Villains And Virtues Quotes

A boy is a man in miniature, and though he may sometimes exhibit notable virtue, as well as characteristics that seem to be charming because they are childlike, he is also a schemer, self-seeker, traitor, Judas, crook, and villain - in short, a man.

People love superheroes.  It's true we're  impressed by their bravery and fortitude, their supernatural gifts and physical brawn.  But the fact is, villains possess these same qualities.  So why our admiration for the hero and not the nemesis?  Because of virtue.   A superhero gives everything to defend what's good and right without seeking praise or reward.  Think about it.  All the great heroes give without taking, help without grumbling, sacrifice without asking recompense.  A superhero's real strength, what we absolutely fall in love with, is his finer virtue.

My life’s work,” said Damien, lips curling at the corners and thin, black brows narrowing. “It is finally complete.” He was twenty-seven.

What do you see when you see me?' She asked him, burying her own face in his bosom. 'Do you want the truth?' She nodded. 'The firing squad.' 'That's not the whole truth. Try again.' 'Insatiability,' he said with some bitterness. 'That's oblique but altogether too simple. Once more,' she insisted. 'One more time.' He was silent for several minutes. 'The map of a country in which I only exist by virtue of the extravagance of my metaphors.' 'Now you're being too sophisticated. And, besides, what metaphors do we have in common?

America was exhausted. The libertarians had made freedom unbearable, the evangelicals had made faith unbearable, the social justice movement had made equality unbearable, the lawyers had made justice unbearable, loud people in Uncle Sam hats had made patriotism unbearable, and the entirety of capitalism over the last two centuries had made industry unbearable. Americans were sick of all the virtues and ready for a straightforward, no-nonsense villain.

It is not cynical to admit that the past has been turned into a fiction. It is a story, not a fact. The real has been erased. Whole eras have been added and removed. Wars have been aggrandized, and human struggle relegated to the margins. Villains are redressed as heroes. Generous, striving, imperfect men and women have been stripped of their flaws or plucked of their virtues and turned into figurines of morality or depravity. Whole societies have been fixed with motive and vision and equanimity where there was none. Suffering has been recast as noble sacrifice!

I learned a lot, when I was a child, from novels and stories, even fairytales have some point to them--the good ones. The thing that impressed me most forcibly was this: the villains went to work with their brains and always accomplished something. To be sure they were "foiled" in the end, but that was by some special interposition of Providence, not by any equal exertion of intellect on the part of the good people. The heroes and middle ones were mostly very stupid. If bad things happened, they practised patience, endurance, resignation, and similar virtues; if good things happened they practised modesty and magnanimity and virtues like that, but it never seemed to occur to any of them to make things move their way. Whatever the villains planned for them to do, they did, like sheep. The same old combinations of circumstances would be worked off on them in book after book--and they always tumbled. It used to worry me as a discord worries a musician. Hadn't they ever read anything? Couldn't they learn anything from what they read--ever? It appeared not. And it seemed to me, even as a very little child, that what we wanted was good people with brains, not just negative, passive, good people, but positive, active ones, who gave their minds to it. "A good villain. That's what we need!" I said to myself. "Why don't they write about them? Aren't there ever any?" I never found any in all my beloved story books, or in real life. And gradually, I made up my mind to be one.

Holy gods,” she whispered. “Infernal darkness,” he corrected,

If you cannot understand my argument, and declare "It's Greek to me", you are quoting Shakespeare; if you claim to be more sinned against than sinning, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you recall your salad days, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you act more in sorrow than in anger; if your wish is farther to the thought; if your lost property has vanished into thin air, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you have ever refused to budge an inch or suffered from green-eyed jealousy, if you have played fast and loose, if you have been tongue-tied, a tower of strength, hoodwinked or in a pickle, if you have knitted your brows, made a virtue of necessity, insisted on fair play, slept not one wink, stood on ceremony, danced attendance (on your lord and master), laughed yourself into stitches, had short shrift, cold comfort or too much of a good thing, if you have seen better days or lived in a fool's paradise -why, be that as it may, the more fool you , for it is a foregone conclusion that you are (as good luck would have it) quoting Shakespeare; if you think it is early days and clear out bag and baggage, if you think it is high time and that that is the long and short of it, if you believe that the game is up and that truth will out even if it involves your own flesh and blood, if you lie low till the crack of doom because you suspect foul play, if you have your teeth set on edge (at one fell swoop) without rhyme or reason, then - to give the devil his due - if the truth were known (for surely you have a tongue in your head) you are quoting Shakespeare; even if you bid me good riddance and send me packing, if you wish I was dead as a door-nail, if you think I am an eyesore, a laughing stock, the devil incarnate, a stony-hearted villain, bloody-minded or a blinking idiot, then - by Jove! O Lord! Tut tut! For goodness' sake! What the dickens! But me no buts! - it is all one to me, for you are quoting Shakespeare.

