Victim Or Villain Quotes

If we can forgive what’s been done to us . . . If we can forgive what we’ve done to others . . . If we can leave all of our stories behind. Our being villains or victims. Only then can we maybe rescue the world.

It is so easy at times for a lonely individual to begin fantasizing about what the people outside are saying about him and, in result, irrationally and fearfully, and sometimes angrily, fancy himself a villain.

But I’m starting to think that most villains aren’t evil—they are just misunderstood. Or victims of that most manipulative force: love.

You will never get the truth out of a Narcissist. The closest you will ever come is a story that either makes them the victim or the hero, but never the villain.

But what the world fails to realize is that a villain is just a victim whose story hasn't been told.

Evey: Who are you? V. : Who? Who is but the form following the function of what and what I am is a man in a mask. Evey: Well I can see that. V. : Of course you can, I’m not questioning your powers of observation, I’m merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man who he is. Evey: Oh, right. V. : But on this most auspicious of nights, permit me then, in lieu of the more commonplace soubriquet, to suggest the character of this dramatis persona. Voila! In view humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the “vox populi” now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a bygone vexation stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin, van guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it’s my very good honour to meet you and you may call me V. Evey: Are you like a crazy person? V. : I’m quite sure they will say so.

...a villain is just a victim whose story hasn't been told.

I’ve grown quite weary of the spunky heroines, brave rape victims, soul-searching fashionistas that stock so many books. I particularly mourn the lack of female villains — good, potent female villains. Not ill-tempered women who scheme about landing good men and better shoes (as if we had nothing more interesting to war over), not chilly WASP mothers (emotionally distant isn’t necessarily evil), not soapy vixens (merely bitchy doesn’t qualify either). I’m talking violent, wicked women. Scary women. Don’t tell me you don’t know some. The point is, women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves — to the point of almost parodic encouragement — we’ve left no room to acknowledge our dark side. Dark sides are important. They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids.

Voila! In view humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the “vox populi” now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a bygone vexation stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin, van guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it’s my very good honour to meet you and you may call me V.

I'd killed him in the end, but revenge only makes things all better in the movies. In real life, once the villain is dead the trauma lives on inside the victims.

MANIFESTO OF THE BRAVE AND BROKENHEARTED There is no greater threat to the critics and cynics and fearmongers Than those of us who are willing to fall Because we have learned how to rise With skinned knees and bruised hearts; We choose owning our stories of struggle, Over hiding, over hustling, over pretending. When we deny our stories, they define us. When we run from struggle, we are never free. So we turn toward truth and look it in the eye. We will not be characters in our stories. Not villains, not victims, not even heroes. We are the authors of our lives. We write our own daring endings. We craft love from heartbreak, Compassion from shame, Grace from disappointment, Courage from failure. Showing up is our power. Story is our way home. Truth is our song. We are the brave and brokenhearted. We are rising strong.

Dyadic completion,” Paul would’ve told Claire. “The human brain tends to assume that, if there’s a victim, there has to be a villain.

He was every hero, every villain, every victim and every aggressor. He was the beginning and end of everything

I'm starting to think that most villains aren't evil - they are just misundertood. Or victims of that manipulative force: Love. Love causes war and causes death, breaks souls and breaks lives. It runs people into the ground, makes them behave like moronic, immoral beasts, before it dances off, leaving only destruction in its wake - hearts blown wide open for the whole world to see. Love puts the blame on the poor souls who succumb to it. Love, that ultimate villainess. She makes examples of us all. And yet we still come back for more. We keep playing the role she gives us. For one more chance to feel alive.

It proves that time, distance, and devastation allow people enough opportunity to craft villains out of people they don’t even know. But Kenna was never a villain. She was a victim.

Every myth contains multiple timelines within itself: the time in which it is set, the time it is first told, and every retelling afterwards. Myths may be the home of the miraculous, but they are also mirrors of us. Which version of a story we choose to tell, which characters we place in the foreground, which ones we allow to fade into the shadows: these reflect both the teller and the reader, as much as they show the characters of the myth. We have made space in our storytelling to rediscover women who have been lost or forgotten. They are not villains, victims, wives and monsters: they are people.

