Trilogy Of The Rat Quotes

The 'sitch'? Did you watch that Kim Possible movie again? You know it only makes you sad that you don't have a naked mole-rat of your very own.' 'One, I've been watching Buffy, not Kim Possible. And two, it is so not fair that Dad won't let me get a Rufus when he lets Angel keep that stupid turtle.

Everyone is crazy. It’s the people who go with it, and admit it, that you can trust. So you be crazy, girl. Give that rat bastard hell.

After fools wage their battles, it is the rats that rule the fields and towns -pg 9

Of course not,” she snapped sharply. “How can you love ignorant, brutish people whom you don’t even know? Can anyone love filth and squalor? Or lice and rats? Who can love aching weariness, and carry on working, in spite of it? One cannot love these things. One can only love God, and through His grace come to love His people.

The second thing he noticed was the rat. He'd had a long debate with Matthew about rats, back at the DC town house they'd shared a lifetime ago, because Matthew had wanted one. As a pet. Declan had said Matthew wouldn't want one if he'd seen a city rat. Matthew had replied the only thing that was different about a city rat was that no one loved it.

I don’t give a shit how the saying goes. Everyone is crazy. It’s the people who go with it, and admit it, that you can trust. So you be crazy, girl. Give that rat bastard hell.

I really was a rat, pale and red-eyed, scrabbling at the walls of my maze with feeble pink tinged claws

After fools wage their battles, it is the rats that rule the fields and towns.

a saint should walk amongst her people, not hide like a rat in a warren

But mostly I hated the feeling that I really was a little rat, pale and red-eyed, scrabbling at the walls of my maze with feeble pink-tinged claws.

There, she thought, shaking off another rat and brushing away the turds. That wasn’t so bad.

Hector was sent to his office to wait, while Rat-face was restored to such limited consciousness as his heredity and his fate permitted him to enjoy.

You had to give the guy some credit. He was twisted as a pretzel, he was a tinfoil-halo shit-nosed frogstomping king rat asshole, but he wasn’t stupid.

Others? Other dragons? I think not, and let us be clear here, Kanyn Thrall, your other victories have all the bravado of rats crunched underfoot. I make breakfast of mortal heroes and shit out pitted iron at day’s end. I make morsels of Tiste champions, snacks of Thel Akai hunters, paltry meals of Jhelarkan, Dog-Runners, Thelomen and Jheck.

Was it love of people?” I asked her. “Of course not,” she snapped sharply. “How can you love ignorant, brutish people whom you don’t even know? Can anyone love filth and squalor? Or lice and rats? Who can love aching weariness, and carry on working, in spite of it? One cannot love these things. One can only love God, and through His grace come to love His people.” I

Everyone is crazy. It’s the people who go with it, and admit it, that you can trust. So you be crazy, girl. Give that rat bastard hell.” I trudged up onto my first step. “I feel like this conversation has gone a little sideways.” “Yeah. I’m no good at pep talks. Good luck with your thing.” “Thanks for watching my house.” He waved at me and continued walking. He didn’t turn into his

One of the extraordinary things about life is the sort of places it’s prepared to put up with living. Anywhere it can get some kind of a grip, whether it’s the intoxicating seas of Santraginus V, where the fish never seem to care whatever the heck kind of direction they swim in, the fire storms of Frastra, where, they say, life begins at 40,000 degrees, or just burrowing around in the lower intestine of a rat for the sheer unadulterated hell of it, life will always find a way of hanging on in somewhere.

When he’d ordered the Aphrodite converted to accommodate passengers, the builder had given him an option. Did he want four gentlemen’s cabins, similar to the ladies’? Or would he prefer to squeeze six smaller berths into the same space? Gray’s answer? Six, of course. No question about it. Two extra beds meant two extra fares. He hadn’t dreamed he’d one day occupy one of these cramped berths. Six feet of angry man, lashed into a five-foot bunk, in the midst of a howling gale-it wasn’t a recipe for a good night’s sleep. Gray craved the space and comfort of his former quarters aboard the Aphrodite-the captain’s cabin. But as his brother had so officiously pointed out, Gray wasn’t the captain of this ship anymore. Throw his arse in the brig, had Joss threatened? Gray tossed indignantly, his chest straining against the ropes hat held him in the child-sized bed. The ship’s brig didn’t sound so bad right now. He’d put up with a few iron bars, the rancid bilgewater and rats, if it meant he could stretch his legs properly. Hell, this room was so damned small, he couldn’t even get his blasted boots off. He kicked the wall of his berth, no doubt scuffing the shine on his new Hessians. He hated the cursed things anyway. They pinched his feet. Why the devil he’d thought it a brilliant notion to get all dandified for this voyage, Gray couldn’t remember. Just who was he trying to impress? Stubb?