Did you hear that?” Amma’s sharp whisper cut into Damien’s mind as it began to drift into sleep. He groaned. “You mean that terrifying cry that sounded like a woman being gutted?” “Yes!” “No, I didn’t. Go to sleep.

Damien gave her a look, one he feared was more adoring than he would have liked to let on.

Damien had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Surely, I don’t look like that.” “It’s close,” she warned, features relaxing. “You have resting villain face.” “I am a villain.” And then Amma, the girl he had abducted, dragged across the realm, and threatened to murder, actually rolled her eyes at him.

Nor when love is of this disinterested sort is there any disgrace in being deceived, but in every other case there is equal disgrace in being or not being deceived. For he who is gracious to his lover under the impression that he is rich, and is disappointed of his gains because he turns out to be poor, is disgraced all the same: for he has done his best to show that he would give himself up to any one's "uses base" for the sake of money; but this is not honourable. And on the same principle he who gives himself to a lover because he is a good man, and in the hope that he will be improved by his company, shows himself to be virtuous, even though the object of his affection turn out to be a villain, and to have no virtue; and if he is deceived he has committed a noble error. For he has proved that for his part he will do anything for anybody with a view to virtue and improvement, than which there can be nothing nobler.

She would either continue to be obedient or give him a reason to threaten and manhandle her again, and he wasn’t entirely sure which one he preferred.

Scorlisha Baneblade of the Mounted Beasts, The Plague Bringer Norasthmus, and Dave from Next Door Who Insists on Doing Yard Work at Dawn,

The cunning villains used our innocence, naivety and honesty; they incited and steered our virtue, purity and fervent temperaments. When we realized the actual absurdity of the situation and began to demand our democratic rights, we were subjected to unprecedented persecution and suppression. Our youth, passion, learning, idealism and joy were all sacrificed to the terrible rule of this wicked tyranny. How can this not be blood?

To what are we to give unholy gratitude for the dark delight of your visit, Master?

Blame not one’s failings on cruelty when ignorance is the much more likely cause,

Psychological complexity, character development, the killer line to end a scene, villains blotched with virtue, heroic characters speckled with villainy, foreshadow and backflash, artful misdirection.

You came for me,” she whispered up against his mouth. His fingertips grazed her temple, smoothing away hair that had fallen in her face, and he pressed another kiss to her lips. “You called. How could I not?

What, um…what are they?” Damien thought a moment. “They’re a sort of excessively zealous consortium who have unorthodox views.” “You have a cult?” Amma’s voice was squeaky even as she tried to keep it low. “No, no, this is their own thing, not mine. Big fans of my father, really, I just drop by in his stead on occasion.

Um, Damien?” Amma cleared her throat. “Are you really complaining they didn’t put us in a sturdier cell?” “I know you’ve likely become accustomed to this, Amma, but I find it ridiculous. Is it too much to ask to be treated like a threat? I mean, look at me.” He held his hands out, turning to her and standing to his full height.

There were many stories of girls—brave girls, foolish girls, reckless girls, pretty girls—who went into the woods searching for fortune or adventure, only to encounter a monster. Whether man or beast, the monster served as an allegory for all the things that could befall a girl who strayed from the path. If she were valorous and her heart was pure, the stories said, she could rise above being brought low by hubris. But the stories never talked about the other girls—the ones who never came out of the woods and found themselves an unwilling bride to the venal darkness within those trees. The girls whose virtue was not quite enough to resist the seasoned allure of the wicked villain and who, as a result, found that men, like beasts, could devour the unwary, and that it could feel so good to be consumed.

How am I, then, a villain To counsel Cassio to this parallel course, Directly to his good? Divinity of hell! When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows, As I do now: for whiles this honest fool Plies Desdemona to repair his fortune, And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, I’ll pour this pestilence into his ear,— That she repeals him for her body’s lust; And by how much she strives to do him good, She shall undo her credit with the Moor. So will I turn her virtue into pitch; And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

And again, though we cannot prove, we feel, that we are deathless. We perceive that life is not like those dramas so beloved by the people—in which every villain is punished, and every act of virtue meets with its reward; we learn anew every day that the wisdom of the serpent fares better here than the gentleness of the dove, and that any thief can triumph if he steals enough. If mere worldly utility and expediency were the justification of virtue, it would not be wise to be too good. And yet, knowing all this, having it flung into our faces with brutal repetition, we still feel the command to righteousness, we know that we ought to do the inexpedient good.

There she went, saying his name again. The first time it had been on her tongue, she’d been sobbing, but even then it felt too visceral, too intimate, and shortly after she had repeated it as a soft plea, and that had—well, fuck, it had done a number of things to him, none of which he cared to think on too long. Very few called him by his given name, but even now as she chastised him, it was like she were whispering it directly into his chest, making the muscles there tighten around her voice and hold it still so it couldn’t escape.

