Vikings Inspirational Quotes

The powerlessness of people with pure intentions, in the long run, can sometimes be more powerful than power in the hands of those blinded or depraved by evil tempers.

In many chapels, reddened by the setting sun, the saints rest silently, waiting for someone to love them. (This quote was the inspiration for my series of books entitled "God's Forgotten Friends: Lives of Little-known Saints" of which my latest release is Saint Magnus The Last Viking. Hope you decide to become friends with him!)

Make no tent on thy ship; Never sleep in a house; For a foe within doors you may view. On a shield sleeps the Viking, sword in his hand, And his tent is the heavenly blue. When the storm rages fierce, Hoist the sail to the top. Oh, how merry the Storm-King appears! Let us rise, let her drive; Better founder than strike, For who strikes is a slave to his fears.

In many chapels, reddened by the setting sun, the saints rest silently, waiting for someone to love them." These words, penned by an unknown priest, long dead,were the inspiration for my new series on the lives of saints who have fallen deep into the shadows of obscurity. My hope is that, in reading their heroic stories, you will make the acquaintance of some of God's Forgotten Friends. (From the Preface of "Saint Magnus The Last Viking")

The Loneliness of the Military Historian Confess: it's my profession that alarms you. This is why few people ask me to dinner, though Lord knows I don't go out of my way to be scary. I wear dresses of sensible cut and unalarming shades of beige, I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser's: no prophetess mane of mine, complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters. If I roll my eyes and mutter, if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene, I do it in private and nobody sees but the bathroom mirror. In general I might agree with you: women should not contemplate war, should not weigh tactics impartially, or evade the word enemy, or view both sides and denounce nothing. Women should march for peace, or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery, spit themselves on bayonets to protect their babies, whose skulls will be split anyway, or,having been raped repeatedly, hang themselves with their own hair. There are the functions that inspire general comfort. That, and the knitting of socks for the troops and a sort of moral cheerleading. Also: mourning the dead. Sons,lovers and so forth. All the killed children. Instead of this, I tell what I hope will pass as truth. A blunt thing, not lovely. The truth is seldom welcome, especially at dinner, though I am good at what I do. My trade is courage and atrocities. I look at them and do not condemn. I write things down the way they happened, as near as can be remembered. I don't ask why, because it is mostly the same. Wars happen because the ones who start them think they can win. In my dreams there is glamour. The Vikings leave their fields each year for a few months of killing and plunder, much as the boys go hunting. In real life they were farmers. The come back loaded with splendour. The Arabs ride against Crusaders with scimitars that could sever silk in the air. A swift cut to the horse's neck and a hunk of armour crashes down like a tower. Fire against metal. A poet might say: romance against banality. When awake, I know better. Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters, or none that could be finally buried. Finish one off, and circumstances and the radio create another. Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently to God all night and meant it, and been slaughtered anyway. Brutality wins frequently, and large outcomes have turned on the invention of a mechanical device, viz. radar. True, valour sometimes counts for something, as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right - though ultimate virtue, by agreed tradition, is decided by the winner. Sometimes men throw themselves on grenades and burst like paper bags of guts to save their comrades. I can admire that. But rats and cholera have won many wars. Those, and potatoes, or the absence of them. It's no use pinning all those medals across the chests of the dead. Impressive, but I know too much. Grand exploits merely depress me. In the interests of research I have walked on many battlefields that once were liquid with pulped men's bodies and spangled with exploded shells and splayed bone. All of them have been green again by the time I got there. Each has inspired a few good quotes in its day. Sad marble angels brood like hens over the grassy nests where nothing hatches. (The angels could just as well be described as vulgar or pitiless, depending on camera angle.) The word glory figures a lot on gateways. Of course I pick a flower or two from each, and press it in the hotel Bible for a souvenir. I'm just as human as you. But it's no use asking me for a final statement. As I say, I deal in tactics. Also statistics: for every year of peace there have been four hundred years of war.