I'll fight them for you. I always carry a book with me, and they fucking hurt when you get smashed in the face with one." He shuts the car off and we both get out. "You know this from experience?" "No, just by the sound my victims make.

A villain is a victim who's story hasn't been told." - The Evil Queen

Someone with a victim mindset is always looking for a villain to blame and a situation to suffer from.

Binary There are two kinds of people in the world. Male and Female. Gay and Straight. Black and White. Normal and Weird. Cis and Trans. There are two kinds of people in the world. Saints and Sinners. Victims and Villains. Cruel and Kind. Guilty and Innocent. There are two kinds of people in the world. Just two. Just two. Only two.

I think villains are not those who are blinded by their judgment and believe the acts of cruelty are justice. Those are just victims to darkness. True villains are fully rational – the ones who commit cruelty for the sake of it.

I'd learned, though, that life isn't a movie. Though it's nice to believe in white-hatted heroes and black-hatted villains, people are a lot more complex than that.

Go ahead, blame the victim! The villain is my favourite role to play.

A villain is just a victim whose story hasn't been told.

This is not a victim rushing to meet her savior. This is a queen considering whether or not to treat with an enemy.

Yet the average white person also has a responsibility. He has to resist the impulse to seize upon the rioter as the exclusive villain. He has to rise up with indignation against his own municipal, state and national governments to demand that the necessary reforms be instituted which alone will protect him. If he reserves his resentment only for the Negro, he will be the victim by allowing those who have the greatest culpability to evade responsibility. Social justice and progress are the absolute guarantors of riot prevention. There is no other answer. Constructive social change will bring certain tranquillity; evasions will merely encourage turmoil. Negroes hold only one key to the double lock of peaceful change. The other is in the hands of the white community.

Sure, call me Hades!

You are good enough to be the heroes you worship, bad enough to be the villains you despise, and vulnerable enough to be the victims you sympathize with.

There aren’t actually heroes or victims or villains. Not in our story, and probably not in anyone else’s. I know you know this deep down: it’s all in the edit.

...I'm here on an island in the Caribbean, being told I need to talk to the dolphins in the middle of a labor action about some whales that might have torpedoes, armed by a secret society of villains who want access to a storeroom full of objects probably looted from the victims of the friggin' Nazis and who are maybe willing to blow up -my volcano lair- to get it.

He couldn’t count how many times he had seen desire turn to fear in his latest victims’ eyes when they learned that they were the dinner and not the date. Not that he had any qualms about playing with his food, first. He liked a good fuck as much as anyone.

But what the world fails to realize is that a villain is just a victim whose story hasn’t been told.

what the world fails to realize is that a villain is just a victim whose story hasn’t been told. Everything

But what the world fails to realize is that a villain is just a victim who's story hasn't been told.

Men make horror films about fantastic creatures and outlandish villains and beautiful victims. Women make horror films about what happens when the wrong guy gets into your car. You ever wonder why that is?” Another flick of his fingers. “That’s a grotesque mischaracterization.” I silently agreed with him. Sometimes women also make horror films about what happens when the wrong guy gets into your house.

It is, however, not only undignified to idealize political victims; it is also very dangerous. One of our political actualities is that the victims of political torture and injustice are often no better than their tormentors. They are only waiting to change places with the latter. Of course, if one puts cruelty first this makes no difference. It does not matter whether the victim of torture is a decent man or a villain. No one deserves to be subjected to the appalling instruments of cruelty.

Every addiction story wants a villain. But America has never been able to decide whether addicts are victims or criminals, whether addiction is an illness or a crime. So we relieve the pressure of cognitive dissonance with various provisions of psychic labor - some addicts got pitied, others get blamed - that keep overlapping and evolving to suit our purposes: Alcoholics are tortured geniuses. Drug addicts are deviant zombies. Male drunks are thrilling. Female drunks are bad moms. White addicts get their suffering witnessed. Addicts of color get punished. Celebrity addicts get posh rehab with equine therapy. Poor addicts get hard time. Someone carrying crack gets five years in prison, while someone driving drunk gets a night in jail, even though drunk driving kills more people every year than cocaine. In her seminal account of mass incarceration, The New Jim Crow, legal scholar Michelle Alexander points out that many of these biases tell a much larger story about 'who is viewed as disposable - someone to be purged from the body politic - and who is not.' They aren't incidental discrepancies - between black and white addicts, drinkers and drug users - but casualties of our need to vilify some people under the guise of protecting others.

