Tunnel Rat Quotes

The adrenaline rush subsides as it becomes harder to catch your breath. You become light headed, then dizzy and confused as the air runs out. Reason and sense evaporate as the darkness claims you. That is how it felt to be a Tunnel Rat.

Isabelle says the Queen of the Seelie Court has requested an audience with us." "Sure," said Magnus. "And Madonna wants me as a backup dancer on her next world tour." Alec looked puzzled. "Who's Madonna?" "Who's the Queen of the Seelie Court?" said Clary. "She is the Queen of Faerie," said Magnus. "Well, the local one, anyway." Jace put his head in his hands. "Tell Isabelle no." "But she thinks it's a good idea," Alec protested. "Then tell her no twice." Alec frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" "Oh, just that some of Isabelle's ideas are world-beaters and some are total disasters. Remember that idea she had about using abandoned subway tunnels to get around under the city? Talk about giant rats—" "Let's not," said Simon. "I'd rather not talk about rats at all, in fact.

Nothing is random, nor will anything ever be, whether a long string of perfectly blue days that begin and end in golden dimness, the most seemingly chaotic political acts, the rise of a great city, the crystalline structure of a gem that has never seen the light, the distributions of fortune, what time the milkman gets up, the position of the electron, or the occurrence of one astonishing frigid winter after another. Even electrons, supposedly the paragons of unpredictability, are tame and obsequious little creatures that rush around at the speed of light, going precisely where they are supposed to go. They make faint whistling sounds that when apprehended in varying combinations are as pleasant as the wind flying through a forest, and they do exactly as they are told. Of this, one is certain. And yet, there is a wonderful anarchy, in that the milkman chooses when to arise, the rat picks the tunnel into which he will dive when the subway comes rushing down the track from Borough Hall, and the snowflake will fall as it will. How can this be? If nothing is random, and everything is predetermined, how can there be free will? The answer to that is simple. Nothing is predetermined, it is determined, or was determined, or will be determined. No matter, it all happened at once, in less than an instant, and time was invented because we cannot comprehend in one glance the enormous and detailed canvas that we have been given - so we track it, in linear fashion piece by piece. Time however can be easily overcome; not by chasing the light, but by standing back far enough to see it all at once. The universe is still and complete. Everything that ever was is; everything that ever will be is - and so on, in all possible combinations. Though in perceiving it we image that it is in motion, and unfinished, it is quite finished and quite astonishingly beautiful. In the end, or rather, as things really are, any event, no matter how small, is intimately and sensibly tied to all others. All rivers run full to the sea; those who are apart are brought together; the lost ones are redeemed; the dead come back to life; the perfectly blue days that have begun and ended in golden dimness continue, immobile and accessible; and, when all is perceived in such a way as to obviate time, justice becomes apparent not as something that will be, but something that is.

Look,” I said to Daniel and Jamie, “what’s the most terrifying thing you can think of in these tunnels? Rats? Mole people?” “Evil mastermind hell bent on killing you?” Jamie suggested. “Wrong. The most terrifying thing in these tunnels is me.” I shut the door on both of them and jumped onto the tracks.

Tell Isabelle no.” “But she thinks it’s a good idea,” Alec protested. “Then tell her no twice.” Alec frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Oh, just that some of Isabelle’s ideas are world-beaters and some are total disasters. Remember that idea she had about using abandoned subway tunnels to get around under the city? Talk about giant rats-” “Lets not,” said Simon. “I‘d rather not talk about rats at all, in fact.” “This is different,” said Alec. “She wants us to go to the Seelie Court.” “You‘re right, this is different,” said Jace. “This is her worst idea ever.” -Jace, Alec, & Simon, pg.145-

Beware, Underlanders, time hangs by a thread. The hunters are hunted, white water runs red. The Gnawers will strike to extinguish the rest. The hope of the hopeless resides in a quest. An Overland warrior, a son of the sun, May bring us back light, he may bring us back none. But gather your neighbors and follow his call Or rats will most surely devour us all. Two over, two under, of royal descent, Two flyers, two crawlers, two spinners assent. One gnawer beside and one lost up ahead. And eight will be left when we count up the dead. The last who will die must decide where he stands. The fate of the eight is contained in his hands. So bid him take care, bid him look where he leaps, As life may be death and death life again reaps.

I shuffle along, letting the current pull me, and i have the sense that I am like a rat caught in a maze of tunnels, moving endlessly toward some promise of...of what? Light? Life? Cheese?