Make for yourself a world you can believe in. It sounds simple, I know. But it’s not. Listen, there are a million worlds you could make for yourself. Everyone you know has a completely different one—the woman in 5G, that cab driver over there, you. Sure, there are overlaps, but only in the details. Some people make their worlds around what they think reality is like. They convince themselves that they had nothing to do with their worlds’ creations or continuations. Some make their worlds without knowing it. Their universes are just sesame seeds and three-day weekends and dial tones and skinned knees and physics and driftwood and emerald earrings and books dropped in bathtubs and holes in guitars and plastic and empathy and hardwood and heavy water and high black stockings and the history of the Vikings and brass and obsolescence and burnt hair and collapsed souffles and the impossibility of not falling in love in an art museum with the person standing next to you looking at the same painting and all the other things that just happen and are. But you want to make for yourself a world that is deliberately and meticulously personalized. A theater for your life, if I could put it like that. Don’t live an accident. Don’t call a knife a knife. Live a life that has never been lived before, in which everything you experience is yours and only yours. Make accidents on purpose. Call a knife a name by which only you will recognize it. Now I’m not a very smart man, but I’m not a dumb one, either. So listen: If you can manage what I’ve told you, as I was never able to, you will give your life meaning.

The male sphere of Norse shamanism consisted of the elite warrior groups known as the berserkir ("bear-shirts") and the úlfheðnar ("wolf-skins"). The berserkers (as we'll refer to the members of both of those groups for the sake of convenience), were shamans of a very different sort. After undergoing a period of rigorous training and initiation, they developed the ability to fight in an ecstatic trance that rendered them fearless - and, according to some sources, impervious to danger - while nevertheless inspiring a tremendous amount of fear in their opponents by their behavior, which was at once animalistic and otherworldly. Perhaps needless to say, there was no ergi associated with being a berserker. Quite the opposite, in fact - the berserker was seen as something of a model of manliness.

Recipe for a Perfect Wife, the Novel INGREDIENTS 3 cups editors extraordinaire: Maya Ziv, Lara Hinchberger, Helen Smith 2 cups agent-I-couldn’t-do-this-without: Carolyn Forde (and the Transatlantic Literary Agency) 1½ cup highly skilled publishing teams: Dutton US, Penguin Random House Canada (Viking) 1 cup PR and marketing wizards: Kathleen Carter (Kathleen Carter Communications), Ruta Liormonas, Elina Vaysbeyn, Maria Whelan, Claire Zaya 1 cup women of writing coven: Marissa Stapley, Jennifer Robson, Kate Hilton, Chantel Guertin, Kerry Clare, Liz Renzetti ½ cup author-friends-who-keep-me-sane: Mary Kubica, Taylor Jenkins Reid, Amy E. Reichert, Colleen Oakley, Rachel Goodman, Hannah Mary McKinnon, Rosey Lim ½ cup friends-with-talents-I-do-not-have: Dr. Kendra Newell, Claire Tansey ¼ cup original creators of the Karma Brown Fan Club: my family and friends, including my late grandmother Miriam Christie, who inspired Miriam Claussen; my mom, who is a spectacular cook and mother; and my dad, for being the wonderful feminist he is 1 tablespoon of the inner circle: Adam and Addison, the loves of my life ½ tablespoon book bloggers, bookstagrammers, authors, and readers: including Andrea Katz, Jenny O’Regan, Pamela Klinger-Horn, Melissa Amster, Susan Peterson, Kristy Barrett, Lisa Steinke, Liz Fenton 1 teaspoon vintage cookbooks: particularly the Purity Cookbook, for the spark of inspiration 1 teaspoon loyal Labradoodle: Fred Licorice Brown, furry writing companion Dash of Google: so I could visit the 1950s without a time machine METHOD: Combine all ingredients into a Scrivener file, making sure to hit Save after each addition.

I want to begin my fight for the future of our world with the sharing of a vision. Everyone has, or should have, a vision. This is mine. It is a simple vision, really. It begins with the creation of a single, sane, planetary civilization. That will have to be very much like a utopia. People will deny the possibility of such a dream. They will say that people have always been at each other's throats, that this is just human nature, the way of the world. That we can never change the world. But that is just silly. That is like saying that two battling brothers, children, will never grow up to be the best of friends who watch each other’s backs. Once, a long time ago, people lost their sons and daughters to the claws of big cats. In classic times, the Greeks and the Romans saw slavery as evil, but as a necessary evil that could never go away. Only seventy years ago, Germany and France came to death blows in the greatest war in history; now they share a common currency, open borders, and a stake in the future of Europe. The Scandinavians once terrorized the world as marauding Vikings gripping bloody axes and swords, while now their descendents refrain from spanking their children, and big blond–haired men turn their hands to the care of babies. We all have a sense of what this new civilization must look like: No war. No hunger. No want. No very wealthy using their money to manipulate laws and lawmakers so that they become ever more wealthy while they cast the poor into the gutters like garbage. The wasteland made green again. Oceans once more teeming with life. The human heart finally healed. A new story that we tell ourselves about ourselves and new songs that we sing to our children. The vast resources once mobilized for war and economic supremacy now poured into a true science of survival and technologies of the soul. I want this to be. But how can it be? How will we get from a world on the brink of destruction to this glorious, golden future? I do not know. It is not for any one person to know, for to create the earth anew we will need to call upon the collective genius and the good will of the entire human race. We will need all our knowledge of history, anthropology, religion, and science, and much else. We will need a deep, deep sympathy for human nature, in both its terrible and angelic aspects.

