al unui morar, nu prea sărac, al cărui frate de lapte luase de nevastă pe fiica unui fost medic de ţară, la rândul lui frate de lapte cu fiul unui lăptar, el însuşi fiul natural al unui alt medic de ţară, însurat de trei ori la rând, a cărui a treia soţie..." DOMNUL MARTIN: Am cunoscut-o pe-a treia lui soţie, dacă nu mă-nşel. Mânca pui într-un viespar. POMPIERUL: Nu-i aceeaşi. DOAMNA SMITH: SSSSt! POMPIERUL: Cum spuneam, deci: „... a cărui a treia soţie era fiica celei mai bune moaşe de prin partea locului şi care, rămasă văduvă în tinereţe..." DOMNUL SMITH: Cazul soţiei mele! POMPIERUL: „... s-a recăsătorit cu un geamgiu tare vesel din fire care-i făcuse fetei şefului de gară un copil care-şi croise un drum în viaţă..." DOAMNA SMITH: Drum de fier... DOMNUL MARTIN: Ba drum de fiere. POMPIERUL: „Şi luase de nevastă o zarzavagioaică de brânzeturi al cărei tată avea un frate, primar într-un orăşel, care luase de nevastă pe-o învăţătoare blondă al cărei frate, pescar de coastă..." DOMNUL MARTIN: Coasta lui Adam? POMPIERUL: „... luase de nevastă pe-o altă învăţătoare blondă care se chema tot Mărie, al cărei frate se-nsurase cu altă Mărie, tot o învăţătoare blondă..." DOMNUL SMITH: Dacă e blondă, nu poate fi decât Mărie. POMPIERUL: „... şi-al cărei tată fusese crescut în Canada de-o bătrână, nepoata unui popă a cărui bunică făcea uneori, iarna, la fel ca toată lumea, guturai.