Greta knows that for me there are no good parties. I’m okay with one or two people, but more than that and I turn into a naked mole rat. That’s what being shy feels like. Like my skin is too thin, the light too bright. Like the best place I could possibly be is in a tunnel far under the cool, dark earth. Someone asks me a question and I stare at them, empty-faced, my brain jammed up with how hard I’m trying to find something interesting to say. And in the end, all I can do is nod or shrug, because the light of their eyes looking at me, waiting for me, is just too much to take. And then it’s over and there’s one more person in the world who thinks I’m a complete and total waste of space.

You will never get to see fifty foot statues of warlords and emperors or feel the triumph of conquest. You will never see man live as the ancients dreamed he would, all because a couple of rats tunneled their way into positions of power. They said the past is wrong. They said invaders should have your land. They said its ok to embrace apathy. You are a victim of the technocracy, of an abuse named 'civility'. You have been robbed of a fulfilling earnest life.

If you want to see philosophy in action, pay a visit to a robo-rat laboratory. A robo-rat is a run-ofthe-mill rat with a twist: scientists have implanted electrodes into the sensory and reward areas in the rat’s brain. This enables the scientists to manoeuvre the rat by remote control. After short training sessions, researchers have managed not only to make the rats turn left or right, but also to climb ladders, sniff around garbage piles, and do things that rats normally dislike, such as jumping from great heights. Armies and corporations show keen interest in the robo-rats, hoping they could prove useful in many tasks and situations. For example, robo-rats could help detect survivors trapped under collapsed buildings, locate bombs and booby traps, and map underground tunnels and caves. Animal-welfare activists have voiced concern about the suffering such experiments inflict on the rats. Professor Sanjiv Talwar of the State University of New York, one of the leading robo-rat researchers, has dismissed these concerns, arguing that the rats actually enjoy the experiments. After all, explains Talwar, the rats ‘work for pleasure’ and when the electrodes stimulate the reward centre in their brain, ‘the rat feels Nirvana’. To the best of our understanding, the rat doesn’t feel that somebody else controls her, and she doesn’t feel that she is being coerced to do something against her will. When Professor Talwar presses the remote control, the rat wants to move to the left, which is why she moves to the left. When the professor presses another switch, the rat wants to climb a ladder, which is why she climbs the ladder. After all, the rat’s desires are nothing but a pattern of firing neurons. What does it matter whether the neurons are firing because they are stimulated by other neurons, or because they are stimulated by transplanted electrodes connected to Professor Talwar’s remote control? If you asked the rat about it, she might well have told you, ‘Sure I have free will! Look, I want to turn left – and I turn left. I want to climb a ladder – and I climb a ladder. Doesn’t that prove that I have free will?

Things seem to be returning to normal, he thought, but couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud when he realized he was crawling through a secret passage dirt tunnel toward a drainage pipe where an army of rats awaited to accompany him home. Normal indeed.

The child was left alone to die in the hallway. Here, in the dawn, was mortality itself. In the city were places to fall from which one could never emerge -- dark dreams and slow death, the death of children, suffering without grace or redemption, ultimate and eternal loss. The memory of the child stayed with Peter. But that was not to be the end of it, for reality went around in a twisting ring. Even the irredeemable would be redeemed, and there was a balance for everything. There had to be. The old man said, "Nothing is random, nor will anything ever be, whether a long string of perfectly blue days that begin and end in golden dimness, the most seemingly chaotic political acts, the rise of a great city, the crystalline structure of a gem that has never seen the light, the distributions of fortune, what time the milkman gets up, or the position of the electron. Even electrons, supposedly the paragons of unpredictability, do exactly as they are told. Of this, one is certain. And yet, there is a wonderful anarchy, in that the milkman chooses when to arise, the rat picks the tunnel into which he will dive when the subway comes rushing down the track from Borough Hall, and the snowflake will fall as it will. How can this be? If nothing is random, and everything is predetermined, how can there be free will? The answer to that is simple. Nothing is predetermined, it is determined, or was determined, or will be determined. No matter, it all happened at once, in less than an instant, and time was invented because we cannot comprehend in one glance the enormous and detailed canvas that we have been given - so we track it, in linear fashion piece by piece. Time however can be easily overcome; not by chasing the light, but by standing back far enough to see it all at once. The universe is still and complete. Everything that ever was, is. Everything that ever will be, is. In all possible combinations. Though we imagine that it is in motion and unfinished, it is quite finished and quite astonishingly beautiful. So any event is intimately and sensibly tied to all others. All rivers run full to the sea; those who are apart are brought together; the lost ones are redeemed; the dead come back to life; the perfectly blue days that have begun and ended in golden dimness continue, immobile and accessible. And, when all is perceived in such a way as to obviate time, justice becomes apparent not as something that will be, but something that is.