But above all, I am terrified of making my mother the villain in my life rather than showing how she has been a victim. Will I be betraying her in this essay for her early disloyalty to me? With terror as my companion, I dip into my life and begin work on myself.

Do you see me as hero, villain or victim? If yes, then you are not doing darshan. If you can empathize with the fears that make people heroes, villains and victims, then you are doing darshan. For then you look beyond the boundaries that separate you from the rest.

I'm not saying a hunt isn't something we crave, but to a man, we hate to be manipulated. And this is our town, as much as any human's. Our home, and our neighbours and perhaps even our friends. You fall into the trap of thinking as Fallon does, that there are only heroes and villains, monsters and victims, and nothing between. We all stand in that space, crossing the line to one side, then the other. Even you.

Yet the average white person also has a responsibility. He has to resist the impulse to seize upon the rioter as the exclusive villain. He has to rise up with indignation against his own municipal, state and national governments to demand that the necessary reforms be instituted which alone will protect him. If he reserves his resentment only for the Negro, he will be the victim by allowing those who have the greatest culpability to evade responsibility.

Stop torturing me with everything I wanted and nothing I could have. ... The path to who we want to be is winding, at best. Everything was justified because we were all the victims in our story. ... There’s no one we make suffer more than those we love ... The role of the villain is only determined by who’s telling the story.

It's the only way anything will change. Because we are both mother and child, cause and effect, villain and victim

The situation was a mess. It's way easier when you have someone to blame. We want a victim and a villain and a simple story and for everyone to play their role.

It is the greatest victims who make the greatest villains, and the greatest victims who make the greatest heroes.

I will never understand why women let men decide if they get to be the villain or the victim in their story.

I am Captain James Hook! I am no victim; I create them! I do not have bad dreams; I inspire them!

completing the programme.

No one else sees you as the villain here, but you gotta stop being a victim babe.

But when it comes to the villains and victimizers of history, we have a failure of empathetic imagination.

How good would it feel to stop being the victim? To be the villain for once?

But what the world fails to realise is a villain is just a victim whose story hasn't been told.

Yet there are no victims in the world, and no villains. And neither are you a victim of the choices of others.

Everyone blames the victim. And then the victim becomes the villain.

Do not play with a person's heart because someone played with yours. The victim becoming the villain is not cute.

They are neither victims nor villains. They are just people, with differing needs and levels of functioning.

Today, our culture tends to celebrate victims over heroes. We praise weakness and a lack of discipline while villainizing aggression and strength.

Sometimes in our story we are the victim, sometimes the martyr and sometimes the villain.

In the PR business, we try to convert a villain into a vindicator or a victim as fast as possible.

The world tried to make me the victim, so I became its villain.

We like to be able to separate heroes, villains, and victims. It’s convenient for a simple narrative, but it isn’t always reflective of the truth.

Villainy was not simply the red raging glory of inflicting well-deserved pain; it was also the curdling knowledge of having inflicted injustice. A villain simply did not care. Only the victims did.

It is a disquieting fact that we tend to find villains more interesting than their victims – in fiction and in reality – but the Nuremberg Trials revealed that in real life criminals and murderers are invariably colourless individuals, who lack personality as well as compassion and conscience. It is their victims who frequently display courage and endurance beyond normal human experience. And

Even there in the midst of my belief that there was nothing worth salvaging, I could feel the truth of his words. Our circus act, begun at the Biltmore Hotel four years earlier, had mostly been a success. To admit as much, though, would be to undermine my argument. He would take the admission and twist it around in some way that would make him the victim and me the villain. I couldn't say what I knew: that I was the villain, too.

Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin van-guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition.