The base coins of Northumbrian times became pennies rich in silver, coins which manage to muddle together the Viking sword, the hammer of the god Thor and some inspirational Christian messages.

The enormous energy which characterized the Viking Age and which had sent waves of people across many parts of Europe had now dwindled, but the deeds of the Viking Age inspired Scandinavian literature, history and politics, and enhanced national pride and identity.

My grandfather's early training and admonition that 'Viking kids don't cry' has helped me to have courage and a strong will. Some call it foolhardy and stubborn but it has served me well.

Saxon Chronicle, ‘except what was in captivity to the Danish men’.13 So he seems to have felt himself, inspired by Bede’s History. He referred to his people not as Saxons but as ‘Angelcynn’ – ‘Englishkind’ – a term first used in Mercia. Their language was ‘Englisc’. Alfred, at first described in royal charters and on coins as rex Saxonum, duly became rex Angul-Saxonum in recognition of the union of Mercia and Wessex. He pursued a policy of what today we might term nation-building: ‘he sought to persuade [his subjects] that he was restoring the English, whereas, albeit following a model provided by Bede, he was inventing them’.14 He commanded a law code combining the customs of Wessex, Mercia and Kent and decked out with biblical teachings and Church laws – an important symbol of unity and status more than an instrument of rule, as in practice most law was oral and customary – ‘folk right’. He sent English coins to succour the poor of Rome. He wanted to increase Christian piety so as to ward off divine punishment in the form of Viking invasion,

The characters of the two families was inspired by the Vigeland"s Park, the Viking ships and museums in Oslo, Norway. The two books BATTLE AXE RANCH and TEMPERED BY FATE are emotional stories with many twists and turns. Set in the 1960's, the families struggle against the rugged Rockies with the grizzlies, wolves, and coyotes. The story is a page turner.

A port arrival makes you feel so free ...To realize what it is to be a free man, with a world before him;