Only slightly red from the pressure, the markings would be gone in just a few moments, but he rubbed his thumbs over the soft flesh on the inside of her wrists anyway. “Apologies if I was too rough for your liking.” She shook her head, still averting her gaze as he tried to find it with his own. “I see. Tighter next time, then,” he whispered

But then her mother’s words flitted through her head, as they often did when she felt anger well up in her heart. Blame not one’s failings on cruelty when ignorance is the much more likely cause, or, more simply, most of the time people weren’t mean, they were just dumb. Amma would have settled, then, on telling him she thought he was very, very dumb.

let the woman rise chapter one kill the prince chapter two give the princess a sword chapter three send her into battle chapter four watch her win Chapter One Kill The Prince # the prince the prince is not a hero by virtue of his gender and blood line he is a villain wanting praise for allowing women the smallest gains in life kill the prince

Amma sitting on the single, narrow cot, which had been a complete waste of an only-one-bed situation and managed to somehow heighten the frustration he was feeling.

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

With no cutting words from the imp about how they should both be glad to be free of Amma’s presence, Damien knew he had truly fucked up.

Damien followed, disappointed that how he felt was distracting him from fully appreciating her willingness to misbehave.

He simply spoke to her, and she listened. “I am in love with you, Amma, utterly and unconditionally, until my last breath and beyond.

If only she could just stop being so wonderful for a moment, he could figure out exactly what to do with all of his feelings for her.

Fuck!” she squeaked. “Did you just say fuck?” Under the moonlight, Damien’s smile was the most delighted she had ever seen,

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, by use all gently, for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant. It out-herods Herod. Pray you avoid it. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature. For anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly (not to speak profanely), that neither having th' accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. Reform it altogether! And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them, for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That's villainous and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready.

Amma turned her head inward and nestled her shoulder against his, a hand finding its way to his chest. Damien nearly dropped her. He had been prepared for her to wake at the jostling, see his face so close and scream, flail and struggle to get away, but instead she’d once again utterly baffled him and—what was this? Snuggling? His stomach turned over. “What do I do with this?” he asked the room.

Deeply idealistic — a moral people, Adams held, would elect moral leaders — he believed virtue the soul of democracy. To have a villainous ruler imposed on you was a misfortune. To elect him yourself was a disgrace.

If the talisman weren’t inside me, we would be apart.” She was whispering, but the arcana still lingering under her skin made her voice thunderous. “I haven’t been able to separate myself from it because I don’t want to be separate from you.

What a skeletal wreck of man this is. Translucent flesh and feeble bones, the kind of temple where the whores and villains try to tempt the holistic domes. Running rampid with free thought to free form, and the free and clear. When the matters at hand are shelled out like lint at a laundry mat to sift and focus on the bigger, better, now. We all have a little sin that needs venting, virtues for the rending and laws and systems and stems are ripped from the branches of office, do you know where your post entails? Do you serve a purpose, or purposely serve? When in doubt inside your atavistic allure, the value of a summer spent, and a winter earned. For the rest of us, there is always Sunday. The day of the week the reeks of rest, but all we do is catch our breath, so we can wade naked in the bloody pool, and place our hand on the big, black book. To watch the knives zigzag between our aching fingers. A vacation is a countdown, T minus your life and counting, time to drag your tongue across the sugar cube, and hope you get a taste. WHAT THE FUCK IS ALL THIS FOR? WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON? SHUT UP! I can go on and on but lets move on, shall we? Say, your me, and I’m you, and they all watch the things we do, and like a smack of spite they threw me down the stairs, haven’t felt like this in years. The great magnet of malicious magnanimous refuse, let me go, and punch me into the dead spout again. That’s where you go when there’s no one else around, it’s just you, and there was never anyone to begin with, now was there? Sanctimonious pretentious dastardly bastards with their thumb on the pulse, and a finger on the trigger. CLASSIFIED MY ASS! THAT’S A FUCKING SECRET, AND YOU KNOW IT! Government is another way to say better…than…you. It’s like ice but no pick, a murder charge that won’t stick, it’s like a whole other world where you can smell the food, but you can’t touch the silverware. Huh, what luck. Fascism you can vote for. Humph, isn’t that sweet? And we’re all gonna die some day, because that’s the American way, and I’ve drunk too much, and said too little, when your gaffer taped in the middle, say a prayer, say a face, get your self together and see what’s happening. SHUT UP! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! I’m sorry, I could go on and on but their times to move on so, remember: you’re a wreck, an accident. Forget the freak, your just nature. Keep the gun oiled, and the temple cleaned shit snort, and blaspheme, let the heads cool, and the engine run. Because in the end, everything we do, is just everything we’ve done.