I cannot forgive myself for what I did. It has long been one of my strictest principles not to interfere with the life of any individual, let alone attempt to shorten it. If an exception were to be made, Dr. Helvitius would surely qualify. It might be argued that, having neither scruples nor conscience, he had no claim upon the conscience of someone else—least of all, his intended victims. But that is a question to be resolved by a judgment higher than mine. In the event, my responsibility toward Vesper outweighed every other consideration. I can state in all honesty: I meant only to wound him. I cannot forgive myself—for missing the villain completely.

The tragedy with villains is not just the victims of their crimes and criminal acts, but the opportunity costs of them choosing criminal activities instead of doing good. The World loses someone who could have been great.

If I see myself as an unwilling detective with a desire for justice, does that make her illness an unsolved crime? If so, who is the villain and who is the victim? Attempting to decipher her aches and pains, their triggers

Preppy is capable of both cruelty and mercy, of both murder and salvation. He’s been the victim, the villain, and the hero. What I don’t think he’ll ever realize is that this gives him a power most men would dare not aspire to.

I really can’t tell if you’re the villain or the hero of this story, goddess of the soul,” Seshat says. “I am myself. Those definitions always depend on who’s telling the story and how it is told. What I won’t be again is the victim.

Then the evil presence steals her innocence, and she is blamed for his actions. I mean, come on. I couldn’t help but feel that this story is a reflection of modern views of rape: blaming the victim instead of prosecuting the villain.

The past doesn’t change, of course; it lies behind you, petrified, immutable. What changes is the way you see it. Perception is everything. It turns villains into heroes and victims into collaborators. Hilary Mantel, A Change of Climate

Make me the villain of that night, Mitch. Wash your hands of any blame. But don’t act like Serena Clarke was merely a victim or even a casualty of circumstance. She was an enemy, a weapon, and killing her wasn’t just smart, or easy—it was right.

You can be a champion and a loser. A victim and a criminal. A hero and a villain. It just makes you more realistic. More human.” I exhaled slowly. “Just because you’ve sinned does not make you a sinner. Some of us who’ve sinned still have the heart of a saint.” … “I know I do.

We choose owning our stories of struggle, Over hiding, over hustling, over pretending. When we deny our stories, they define us. When we run from struggle, we are never free. So we turn toward truth and look it in the eye. We will not be characters in our stories. Not villains, not victims, not even heroes. We are the authors of our lives. We write our own daring endings. We craft love from heartbreak, Compassion from shame, Grace from disappointment, Courage from failure. Showing up is our power. Story is our way home. Truth is our song. We are the brave and brokenhearted.

And sometimes they’d argue about which of them was the villain or the victim, the martyr or the hero. “That wasn’t you that got stung by the bee, helping Grandma after she fainted at Troy’s party, it was me!” And Joy would think, It was Logan’s party, not Troy’s, and there was no bee, it was a wasp, and no one got stung, Amy just thought she did, and none of you helped, and Grandma didn’t faint, she passed out drunk. Her children refused to be corrected. That’s what they remembered, therefore that was what happened, and when their memories didn’t match up with each other’s, they held on tight to their versions of the stories, as stubborn as their damned father.

What have I done, Obie?" Obie flung his hand in the air, the gesture encompassing all the rotten things that had occur under Archie's command, at Archie's direction. The ruined kids, the capsized hopes. Renault last fall and poor Tubs Casper and all the others including even the faculty. Like Brother Eugene. "You know what you've done, Archie. I don't need to draw up a list-" "You blame me for everything, right, Obie? You and Carter and all the others. Archie Costello, the bad guy. The villain. Archie, the bastard. Trinity would be such a beautiful place without Archie Costello. Right, Obie? But it's not me, Obie, it's not me...." "Not you?" Obie cried, fury gathering in his throat, his chest, his guts. "What the hell do you mean, not you? This could have been a beautiful place to be, Archie. A beautiful time for all of us. Christ, who else, if not you?" "Do you really want to know who?" "Okay, who then?" Impatient with his crap, the old Archie crap. "It's you, Obie. You and Carter and Bunting and Leon and everybody. But especially you, Obie. Nobody forced you to do anything, buddy. Nobody made you join the Vigils. Nobody twisted your arm to make you secretary of the Vigils. Nobody pain you to keep a notebook with all that crap about the students, all their weaknesses, soft points. The notebook made your job easier, didn't it, Obie? And what was your job? Finding the victims. You found them, Obie. You found Renault and Tubs Casper and Gendreau-the first one, remember, when we were sophomores?-how you loved it all, didn't you Obie?" Archie flicked a finger against the metal of the car, and the ping was like a verbal exclamation mark. "Know what, Obie? You could have said no anytime, anytime at all. But you didn't...." Archie's voice was filled with contempt, and he pronounced Obie's name as if it were something to be flushed down a toilet. "Oh, I'm an easy scapegoat, Obie. For you and everybody else at Trinity. Always have been. But you had free choice, buddy. Just like Brother Andrew always says in Religion. Free choice, Obie, and you did the choosing....