Would have attracted him once. . . . Suddenly, like a thing that leaped to him across infinite distances with the speed of light, desire (salt, black, ravenous, unanswerable desire) took him by the throat. The merest hint will convey to those who have felt it the quality of the emotion which now shook him, like a dog shaking a rat; for others, no description perhaps will avail. Many writers speak of it in terms of lust: a description admirably illuminating from within, totally misleading from without. It has nothing to do with the body. But it is in two respects like lust as lust shows itself to be in the deepest and darkest vault of its labyrinthine house. For like lust, it disenchants the whole universe. Everything else that Mark had ever felt—love, ambition, hunger, lust itself—appeared to have been mere milk and water, toys for children, not worth one throb of the nerves. The infinite attraction of this dark thing sucked all other passions into itself: the rest of the world appeared blenched, etiolated, insipid, a world of white marriages and white masses, dishes without salt, gambling for counters. He could not now think of Jane except in terms of appetite: and appetite here made no appeal. That serpent, faced with the true dragon, became a fangless worm. But it was like lust in another respect also. It is idle to point out to the perverted man the horror of his perversion: while the fierce fit is on, that horror is the very spice of his craving. It is ugliness itself that becomes, in the end, the goal of his lechery; beauty has long since grown too weak a stimulant.

Lions and goats are friends. There are hard working jabbering animals who are slaves to the tiny disgusting rats. The fruits are larger than the parent trees...the mighty illusions are in every single thing...flowers are burning to touch and there are no nights in this amazing world...and now this amazing labyrinth...Where are we...What is this place?” Rosalina blurted out, getting the consistently mouthing soul of Palatablo on the spur of the moment.

How can you love ignorant, brutish people whom you don’t even know? Can anyone love filth and squalor? Or lice and rats? Who can love aching weariness, and carry on working, in spite of it? One cannot love these things. One can only love God, and through His grace come to love His people.

Can you direct me to Alexandre Chevalier and Sophie Dumas?” I’m aware of my voice. I feel ridiculous trying to make the Alexandre come out with a French accent. My French is limited, to say the least. Restaurant French. Directions French. It occurs to me that if I take the Alexandre and the Dumas and put them together I have Alexandre Dumas, the French author who wrote the swash-buckling adventure, The Three Musketeers. But this Alexandre is a recently graduated college kid – a geek who wears a hoodie and probably keeps pet rats in his bedroom.

Can you direct me to Alexandre Chevalier and Sophie Dumas?”I’m aware of my voice. I feel ridiculous trying to make the Alexandre come out with a French accent. My French is limited, to say the least. Restaurant French. Directions French. It occurs to me that if I take the Alexandre and the Dumas and put them together I have Alexandre Dumas, the French author who wrote the swash- buckling adventure, The Three Musketeers. But this Alexandre is a recently graduated college kid –a geek who wears a hoodie and probably keeps pet rats in his bedroom.

Those are the Wind in the Willows books: full of rats and moles.

Ohhhh! What do we have here? That don’t sound like no man cry, ’less the rats gone and brung some boys to fight.” He takes slow, lewd steps toward me, his eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth curled. His tongue strokes his upper lip as he bends over me and extends a hand. I try to stop another squeal from forcing its way through my closed mouth, but I can’t. “Ahhhh yes!” He crouches over me. A few inches lower and he would be sitting on my chest. I can smell his burnt flesh, but it’s nothing compared to his odor. My nose and throat burn from his stench. I would gag if I could. He extends a battered hand and taps the glass of my goggles with his fingertips then rips them off my face. The strap yanks strands of hair from the back of my head. I try to scream from the pain, and my lungs feel like they’re bursting instead. He plants the goggles on my chest and laces his fingers, tracing his tongue across his lips. He winks at me, and I understand utter disgust.

yes, I think that the Board and the Senate are one and the same: rats crawling on top of each other trying to gain some advantage regardless of the fact the ship is sinking out from under them.

She ruminated, again, on the eternal return, the widening gyre, that seemed to govern human history. There is a tide in the affairs of men. A slack tide, that heaves up wrack and slime and rotting seaweed and deposits them on the sand, like a cat leaving the corpse of a rat on your doorstep. Then it slinks back in search of more.

You’ll never understand… Because you look at data, not the individual. Before you destroyed the world I was a regular. Everything you would read about regulars would tell you we were scavenging, scrounging, thieving rats that made the alterd’s world look untidy. If you looked at the data, it would back up all these statements, but do you think any of us wanted that life? Do you think any of us chose to be born into that existence? No, but we were. And the system was set up for us to fail. Education? Too expensive. Housing prices? Too high. Jobs? Nonexistent. Debt? Keeps on growing. Drugs keep on spreading. Space keeps on getting smaller and smaller. And who’s at the top pulling the stings? The alts! The rich at the top. They needed us to be poor. They needed us to have nothing so they could look at all they have, pat themselves on the back and say, ‘Look what I have in comparison to them. If only they worked as hard as me…’ But despite all of this, the best people I’ve ever met were those scavenging, scrounging, thieving rats. That’s why I fight. I fight for the people I love and you’ll never understand that. Because you can teach a machine to think, but not to love.

I guess being brought back from the dead and used as a CDC lab rat would fuck up just about anybody.

I beat him until his skull cracked and his body seized, then watched as a final, bloody, gurgling breath spasmed past his broken teeth and split lips. When his body stilled, I left him in the alley for the rats to gnaw.