One of the apprentices whispered loudly, “I’m not surprised he wants to hide in a Twoleg nest—once a kittypet, always a kittypet.” Fireheart bristled. He hadn’t heard that insult for several moons. But the story that a kittypet had joined a Clan must have made rich gossip at any Gathering. Of course WindClan would know. He whipped around and glared at the apprentice. “You’ve spent two moons living in a Twoleg tunnel. Does that make you a rat?

Non… Gratum… Anum… Ro—’ I can’t make that out.” “Rodentum,” Bosch said. Sakai looked at him. “Dog Latin,” Bosch told him. “Not worth a rat’s ass. He was a tunnel rat. Vietnam.

Greta knows that for me there are no good parties. I’m okay with one or two people, but more than that and I turn into a naked mole rat. That’s what being shy feels like. Like my skin is too thin, the light too bright. Like the best place I could possibly be is in a tunnel far under the cool, dark earth. Someone asks me a question and I stare at them, empty-faced, my brain jammed up with how hard I’m trying to find something interesting to say. And in the end, all I can do is nod or shrug, because the light of their eyes looking at me, waiting for me, is just too much to take. And then it’s over and there’s one more person in the world who thinks I’m a complete and total waste of time.

What kind of party?” “The good kind.” “Yeah, right.” Greta knows that for me there are no good parties. I’m okay with one or two people, but more than that and I turn into a naked mole rat. That’s what being shy feels like. Like my skin is too thin, the light is too bright. Like the best place I could possibly be is in a tunnel far under the cool, dark earth. Someone asks me a question and I stare at them, empty-faced, my brain jammed up with how hard I’m trying to find something interesting to say. And in the end, all I can do is nod or shrug, because the light of their eyes looking at me, waiting for me, is just too much to take. And then it’s over and there’s one more person in the world who thinks I’m a complete and total waste of space. The worst thing is the stupid hopefulness. Every new party, every new bunch of people, and I start thinking that maybe this is my chance. That I’m going to be normal this time. A new leaf. A fresh start. But then I find myself at the party, thinking, Oh, yeah. This again. So I stand at the edge of things, crossing my fingers, praying nobody will try to look me in the eye. And the good thing is, they usually don’t.

They would sit down or kneel, not facing the hole, listening to the ground beneath them, imagining cobwebs and ghosts, whatever was down there - the tunnel walls squeezing in - how the flashlight seemed impossibly heavy in the hand and how it was tunnel vision in the strictest sense, compression in all ways, even time, and how you had to wiggle in - ass and elbows - a swallowed-up feeling - and how you found yourself worrying about odd things: Will your flashlight go dead? Do rats carry rabies? If you screamed, how far would the sound carry? Would your buddies hear it? Would they have the courage to drag you out? In some respects, though not many, the waiting was worse than the tunnel itself. Imagination was a killer.

Ever since this day I have dreamt sometimes... I, a street rat in my soul, dream even now... that if it were possible to life this littered, paved Manhattan from the earth... and all its torn and dripping pipes and conduits and tunnels and tracks and cables--all of it, like a scab from new skin underneath--how seedlings would sprout and freshets bubble up, and brush and grasses would grow over the rolling hills...

After we had turned from the Muski into the narrower ways of the bazaar, the starlight was cut off by the houses looming high on either hand, and the farther we penetrated into the heart of the maze, the darker it became. The protruding balconies with their latticed wooden shutters jutted into the street, almost meeting overhead. Occasionally a lighted window spilled a golden glimmer onto the pathway, but most of the windows were dark. Parallel slits of light marked closed shutters. The darkness teemed with foul movement; rats glided behind heaps of refuse; lean, vicious stray dogs slunk into even narrower passageways as we approached. The rank stench of rotting fruit, human waste and infected air filled the tunnel-like street like a palpable liquid, clogging the nostrils and the lungs.

From the experience of state militias during the American Revolution, to the Spanish-American War; from the legendary Merrill’s Marauders, the highly skilled and toughened American jungle fighters who served in the Burma-India theater in World War II, to the members of the OSS (the Office of Strategic Services), who on specific assignments fought alongside native guerrilla forces, the Americans had a long and honorable guerrilla-fighting tradition. Where and why this was forgotten in Vietnam remains a mystery.