For this equality belongs to the post-Renaissance world of ideology-of political magic and the alchemical science” of politics. Envy is the basis of its broad appeal. And rampant envy, the besetting virus of modern society, is the most predictable result of insistence upon its realization. Furthermore, hue and cry over equality of opportunity and equal rights leads, a fortiori, to a final demand for equality of condition. Under its pressure self respect gives way in the large majority of men who have not reached the level of their expectation, who have no support from an inclusive identity, and who hunger for “revenge” on those who occupy a higher station and will (they expect) continue to enjoy that advantage. The end result is visible in the spiritual proletarians of the “lonely crowd.” Bertrand de Jouvenel has described the process which produces such non-persons in his memorable study, On Power. They are the natural pawns of an impersonal and omnicompetent Leviathan. And to insure their docility such a state is certain to recruit a large “new class” of men, persons superior in “ability” and authority, both to their ostensible “masters” among the people and to such anachronisms as stand in their progressive way. Such is the evidence of the recent past and particularly of American history. Arrant individualism, fracturing and then destroying the hope of amity and confederation, the communal bond and the ancient vision of the good society as an extrapolation from family, is one villain in this tale. Another is rationalized cowardice, shame, and ingratitude hidden behind the disguise of self-sufficiency or the mask of injured merit. Interdependence, which secures dignity and makes of equality a mere irrelevance, is the principal victim.

Consistently, in all studies on millionaires, the lion’s share of them (around 80 percent) have an optimistic mindset. Villains and victims are not the world changers and builders of the more beautiful tomorrow. Yes, a condescending pessimist may sound smart in casual conversations, but at the end of the day, being an optimist will make you not only wealthy but also more fun to be around.

Over 50 per cent of all American crime over the last 75 years has been blamed on drugs, because drugs are the single most convenient scapegoat for a society that is unable to blame itself. When it comes to explaining the presence of those drugs themselves, blame is still not placed on American consumers, but on the foreign supplies who grow the stuff. In America, there are no villains - only victims.

In the absence of moral leadership, there are just too many competing stories. For every call to become an activist for racial justice, there is a well-rehearsed message that says that activists are pushing too hard. For every chance to speak up against the casual racism White people so often hear from other White folks, there is a countervailing pressure not to rock the boat. If you want to believe that White people are the real victims in race relations and that the stereotypes of people of color as criminal and lazy are common sense rather than White supremacy tropes, there is a glide path to take you there. And when your life trajectory has taught you that the system works pretty ok if you do the right things, then its easy to wonder why whole groups of people can’t seem to do better for themselves. Whichever story you choose to believe, nobody wants to be the villain. So there is an available set of justifications as to why your view is morally right.

There are so many familiar clichés in Cinderella, aren’t there? Stepmothers are cruel. Stepsisters are jealous and selfish. Beautiful girls are helpless victims, and only a handsome prince can save them. But real life is a bit more complicated. Sometimes villains have battles of their own to fight, and victims are actually heroines just waiting for their chance to rise. And sometimes the man you fall in love with isn’t the rich, powerful prince—it’s the man who would do anything for you, the man who makes you feel beautiful.