AT: oKAYYYY, mY BROMO SAPIEN, AT: r U READY, AT: tO GET STRAIGHT IN, FLAT DOWN, BROAD SIDE, SCHOOL FED UP THE BONE BULGE, AT: bY A DOPE SMACKED, TRINKED OUT, SMOTHER FUDGING, AT: tROLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL, TG: dont care AT: oK, lET ME, AT: oRGANIZE MY NOTES HERE, AT: oKAYYY, AT: (tURN ON SOME STRICT BEATS MAYBE, iT WILL HELP TO LISTEN TO THEM WHILE i DESTROY YOU,) AT: wHEN THE POLICE MAN BUSTS ME, aND POPS THE TRUNK, AT: hE'S ALL SUPRISED TO FIND I'M TOTING SICK BILLY, AT: wHOSE, AT: gOAT IS THAT, hE ASKS, wHILE HE STOPS TO THUNK AT: aBOUT IT, aND i'S JUST SAY IT'S DAVE'S, yOU SILLY AT: gOOSE, AT: bUT THE MAN SAYS, gOOSE! wHERE, lET ME SEE YOUR HANDS, AT: aND i SAY SHIT SORRY, i DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS HONKTRABAND, AT: wOW, oK, AT: i AM GETTING OFF THE POINT, wHICH WAS, AT: aBOUT THIS HOT MESS DAVE, tHAT YOU GOT LANDED IN, AT: lIKE THE COP i MENTIONED, bUT INSTEAD OF YOUR BADGE, AT: aND YOUR GUN, IT'S YOUR ASS THAT YOU HANDED IN, AT: (aND THEN GOT HANDED BACK TO YOU,) AT: cAUSE THAT'S HOW HUMANS GET SERVED, AT: aND GUYS LIKE YOU DESERVE TO UNDERSTAND THAT iT'S, AT: a CIRCLE AND HORNS IN YOUR BUTT THAT GOT BRANDED IN, AT: (uMM, bEFORE i GAVE YOUR ASS BACK TO YOU, i DID THAT, iS WHAT i MEAN,) AT: bUT i MEAN, gETTING BACK TO THE POINT, oR MAYBE TWO ACTUALLY, AT: tHE FIRST IS YOU SUCK, aND THE SECOND IS HOW i SMACKEDYOUFULLY, AT: (oH YEAH, tHAT RHYME WAS SO ILLLLLLLLL,) AT: bUT NO, jUST JOKING, lET'S SEE, hOW CAN i PUT THIS TACTFULLULLY, AT: i MEAN THE POINTS ON THE HORNS ON MY HEAD, AT: cOMING AT YOU THROUGH TRAFFIC, AT: aIMED AT THE TARGET ON YOUR SHIRT THAT IS RED, AT: wE'RE ABOUT TO GET MAD HORNOGRAPHIC, AT: (i MEAN SORT OF LIKE A GRAPHIC CRIME SCENE, nOT LIKE,) AT: (aNYTHING SEXUAL,) AT: (eRR, wHOAAAAA,) AT: (nEVERMIND,) AT: oK, gETTING BACK TO THE ACTUAL, tACTICAL, vERNACULAR SMACKCICLE, AT: i'M FORCING YOU TO BE LICKING, (aND lIKING,) AT: gRAB MY HORNS AND START KICKING, lIKE YOU'RE RIDING A VIKING, AT: cAUSE i'M YOUR BULLY, aND YOU'RE NOT IN CHARGE, AT: yOU THINK YOU'RE IN CHARGE BUT YOU'RE NOT IN CHARGE, AT: i'M IN CHARGE, cAUSE i'M CHARGING IN, AT: yOUR CHINASHOP, AT: bREAKING, uH, yOUR PLATES AND STUFF, WHICH i DON'T REALLY KNOW, AT: wHAT THE PLATES ARE SUPPOSED TO REPRESENT, bUT, AT: (fUCK,) AT: iT'S JUST THAT YOU THINK YOU ARE THE COCK OF THE WALK'S HOT SHIT AT: bUT WHEN IN FACT YOU ARE NOT, mORE LIKE YOU ARE, AT: sOMETHING THAT RHYMES WITH THE COCK OF THE WALK'S HOT SHIT, AT: bUT IS SO MUCH WORSE THAN THE COCK'S SHIT, AT: sO, gIVEN THAT, lET ME BE THE FIRST, AT: tO SAY YOU ACT LIKE YOU'RE GOLD FROM PROSPIT, AT: wHEN YOU'RE REALLY COLD SHIT FLUSHED FROM DERSE,

However, the Vikings did not see the original version of Ragnarök as a prophecy for the future. They did not experience hopelessness because the myth acted as a paradigmatic model for human action. The myth produced inspiration and invigoration within every Viking. They knew that they would die one day, just like the gods did. They found inspiration because the gods, despite knowing their destiny, were armed and went to fight the giantѕ. That move was proof that their gods died with honor and courage.

Tap into your inner Viking!