I was chiefly disgusted with modern history. For having strictly examined all the persons of greatest name in the courts of princes, for a hundred years past, I found how the world had been misled by prostitute writers, to ascribe the greatest exploits in war, to cowards; the wisest counsel, to fools; sincerity, to flatterers; Roman virtue, to betrayers of their country; piety, to atheists; chastity, to sodomites; truth, to informers: how many innocent and excellent persons had been condemned to death or banishment by the practising of great ministers upon the corruption of judges, and the malice of factions: how many villains had been exalted to the highest places of trust, power, dignity, and profit: how great a share in the motions and events of courts, councils, and senates might be challenged by bawds, whores, pimps, parasites, and buffoons. How low an opinion I had of human wisdom and integrity, when I was truly informed of the springs and motives of great enterprises and revolutions in the world, and of the contemptible accidents to which they owed their success.

His smile stretched impossibly wide over his bony skull as he gestured to Amma with the magicked flame. “And we just got a new, dragon-shaped gravy boat, but it’s never been used, so it should make a lovely collection vessel for the blood from the virgin you’ve brought to sacrifice.

Damien wrapped his free arm around her back and yanked her away from the wall so she could no longer kick it. Pulling her up against him, he dipped his head beside her ear. “I will not allow anything to happen to you,” he said, leveling something like comfort into his voice, “but you must be quiet now. Please.

In just a moon, your painfully sweet voice has challenged all of my darkest thoughts, your wildly inaccurate yet optimistic outlook has clouded my sight, and your incessant kindness to me—to someone who deserves not a drop of your patience and affection and good will—has undone twenty-seven years of training to be evil. For darkness’s sake, woman, you’ve made me good, and believe when I say that it feels like falling interminably through the Abyss every moment I am not burying my cock in you, but I could not bear it if you woke tomorrow and thought I had hurt you.” Amma’s eyes went wide, breath refusing to come. And then a giggle broke out of her without permission. Damien’s

Crime itself—as opposed to the solving of it—is boring to the complex mind, though endlessly fascinating to the simpleminded. One film about Hannibal Lecter is riveting, but a second is inevitably stupefying. We love a series hero, but a series villain quickly becomes silly as he strives so obviously to shock us. Virtue is imaginative, evil repetitive.

After being denied and bottled up and misconstrued, feelings too have a limit, and if they find they cannot be expressed in their natural, honest states, they will resort to putting on the cloaks of other feelings, adopting new accents and a little makeup, and when they are finally convincing enough, roar out into the world disguised as something completely different.

Damien did not like being told what to do. He liked even less being told what to do by some shiny-armor-wearing, holy-weapon-wielding, punchable-face-having fuck of a marquis. And to be told what to do by said fuck through the summons of an ignoble guard without an ounce of consideration for his station and an incredibly stupid mustache? Well, that just bloody pissed him off.

know so well that human nature is human nature everywhere, whether under tile or thatch, and that in every specimen of human nature that breathes, vice and virtue are ever found blended, in smaller or greater proportions, and that the proportion is not determined by station. I have seen villains who were rich, and I have seen villains who were poor, and I have seen villains who were neither rich nor poor,

It is not cynical to admit the past has been turned into a fiction. It is a story, not a fact. The real has been erased. Whole eras have been added or removed. Wars have been aggrandized, and human struggle relegated to the margins. Villains are redressed as heroes. Generous, striving, imperfect men and women have been stripped of their flaws or plucked of their virtues and turned into figurines of morality or depravity. Whole societies have been fixed with motive and visions and equanimity where there was none. Suffering has been recast as noble sacrifice! Do you know why the history of the Tower is in such turmoil? Because too many powerful men are fighting for the pen, fighting to write their story over our dead bodies. They know what is at stake: immortality, the character of civilization, and influence beyond the ages. They are fighting to see who gets to mislead our grandchildren.

Amma found herself staring at Damien again, this time outwardly, and when he inquired what was on her mind, she did not look away. “You could have left them, or even killed them, but you helped them instead. That was very sweet of you.” “Oh, Amma, thank you.” She beamed at his sudden appreciation for the compliment, then her smile faltered. “Wait, really?” He pressed a hand to his stomach. “Yes, of course—you’ve rectified the fact you’ve given away all of our food: I don’t think I’ll ever have an appetite again after being called sweet.