Love is metaphysical gravity.” By Gary Zukav GUEST COMMENTATOR Bucky said, “Love is metaphysical gravity.” I agree. What else could it be? Without gravity you would float like an astronaut in a spacecraft. Up and down would mean nothing to you. Your slightest motion would send you tumbling head over feet or rolling uncontrollably. If you pushed hard against a wall, you would shoot backward fast until you hit another wall. If the lights in the spacecraft went out, you would have no way at all of orienting yourself. Without love the same thing happens. Every experience of anger, jealousy, resentment, and fear sends you spinning out of control. You have no way of knowing up from down except what your anger shows you, and it always shows you that you are right and someone else is wrong, that you are a victim and someone else is a villain. The more you act in anger, jealousy, resentment, or fear, the more painful consequences you create. You careen helplessly, spinning, rolling, hitting walls you can’t avoid and colliding with others. Love grounds you. It orients you. Love brings your awareness to others and yourself. Love opens your mind and heart to others and yourself. Love settles you and gives you balance. When you choose to become sensitive and caring instead of frightened and selfish, your anger turns to appreciation, your jealousy to gratitude, and your resentment to caring. You cannot loose your orientation: When your deeds harm others, you are in fear, and when you create harmony, cooperation, sharing, and reverence for Life, you are in love. The ground beneath you is always solid.

Don't take another fucking step near my Bond or I'll rip your fucking throat out with my bare teeth." I wonder which one of the crew has been stupid enough to try to approach us because he cannot be talking to one of the Dravens like that, but then Nox says, snark dripping down his words, "She's my Bond as well." Atlas scoffs. "No, she's your punching bag, your favorite victim. She's the default villain in every one of your stories. You move even an inch closer and I'll take the whole fucking plane out to stop you. No more warnings.

Don’t take another fucking step near my Bond or I’ll rip your fucking throat out with my bare teeth.” I wonder which one of the crew has been stupid enough to try to approach us because he cannot be talking to one of the Dravens like that, but then Nox says, snark dripping down his words, “She’s my Bond as well.” Atlas scoffs. “No, she’s your punching bag, your favorite victim. She’s the default villain in every one of your stories. You move even an inch closer and I’ll take the whole fucking plane out to stop you. No more warnings.

The country, it seemed, was on the verge of a second civil war, this one over industrial slavery. But Frick was a gambler who cared little what the world thought of him. He was already a villain in the public’s eye, thanks to a disaster of epic proportions three years earlier. Frick and a band of wealthy friends had established the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club on land near an unused reservoir high in the hills above the small Pennsylvania city of Johnstown, 70 miles east of Pittsburgh. The club beautified the grounds around the dam but paid little attention to the dam itself, which held back the Conemaugh River and was in poor condition from years of neglect. On May 31, 1889, after heavy rainfall, the dam gave way, releasing nearly 5 billion gallons of water from Lake Conemaugh into Johnstown and killing 2,209 people. What became known as the Johnstown Flood caused $17 million in damages. Frick’s carefully crafted corporate structure for the club made it impossible for victims to pursue the financial assets of its members. Although he personally donated several thousands of dollars to relief efforts, Frick remained to many a scoundrel, the prototype of the uncaring robber baron of the Gilded Age.

There’s nothing wrong with being wrong. Having the ability to acknowledge and fix your wrong builds trust. It’s much easier for us to think of ourselves as the victim than it is for us to consider that we’ve been a villain. Think about all the people who have done something wrong to you. Now consider how much peace you would have if they sincerely realized the impact of their decisions, apologized, and attempted to fix it. There are some people you could never imagine coming back to do that. I’m sorry they hurt you. I wish they realized the impact their decisions had on your heart and soul. The greatest gift you can give your future is not to let that spirit of ignoring the pain you’ve caused live on through you.

The news from Delhi brings tears to everyone’s eyes. Neither Nadir Shah nor Abdali, neither the Marathas, nor the Jats, nor the Sikhs caused so much havoc as is reported to have been caused by the ill-begotten Ghulam Qadir, the grandson of Najibuddaulah, and his ruffianly gangs of Rohillas. This villain insulted and deposed Shah Alam II before putting out his eyes. May Allah burn his carcass in the fires of gehennum! Only Allah knows how long murder and looting will go on in Delhi! They will have to revive the dead to find victims and bring back some loot to be able to loot again. Delhi is said to have become like a living skeleton. Burnt in flames till every building was reduced to ashes How fair a city was the heart that love put to the fire !