Underground, in the dark wet hole that was home to the spiders and the rats, something moved. It had no right to be down there but it belonged nowhere else. Half drowned half alive it pushed the water ahead of it into the culverts and drains as it passed. Right under the city and out into the suburbs and fields these tunnels fed into the river and the network of canals that had fed the industrial revolution. A thousand eyes, some blinded, that had never seen the sun strained in the soiled darkness. It struggled on and it listened with a thousand ears not its own and it cried.

station. I had a sinking feeling that our future lay somewhere inside one of these dark, gaping mouths. “Oh, I hope we don’t have to go mucking about in there,” said Olive. “Of course we do,” Enoch said. “It isn’t a proper holiday until we’ve plumbed every available sewer.” The pigeon bopped rightward. We started down the tracks. I hopscotched around an oily puddle and a legion of rats scurried away from my feet, sending Olive into Bronwyn’s arms with a shriek. The tunnel yawned before us, black and menacing. It occurred to me that this would be a very bad place to meet a hollowgast. Here there’d be no walls to climb, no houses to shelter in, no tomb lids to close behind us. It was long and straight and lit only by a few red bulbs, glinting feebly at scattered intervals. I walked faster. The darkness closed around us. When I was a kid, I used to play hide-and-seek with my dad. I was always the hider and he the seeker. I was really good at it, primarily because I, unlike most kids of four or five, had the then-peculiar ability to be extremely quiet for

Popular success is a palace built for a writer by publishers, journalists, admirers, and professional reputation makers, in which a silent army of termites, rats, dry rot, and death-watch beetles are tunnelling away, till, at the very moment of completion, it is ready to fall down.

There is only one reason people have children: they're programmed to. Whatever reasons they may have for it - selflessness, wanting to pass something on, having so much love to give - I don't believe they choose children any more than naked mole rats decide to start tunneling. Human beings are basically big complicated Rube Goldberg contraptions constructed by genes to copy themselves, and only as an unintended side effect build mosques, make screwball comedies, and launch interplanetary probes.

She had never felt claustrophobic within the tunnels before, now she felt like a caged rat running aimlessly forward. If they got out of this she swore she would never return to these caves. Then again, they could never return to them anyway, they would never be safe again.

To my delight, the man undies are a jumbled mess. They aren’t folded or rolled or placed in the drawer in any sort of organized way. Which means the entire drawer is basically just like a cozy, squishy, surprisingly nice-smelling bed. I just want to curl up and take a nap in here. My rat dive-bombs into it like she’s swimming in a pool, tunnels through one, and pops back up with a pair wrapped around our body. Pleased, my rat starts climbing out. Oh, okay. I guess we’re stealing a pair of boxers. Lovely.

The sober tunnel is dark, it’s tough, and the only way through is through. There are no trapdoors. No escape from feeling what you feel. But it’s an honest-to-goodness, clean, finite tunnel. No rats. And the light is always there at the end, even if it does seem very far away at times. You know you will get to the end, if you just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

There are subterranean communities all over the world, in catacombs, sewers and abandoned metros. The Tunnel People in Las Vegas, the Empire of the Dead in Paris, the Rat Tribe in Beijing.

From the experience of state militias during the American Revolution, to the Spanish-American War; from the legendary Merrill’s Marauders, the highly skilled and toughened American jungle fighters who served in the Burma-India theater in World War II, to the members of the OSS (the Office of Strategic Services), who on specific assignments fought alongside native guerrilla forces, the Americans had a long and honorable guerrilla-fighting tradition.

Can you sleep?” he asks. “Sometimes.” “Lucky bastard. I piss the bed,” he admits. “Probably twice a month. I don’t ever remember the bloodydamn dreams, but my body sure as hell does.” He was in the thick of the fighting to free Mars. The tunnel wars there were even nastier than the block fighting on Luna. Even the Obsidians don’t sing songs of their victories in the tunnels. The Rat War, they call it. Over the course of three years, Dancer personally liberated over a hundred mines with the Sons of Ares. If Fitchner is the father of the Rising, it’d be fair to call Dancer the favorite uncle, despite the dissolution of the Sons of Ares.

The waterfront in Exeter was as familiar to Hammett as the back of his own hand and a boat receiving parcels there would be unlikely to attract much notice. It also meant Hammett could disappear into one of the many tunnels or escape routes like a rat up a drainpipe

You’ve spent two moons living in a Twoleg tunnel. Does that make you a rat?