And, moreover, you need not for a moment to insinuate that the virtues have taken refuge in cottages and wholly abandoned slated houses. Let me tell you, I particularly abominate that sort of trash, because I know so well that human nature is human nature everywhere, whether under tile or thatch, and that in every specimen of human nature that breathes, vice and virtue are ever found blended, in smaller or greater proportions, and that the proportion is not determined by station. I have seen villains who were rich, and I have seen villains who were poor, and I have seen villains who were neither rich nor poor,

(I may say too—but this, the young reader may skip without disadvantage—by way of explanation of a peculiarity which has lately been much remarked as characteristic of those records of human history contemptuously called fiction, i.e., the unimportance, or ill-report, or unjust disapproval of the mother in records of this description—that it is almost impossible to maintain her due rank and character in a piece of history, which has to be kept within certain limits—and where her daughter the heroine must have the first place. To lessen her pre-eminence by dwelling at length upon the mother, unless that mother is a fool, or a termagant, or something thoroughly contrasting with the beauty and virtues of the daughter—would in most cases be a mistake in art. For one thing the necessary incidents are wanting, for I strongly object, and so I think do most people, to mothers who fall in love, or think of marriage, or any such vanity in their own person, and unless she is to interfere mischievously with the young lady's prospects, or take more or less the part of the villain, how is she to be permitted any importance at all? For there cannot be two suns in one sphere, or two centres to one world. Thus the mother has to be sacrificed to the daughter: which is a parable; or else it is the other way, which is against all the principles and prepossessions of life.) Elinor

Daisy realized that her heart had begun to thump just as it had when she had read the more lurid passages of 'The Plight of Penelope,' in which a maiden was captured by an evil villain who locked her in a tower room until she agreed to surrender her virtue. Daisy had known the novel was silly even as she had read it, but that had not detracted one bit from her enjoyment. And she had been perversely disappointed when Penelope had been rescued from imminent ruin by the bland golden-haired hero Reginald, who was not nearly as interesting as the villain. Of course the prospect of being locked in a tower room without any books had not sounded at all appealing to Daisy. But the threatening monologues by the villain about Penelope's beauty, and his desire for her, and the debauchery he would force on her, had been quite intriguing.

Anything you do to optimize your work, cut some corners, or squeeze more “efficiency” out of it (and out of your life) will eventually make you dislike it. Artisans have their soul in the game. Primo, artisans do things for existential reasons first, financial and commercial ones later. Their decision making is never fully financial, but it remains financial. Secundo, they have some type of “art” in their profession; they stay away from most aspects of industrialization; they combine art and business. Tertio, they put some soul in their work: they would not sell something defective or even of compromised quality because it hurts their pride. Finally, they have sacred taboos, things they would not do even if it markedly increased profitability. Compendiaria res improbitas, virtusque tarda—the villainous takes the short road, virtue the longer one. In other words, cutting corners is dishonest.

And again, though we cannot prove, we feel, that we are deathless. We perceive that life is not like those dramas so beloved by the people—in which every villain is punished, and every act of virtue meets with its reward; we learn anew every day that the wisdom of the serpent fares better here than the gentleness of the dove, and that any thief can triumph if he steals enough. If mere worldly utility and expediency were the justification of virtue, it would not be wise to be too good. And yet, knowing all this, having it flung into our faces with brutal repetition, we still feel the command to righteousness, we know that we ought to do the inexpedient good. How could this sense of right survive if it were not that in our hearts we feel this life to be only a part of life, this earthly dream only an embryonic prelude to a new birth, a new awakening; if we did not vaguely know that in that later and longer life the balance will be redressed, and not one cup of water given generously but shall be returned a hundredfold?

And again, though we cannot prove, we feel, that we are deathless. We perceive that life is not like those dramas so beloved by the people—in which every villain is punished, and every act of virtue meets with its reward; we learn anew every day that the wisdom of the serpent fares better here than the gentleness of the dove, and that any thief can triumph if he steals enough. If mere worldly utility and expediency were the justification of virtue, it would not be wise to be too good. And yet, knowing all this, having it flung into our faces with brutal repetition, we still feel the command to righteousness, we know that we ought to do the inexpedient good. How could this sense of right survive if it were not that in our hearts we feel this life to be only a part of life, this earthly dream only an embryonic prelude to a new birth, a new awakening; if we did not vaguely know that in that later and longer life the balance will be redressed, and not one cup of water given generously but shall be returned a hundredfold? Finally,

Well, what am I supposed to do here?” He shrugged. “That’s none of my concern, just don’t leave the premises.” Amma placed her empty cup down then leaned a hip against the table. “Fine. I guess I can take Branson up on his offer.” Damien had turned but came to a stop, looking back. “What offer?” She tapped her lips in thought, eyes wide and blinking and as innocent as she could playact. “Oh, something about showing me how they manage to get all those massive cider barrels crammed into the really tight back room. I bet it’s fascinating.” Damien groaned, scratching at his smooth chin. “On second thought, your assistance may come in handy.” “Are you sure?” She bit her lip. “Because Branson seemed really interested in showing me how those barrels get filled.” He glared across the tavern at the man. “The only thing that barkeep is interested in filling, is you with Branson-son.” She gasped, too playful now to be convincing. “No! That can’t be what he meant. It’s got nothing to do with chickens.” “Chickens?” “He said if I went back there with him, he’d show me his massive co—” “Sanguinisui, go outside!