What if Briony’s right?” Alistair asked. Isobel stiffened. That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. “If she is, it would be…we would be…” The ghost of an expression crossed his face. Because Isobel had never seen it on him, it took her several moments to recognize it. Hope. She squeezed his hand tight enough for him to wince. “Al. It’s just a fantasy.” The more she swelled on it, the more she realized it should’ve been no surprise that Briony had fallen victim to such notions. It wasn’t good enough for Briony to just be champion—she had to be better than all of them. The hero she’d always dreamed of. “Haven’t we always been living in a fantasy?” he murmured. Alistair had nearly sacrificed himself for her in the forest. She had kissed a spellboard coated in his blood. She had used every healing spellstone she had to drag him back to the living. But Isobel couldn’t hide from the truth any longer. When it came to the tournament, none of that mattered. They would not have a happy ending.

It is understandable that the white community should fear the outbreak of riots. They are indefensible as weapons of struggle, and Negroes must sympathize with whites who feel menaced by them. Indeed, Negroes are themselves no less menaced, and those living in the ghetto always suffer most directly from the destructive turbulence of a riot. Yet the average white person also has a responsibility. He has to resist the impulse to seize upon the rioter as the exclusive villain. He has to rise up with indignation against his own municipal, state and national governments to demand that the necessary reforms be instituted which alone will protect him. If he reserves his resentment only for the Negro, he will be the victim by allowing those who have the greatest culpability to evade responsibility. Social justice and progress are the absolute guarantors of riot prevention. There is no other answer. Constructive social change will bring certain tranquility; evasions will merely encourage turmoil. Negroes hold only one key to the double lock of peaceful change. The other is in the hands of the white community.

Prithee, sir,” Ian said, controlling his impatience, “tell us what Dougal said.” “He said he’d tell the world that he’s had his way with our Lina, even shared her with his men. Och, but I wanted to hang him from the tree outside me gate right then! In short, if Dougal canna have her, he’ll murder her reputation. So, in my fury, I’ve condemned my daughter to the sad future of an unmarried, unwanted woman. A future in which others will revile her, if Dougal has his say. Och, I’m a villain m’self to do such a vile thing. Mayhap I should think more on it, unless . . .” He looked at Rob, who stared silently, blankly back at him. After a glance at Ian, Andrew chose a point midway between the two men and said with a slight, self-deprecating shrug, “I dinna suppose ye’d . . . either o’ ye . . . be willing to marry the poor lassie and save her from such a dreadful fate.” Ian saw the pit yawning before him, but he barely heeded it. Having saved Lina from one wretched fate, he did not want to watch her fall victim to another. Impulsively, he said, “I . . . I’d be willing to give the idea some thought, sir.” “Good lad,” Andrew said cheerfully. “I’ll let ye have her.

Triggers include: Abortion (backstory) Anal sex Autassassinophilia Attempted sexual assault Bullying Cannabis growing (and dealing) Car accident Castration Child assassins (backstory) Child porn (secondary character backstory) Child sexual abuse (backstory) Choking Collaring Coprophilia (brief mention) Cults Date rape drugs (by minor antagonist) Desecration of a corpse Desecration of a grave Dismemberment Doxxing Erotophonophilia Execution Fear play Financial abuse (by minor antagonist) Forced abortion (backstory) Gang rape (to side character) Gaslighting Grooming (backstory) Hallucinations Human centipede (on minor villains) Humiliation Imprisonment Improper use of a thigh bone Improper use of extension cables Improper use of holy water Knife play Mask play Medical misconduct Medication tampering Memory loss Mental illness Miscarriage (backstory) Murder Online harassment Osteophilia Phrogging Pornography Primal kink Rape (of rapists) Sadism Sexual harassment Snuff movies Somnophilia Spanking Stalking Suicide Suspension bondage Teacher-student relationship (backstory) Torture Trauma Victim blaming (by minor antagonist) Vigilante justice Reader discretion is advised. If you find any of these topics distressing, please choose a different book. Your mental health matters.