Există morale de stăpâni şi morale de sclavi. […] Să remarcăm pe dată că în cazul acestei prime varietăţi de morală antagonismul „bun“ şi „stricat“ echivalează cu „nobil“ şi „detestabil“: - antagonismul „bun“ şi „rău“ are o altă origine. E dispreţuit laşul, fricosul, meschinul, cel care se preocupă doar de stricta utilitate; de asemenea, suspiciosul cu privirea-i strâmbă, cel care se umileşte, omul de soi căinesc care se lasă maltratat, lingăul milog, şi mai ales mincinosul: - e o credinţă înrădăcinată a tuturor aristocraţilor că norodul e mincinos. „Noi, veridicii“ - astfel îşi ziceau nobilii în Grecia antică. […] El preţuieşte tot ceea ce îi este propriu: o astfel de morală constă în glorificarea sinelui. În prim-plan se află sentimentul belşugului, al prea-plinului puterii, fericirea unei înalte tensiuni, conştientă unei avuţii dornice de a se dărui şi cheltui: - şi aristocratul vine într-ajutor nefericiţilor, dar aproape niciodată nu o face din milă, ci mai degrabă mânat de imboldul abundenţei de putere. Aristocratul respectă în propria-i fiinţă pe omul puternic, stăpân asupra lui Însuşi, pe cel care se pricepe să vorbească şi să tacă, pe cel care uzează bucuros de severitate şi duritate faţă de sine însuşi şi care se înclină cu veneraţie în faţa tuturor celor severe şi dure. „De piatră-i inima ce Wotan în pieptu-mi aşeza“, se spune într-o veche Saga scandinavă: şi pe bună dreptate, căci e o vorbă izvodită de sufletul unui viking mândru. Un astfel de om se mândreşte tocmai cu faptul de a nu fi născut pentru compasiune: şi de aceea eroul acestui Saga adaugă avertizând: „cel căruia inima nu îi e de tânăr dura, nu o va avea nicicând dură“. Aristocraţii şi cutezătorii care gândesc astfel se situează la antipodul moralei care vede tocmai în compătimire sau în acţiunea în folosul semenului sau în desinteressement simbolul moralităţii; încrederea în sine, mândria de sine, ostilitatea absolută şi ironia faţă de „altruism“, acestea fac parte şi ele în mod categoric din morala aristocrată, laolaltă cu o uşoară desconsiderare şi prudenţă faţă de compasiune şi de „inimile calde“. Puternicii sunt acei care se pricep cu adevărat să venereze, aceasta-i arta lor, domeniul în care îşi exercită inventivitatea. […] Ei pot acţiona după cum cred de cuviinţă sau „după voia inimii“, în orice caz „dincolo de Bine şi de Rău“ - : iată un domeniu în care se poate manifesta compătimirea şi alte sentimente asemănătoare. […] Cu totul altfel stau lucrurile în cazul celui de al doilea tip de morală, morala sclavilor. Să presupunem că asupriţii, oprimaţii, suferinzii, robii, şi chiar cei nedeciși şi istoviţi de ei înşişi se îndeletnicesc cu morala: care va fi oare numitorul comun al evaluărilor lor morale? Probabil că ele vor exprima o suspiciune pesimistă faţă de condiţia umană în totalitatea ei, poate o condamnare a omului laolaltă cu condiţia sa. Sclavul priveşte cu invidie virtuţile celor puternici: el este sceptic şi suspicios, posedând chiar un rafinament al bănuielii faţă de tot acel „bun“ preţuit de cei puternici -, el încearcă să se convingă că nici măcar fericirea acestora nu este autentică. Dimpotrivă, calităţile menite să uşureze existenţa suferinzilor sunt evidenţiate şi scăldate în lumină: sclavul preţuieşte compătimirea, mâna serviabilă şi săritoare, inima caldă, răbdarea, hărnicia, modestia, amabilitatea - căci acestea sunt calităţile cele mai utile, aproape singurele mijloace de a îndura povara existenţei. Morala sclavilor este esenţialmente o morală a utilităţii. Acesta-i locul de obârşie al vestitului antagonism dintre „bun“ şi „rău“: - rău este considerat cel puternic şi primejdios, cel care inspiră teamă, cel care posedă subtilitate şi vigoare, nelăsând teren dispreţului. Aşadar, potrivit moralei sclavilor, „răul“ este cel care inspiră teamă; în morală stăpânilor, dimpotrivă, cel care inspiră teamă şi vrea să inspire teamă este de-a dreptul „bunul“, în vreme ce omul „stricat“ este considerat demn de dispreţ.

Let me be the one that inspires you. Captivates you. Thrills you. Let be your poem.

Although Greenland's Natural defenses discouraged settlement, some hardy souls insisted, Europeans returned to Greenland, led by a Danish-Norwegian missionary named Hans Egede. Hoping to discover Viking descendants, Egede instead found Inuit people, so he stayed to spread the gospel. Colonization followed though few Danes saw the point of the place. Unlike the native North Americans, the native Inuit people of Greenland never surrendered their majority status to outsiders, though they did embrace Christianity.

Another example of the same attitude, this time on a less cosmic and more humble scale, comes from the life of the warrior-poet Egil Skallagrimsson. According to his saga, toward the end of his life, one of his sons died, after the others had died before him. Such was the depth of Egil's grief that he planned to kill himself, but his surviving daughter convinced him instead to use his poetic talent to compose a memorial poem for his lost children. Egil's poem is called The Wreck Of Sons (Sonatorrek). In it, Egil bemoans his lot in life and curses Odin, his patron god, for having made him suffer so much. But Egil finds that this suffering has also carried a gift within it, for his anguish inspires him to compose better poetry than ever before. He lets loose an eloquent cry of both despair and joy, or at least contented acceptance. The final three stanzas read: I offer nothing With an eager heart To the greatest of gods, The willful Odin. But I must concede That the friend of the wise Has paid me well For all my wounds. The battle-tested Foe of the wolf Has given me A towering art, And wits to discern In those around me Who wishes well, Who wishes ill. Times are dire, Yet glad is my heart, Full of courage, Without complaint. I wait for the goddess Of dirt and of death Who stands on the headland To bear me away.

We serve the ones we love, the best we can.

If they Stand Behind you, Protect Them If they Stand Beside you, Respect Them If they Stand Against you, Defeat them