We think of men as antiheroes, as capable of occupying an intense and fascinating moral grey area; of being able to fall, and rise, and fall again, but still be worthy of love on some fundamental level, because if it was the world and its failings that broke them, then we surely must owe them some sympathy. But women aren’t allowed to be broken by the world; or if we are, it’s the breaking that makes us villains. Wronged women turn into avenging furies, inhuman and monstrous: once we cross to the dark side, we become adversaries to be defeated, not lost souls in need of mending. Which is what happens, when you let benevolent sexism invest you in the idea that women are humanity’s moral guardians and men its native renegades: because if female goodness is only ever an inherent quality – something we’re born both with and to be – then once lost, it must necessarily be lost forever, a severed limb we can’t regrow. Whereas male goodness, by virtue of being an acquired quality – something bestowed through the kindness of women, earned through right action or learned through struggle – can just as necessarily be gained and lost multiple times without being tarnished, like a jewel we might pawn in hardship, and later reclaim.

Look at what I wrote at the beginning of this memoir. Have I caught anything at all of the extraordinary night when Paul Dempster was born? I am pretty sure that my little sketch of Percy Boyd Staunton is accurate, but what about myself? I have always sneered at autobiographies and memoirs in which the writer appears at the beginning as a charming, knowing little fellow, possessed of insights and perceptions beyond his years, yet offering these with false naivete to the reader, as though to say, 'What a little wonder I was, but All Boy.' Have the writers any notion or true collection of what a boy is? I have and I have reinforced it by forty-five years of teaching boys. A boy is a man in miniature, and though he may sometimes exhibit notable virtue, as well as characteristics that seem to be charming because they are childlike, he is also schemer, self-seeker, traitor, Judas, crook, and villain - in short, a man. Oh these autobiographies in which the writer postures and simpers as a David Copperfield or a Huck Finn! False, false as harlots' oaths! Can I write truly of my boyhood? Or will that disgusting self-love which so often attaches itself to a man's idea of his youth creep in and falsify the story? I can but try. And to begin I must give you some notion of the village in which Percy Boyd Staunton and Paul Dempster and I were born.

It is easier to attain Marx's goal, however, if you do not have to rely on everyone being morally magnificent all the time. Socialism is not a society which requires resplendent virtue of its citizens. It does not mean that we have to be wrapped around each other all the time in some great orgy of togetherness. This is because the mechanisms which would allow Marx's goal to be approached would actually be built into social institutions. They would not rely in the first place on the goodwill of the individual.... One would expect any socialist institution to have its fair share of chancers, toadies, bullies, cheats, loafers, scroungers, freeloaders, free riders and occasional psychopaths...Communism would not spell the end of human strife. Only the literal end of history would do that. Envy, aggression, domination, possessiveness and competition would still exist. It is just that they could not take the forms they assume under capitalism - not because of some superior human virtue, but because of a change of institutions. These vices would no longer be bound up with the exploitation of child labour, colonial violence, grotesque social inequalities and cutthroat economic competition. Instead, they would have to assume some other form. Tribal societies have their fair share of violence, rivalry and hunger for power, but these things cannot take the form of imperial warfare, free-market competition or mass unemployment, because such institutions do not exist among the Nuer or the Dinka. There are villains everywhere you look, but only some of these moral ruffians are so placed as to be able to steal pension funds or pump the media full of lying political propaganda. Most gangsters are not in a position to do so. Instead, they have to content themselves with hanging people from meat hooks. In a socialist society, nobody would be in a position to do so. This is not because they would be too saintly, but because there would be no private pension funds or privately owned media. Shakespeare's villains had to find outlets for their wickedness other than firing missiles at Palestinian refugees. You cannot be a bullying industrial magnate if there isn't any industry around.

It’s easier to fear a caricature of a villain than it is to confront the villainy within. The tendency toward evil, toward violence, that hides in the darkness of a human soul is the most terrifying monster in the world. Want to fight something evil? Start with yourself. Confront your darkness before you fuck with mine. [...] Ironic, I suppose, since there’s more than enough monster in humans to spare. There’s also a lot within humanity that’s beautiful, that motivates people to pursue virtue rather than vice. Vampire, witch, mambo, human, whatever . There’s a little good in the worst of us and a little bad in the best of us. The key isn’t so much about choosing one path or the other, but having the wisdom to discern the difference. After all, even the world’s worst villains believed they were heroes. Bad guys usually think they’re the good guys.

A woman of virtue can never be a villain, because she knows she is a victor. She would rather spend her precious time building, than destroying others.

Let them believe if they only surrender to your will completely, you’ll make it worth it, in the end.” Her hips finally pressed against his, eyes pleading, but not to be released.