That's a rather subversive idea, isn't it? "Do you think so? I don't. If it is subversive, then everything else is too, even breathing. I feel and think as naturally and necessarily as I breathe. If men hate each other, then there is not hope. We will all be the victims of that hate. We will slaughter each other in wars we don't want and for which we're not responsible. They'll put a flag in front of us and fill ours ears with words. And why? To plant the seeds for a new war, to create more hatred, to create new flags and new words. Is that why we're here? To have children and hurl them into the fiery furnace? To build cities and then raze them to the ground? To long for peace and have war instead? "And would love solve everything," asked Able with a sad, slightly ironic smile. "I don't know. It's the only thing we haven't tried so far..." "And will we be in time?" "Possibly. If those who suffer can be convinced that it's true, then yes, we might be in time..." He paused, as if assailed by a sudden thought, "But don't forget, Abel, you must love with a love that is lucid and active! And make sure that the active side never forgets abut the lucid side and that the active side never commits the same kind of villainous deeds as those who want men to hate each other. Active, but lucid. And above all, lucid!

Another painful irony is that, in exile, many refugees strive to stay alive, while watching an absurd show of fraud politicians, experts, pundits, academics, and journalists on the empire’s payroll fighting about them merely to serve their own careers and fortunes. Some promise to imprison refugees, some promise to build walls to stop their influx, some promise to deny them any human rights, others promise to publicly shame and attack them. Many ask refugees to ‘fuck off and go back to their countries,’ forgetting that their empire left nothing to go back to. Yet, conveniently, nobody promises to stop waging wars against refugees. Nobody promises to stop destroying and economically exploiting the places from which refugees escaped. They discuss everything except the actual solution to the refugee crisis, which is simple: stop waging wars of any sort against other people! Everyone loves hearing themselves talking about the refugee crisis, but almost never talking with refugees in meaningful and honest ways. If they talk with them, it is only to depict them as victims or villains in the unjust courts of the empire’s arrogance. They defend them or hate them, depending on the direction in which they wish to advance their fortunes and careers. It all depends on what they need to put on their CVs at any given time or in any given situation. The last piece of this absurd game is that the careers of every self-appointed mouthpiece for refugees are almost always dependent on paychecks paid by those who directly or indirectly run the military-industrial-complex, the biggest producer of refugees. This last piece is precisely what makes breaking the vicious cycle almost impossible. And such continues the game, all while refugees are sitting and watching in bitter silence.

because many of us fall into the victim/villain mentality—that one person is always in the wrong and the other is always in the right—but life is a whole lot more complicated than that.

There are eaters and the eaten. The tiger does not resent the deer that gets away. The doe does not resent the tiger that captures her fawn. They are following their instincts. Plants and animals live; humans need to judge, for we need to feel good about ourselves. That is why we create stories, full of heroes and villains, victims and martyrs

Don’t let somebody’s Victim complex Make you feel like The villain.

Don’t think of me as the victim, Ava. Think of me as your villainous savior,” he said, ending with a humorous tinge to his voice.

The appearance of the screaming golden skulls that decorate the armor of their various stages – faces of the tormented victims, plaid in gold, those made as offerings to summon the Harbinger itself.

This is a book about the story of Polari and the people who spoke it – mostly camp gay men. They were a class of people who lived on the margins of society. Many of them broke the law – a law which is now seen in civilized societies as being unfair and cruel – and so they were at risk of arrest, shaming, blackmail and attack. They were not seen as important or interesting. Their stories were not told. If they were ever represented in books, films, plays or songs, they were usually given tiny supporting roles, and the audience was not supposed to identify with or root for them. In the rare cases when they did appear, they were often implied to be silly or sinister, victims or villains. So because of their criminal status, they learnt to speak in an unfamiliar tongue – their voices changed out of recognition so that they could not be understood by others. This is a book which gives them a voice. But first, I ought to tell you about how I got involved in all of this.