Practice & Ash 2. Scales of the Malefic Viper 3. Lucenti Plains 4. Pondering on Ponds 5. Introspection 6. Intermission 1 – Viridia (1/2) 7. Intermission 1 – The Malefic Viper (2/2) 8. Moment of Curiosity 9. Cleaning Up the Plains 10. The Great White Stag 11. No Rest for the Wicked 12. Loot & Healing 13. True Protagonist 14. Into the Dark 15. The Right Way 16. Dark Mana & Dark Tunnels 17. Many Rats! Handle it! 18. Dark Attunement 19. Nest Watcher 20. A Final Gift 21. Willful Ignorance 22. The Balance Broken 23. Beers & Exposition 24. Of Fate & Destiny 25. William & Jake 26. Spring Cleaning = Loot 3.0 27. Valley of Tusks 28. Going with the Flow 29. The Right Way Forward 30. Mana 101 31. A Thoughtful Touch 32. Pigs for Slaughter 33. Limit Break 34. Falling Rocks 35. Horde Leader 36. Next Target: King of the Forest 37. King 38. Eclipse 39. Fall 40. When the Curtains Fall 41. Tutorial Rewards: Titles & Math 42. Tutorial Rewards: Narrowing Down Options 43. Tutorial Rewards: Getting Stuff 44. Intermission 2 - Life after Death (Casper) 45. Records 46. A Godlike Getaway 47. Danger Bath 48. Second Part? 49. Embracing Power 50. Defiance & Gains 51. You know, I'm something of a sage myself 52. Homecoming 53. Intermission 3 - Carmen 54. Intermission 4 - Noboru Miyamoto 55. Intermission 5 - Eron 56. The Blue Marble 57. One Step Mile 58. Pylon of Civilization 59. Intermission 6 - Matteo (1/2) 60. Intermission 6 - Matteo (2/2) 61. The Times They Are A-Changin' 62. Monsters 63. Living with the Consequences 64. Points of View 65. Going Down 66. Two Kinds of People 67. Big Blue Mushroom 68. Delegating (avoiding) Responsibilities 69. Construction Plans 70. First World Problems 71. How to Train Your Dragon Wings 72. Freedom

I’m not surprised he wants to hide in a Twoleg nest—once a kittypet, always a kittypet.” Fireheart bristled. He hadn’t heard that insult for several moons. But the story that a kittypet had joined a Clan must have made rich gossip at any Gathering. Of course WindClan would know. He whipped around and glared at the apprentice. “You’ve spent two moons living in a Twoleg tunnel. Does that make you a rat?

During the Blitz of 1940–1941, for example, as German bombs rained down on London, isolated populations of Culex mosquitoes were confined to the air-raid tunnel shelters of the Underground Tube along with the city’s resilient citizens. These trapped mosquitoes quickly adapted to feed on mice, rats, and humans instead of birds and are now a species of mosquito distinct from their aboveground parental counterparts.* What should have taken thousands of years of evolution was accomplished by these mining sapper mosquitoes in less than one hundred years. “In another 100 years time,” jokes Richard Jones, former president of the British Entomological and Natural History Society, “there may be separate Circle Line, Metropolitan Line and Jubilee Line mosquito species in the tunnels below London.

He would usually go into the subway tunnels, where he could be alone. That’s where he preferred to get high. There was no one around, but the rats and cockroaches, to see him at his all-time low. He was too embarrassed to be around people whenever he got high. At least, in the tunnels he could hide from the rest of the world.

I’m talking about people who live in some of our most affluent cities,’ says O’Casey, ‘but they’re driven to live below the earth. People who—for whatever reason—aren’t welcome on the surface: homeless people, addicts, the HIV positive. There are subterranean communities all over the world, in catacombs, sewers and abandoned metros. The Tunnel People in Las Vegas, the Empire of the Dead in Paris, the Rat Tribe in Beijing. A lot of them are proper societies, with electricity and phone lines, even churches and restaurants sometimes. The Rat Tribe in Beijing are mostly migrant workers, some of them brought in to build for the Olympics. The only place they can afford to live is underground, in tunnels and old air-raid shelters.

Fredi had always focused on getting kids excited to learn. He cared less about covering the required curriculum and more about finding hands-on projects. To many students, school felt sterile and bureaucratic. Fredi’s music was just one way he tried to change the ambience. It didn’t necessarily matter if they liked it. It was enough to be different. He also fought for unstructured time in the school day. When he arrived at Carl Hayden in 1987, he started a class called Science Seminar. There was no curriculum. Fredi just told students to find something fun to build or an idea to test. Over the years, students had embarked on a variety of unusual projects. One student tried to teach color-blind rats the differences among colors. Another student constructed a 1:60 clay model of downtown Phoenix, placed it in a wind tunnel, and blew carbon dioxide across it. The goal: determine how architecture could be used to increase air circulation and help dissipate trapped air pollution. Fredi’s room became the refuge of tinkerers, inventors, and frustrated dreamers.

This was a pattern America would repeat throughout Latin America where any government, no matter how corrupt, brutal or oppressive, was supported in preference to popular socialism.