While the argument has been made for a number of villains to ascend to the coveted spot of Supreme Evil, notably Everild the Necromancer, Scorlisha Baneblade of the Mounted Beasts, The Plague Bringer Norasthmus, and Dave from Next Door Who Insists on Doing Yard Work at Dawn,

beautiful in its design, but grim in its existence.

Any experienced librarian will tell you that much of what is found among their shelves defies classification. Most often by virtue of being many things at once. Sometimes those categories show only minimal overlap, and sometimes, as with “hero” and “villain,” they are almost entirely the same thing. Who Indexes the Indexers?, by M. L. K. Dewey

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, fighting off a smile. “You are my captive, after all. No one’s touching you but me.

Demure” she was not. His girl was bold as brass and went after what she wanted—something that made him proud. But … “You know I’d never manage to fuck you without also claiming you, and I’m not claiming you tonight.” She pouted. “You always make me feel like a villain trying to divest an innocent of their virtue.” One side of his mouth kicked up. “I’ll be doing the divesting. But not tonight.

Bonhoeffer wrote, shortly before his death at the hands of the Nazis, that moral theorizing was outdated in such a time of crisis—a time of villains and saints, and of Shakespearian characters. “The villain and the saint have little to do with systematic ethical studies. They emerge from the primeval depths and by their appearance they tear open the infernal or the divine abyss from which they come and enable us to see for a moment into mysteries of which they had never dreamed.” And the peculiar evil of our time, Bonhoeffer continues, is to be sought not in the sins of the good, but in apparent virtues of the evil. A time of confirmed liars who tell the truth in the interest of what they themselves are—liars. A hive of murderers who love their children and are kind to their pets. A hive of cheats and gangsters who are loyal in pacts to do evil. Ours is a time of evil which is so evil that it can do good without prejudice to its own iniquity—it is no longer threatened by goodness. Such is Bonhoeffer’s judgment of a world in which evil appears in the form of probity and righteousness.

One deep reality" also implies the idea of the universe as a simple two-decker affair made up of "appearances" and one "underlying reality," like a mask with a face behind it. Modern research, however, indicates an indefinite series of appearances on different levels of instrumental magnification and finds no one "substance" or "thing" or "deep reality" that underlies all the different appearances reported by different classes of instruments. E.g., traditional philosophy and common sense assume that the hero and the villain have different "essences," as in melodrama (the villain may wear the mask of virtue, but we know he "is really" a villain); but modern science pictures things in flux, and flux in things, so solid becomes gas and gas becomes solid again, just as hero and villain become blurred and ambiguous in modern literature or Shakespeare.

Compendiaria res improbitas, virtusque tarda—the villainous takes the short road, virtue the longer one. In other words, cutting corners is dishonest.

I know that’s top priority for you, keeping her alive, and chances are she almost definitely will stay that way!” Damien cleared his throat, standing straighter and shoving the papers at him. “I did not specify the order of priority—” “Ah, well,”—Anomalous snatched away the parchment, trading off his strange tool before Damien could refuse to take it—“you didn’t really have to.

and he wasn’t going to have the woman walk—that would be too time consuming and perhaps needlessly cruel.

Hmm, well, nice skin you have.

Annihilation is nigh!” she shouted in a creaking, leathery voice. “The harbinger of night eternal and civility’s destruction lurks at the corners of the realm, biding its time until the hallowed son releases it to reign again! Buy two rabbit skins, get a chipmunk pelt for free!

She sucked in a huge breath, round eyes unblinking as they stared up into his, and then finally whimpered, “You gave me bad directions on purpose?” Damien’s mouth fell open, thrown. “Y-yes?” She scrunched up her nose in the same way she had in the alley, all petulant and insistent, and the freckles spattered across her cheeks tightened. “That’s not very nice.” Nice? Did she have any idea where she was? Damien scoffed. “Well, I’m not very nice.

Horns? Infernal blood and noxscura itself flows through my veins. Blood mages don’t wear their heritage like half elves with their pointy ears and questionable affinity for trees. It’s just within us, lurking right below the human shell.” “What’s wrong with liking trees?” “Nothing, that’s not…listen,”—Damien rubbed his hand over his thigh, trying to wipe away the lingering feeling of her offensively soft touch—“I am corruption made corporeal, a nightmare in human flesh, the Abyss brought topside, all right?” Her blue eyes roved over his face, down to his chest and back up. “Yeah, but you don’t look anything like a demon. You’re not red or hooved, and you’re not that much bigger than anyone else. You just look like…a boy.

Well, I suppose for the same reason you gave me those bad directions.” “Because you’re just a bastard sometimes?” She clicked her tongue. “Okay, maybe not that. I guess I should have said for the same reason you helped that cat.

Do you remember my saying that you needn’t speak to me?” She huffed. “Yes, but you didn’t say I can’t.” “I would like to clarify my meaning then.

And I suppose some gratitude is in order, so thank you…you.” “My name’s Amma.” “Yes, I know,” he snapped then blew out a long breath. “Thank you, Amma.

But he has wings.” “He does now, I suppose because his new body thought it needed protection from being kicked off something high this time around.” The blood mage had forgotten all his ire, a wistful grin sliding up his face. “That’s awful,” she hissed. He chuckled. “It certainly wasn’t my proudest moment, but I was only eighteen or so.

Damien turned up a lip, but did not answer her right away. Instead, he just looked at her as if she should have known. “I’m demon spawn,” he eventually said as if thinking on it very hard. “Evil incarnate, the Abyss brought up…here. All of that.” “Sure, but, like,”—she sniffled and rolled her hands over one another as if trying to work through the idea aloud—“even evil creatures must feel love. I mean, you must at least love being evil, otherwise why do it?” “Why do—Amma, this is my purpose. There is no desire pushing me toward some malleable end based on a whim as fleeting as love. There is only duty and prophecy and revenge.” She scrunched up her face. “Gods, that sounds—” Amma cut herself off, gaze shifting past him to look on the stone wall beyond. Awful, she was going to say,

Still, as Damien thumbed through an ancient-looking tome that should have been even more absorbing than that ooze, he wondered what Amma might be doing.

Still, as Damien thumbed through an ancient-looking tome that should have been even more absorbing than that ooze, he wondered what Amma might be doing. Probably complaining to Mudryth about how awful he was—the absolute worst, she had said, and she hadn’t even made it sound like the compliment it should have been

He turned to Mudryth. “You did the thing, right?” She blinked at him slowly. “No, Louie, I just let you load the little human up into your contraption all defenseless-like.

But he didn’t just dump her onto the bed and leave her there, though he’d been envisioning doing just that the whole walk. “You are an incredible pain in the ass,” he grumbled, setting her down gently. Amma mumbled just as Damien turned to leave, something that sounded much too much like, “Wait until we’re married.” He froze, looking back at her. “What was that?

Amma didn’t know evil beings could be worthy, not that she was about to say something like that to Sir Self-Important.

I’m not talking to you anymore,” she grumbled into the knoggelvi’s side. “What a terrible loss for us both.

No,” he scoffed, finally looking away from the pages to glare at her. She wasn’t surprised, but she was amused by his irritated reaction.

The fervor of the others’ belief was almost contagious, but it was a lot easier to put one’s full faith in a prophecy when one wasn’t meant to be its fulfiller.

There was a woman once—” “Was she pretty?” Damien snorted. “Considering what she got away with, she had to be.” Her eyes flashed then, narrowing. “How pretty?” “I’ve met prettier since,” he said carefully.

Damien squatted down. “Listen to me very closely: make yourself into something small and follow that acolyte until he reaches Amma, and then I want you to follow her. Do you understand?” “Spy on the trollop. Yes.” “If I had more time, I would make you pay for that, but you need to go, now.

A moment later, he appeared at the top and dropped down beside her. He grinned. “You know, I’ve never really run away from anything before. That was surprisingly exhilar—” “No time,” Amma said and grabbed his arm, running off into the dark.

Sestoth, forgive me,” she said quietly, then turned to Damien. “When I run, you follow me, no detours, and no attacking anyone, got it?” “Are you really giving me an order to—” She poked a finger against his chest. “Got it?” He frowned, then smirked. “Yes, ma’am.

You are aware that if you say anything to this guard about the talisman or our arrangement, it will not go well for you, yes?” Her eyes darted toward the tower they were slowly approaching then back to him, voice low. “Not well? You mean like you might kill me a little sooner than you planned?” Damien snorted. “No, but I will kill both of those good, gods-fearing men. And maybe maim Kaz a bit too, just for fun.

Damien considered her, the way the tip of her tongue poked out from between her teeth and how her freckles bunched up as she grinned, and there was a moment, however brief and absolutely mad, he would have given her anything she asked for then. Well, that’s bloody dangerous, he thought,

If we are separated, and, for whatever reason, I cannot find or summon you, you can use this to instead summon me.” “If we’re separated?” Her gaze popped up to him, suddenly mischievous. “You mean, like, if I run away?” “Well, no—” Amma wrinkled up her nose. “Because, why would I want you to find me if I ran away?” “I’m sure there are some things in this world worse than I am, and you have proven yourself incredibly abductable, but if you’d rather I take it back—” She pulled the feather close to her heart when he reached out for it. “No, I want it. Just in case.

Amma swallowed nervously, but heaved another book, and it bounced off Damien’s still-slack face. “Don’t get distracted, those breasts are attached to a demon!

I’ve simply grown my army, and it cost me next to nothing. You, on the other hand, have been holding out. Apparently you’re a very good thief who has been letting me pay for everything.