Warrior Code Quotes

I wonder if he'll ever see the truth in my own heart: that, whatever Dustpelt says, however much Fireheart breaks the warrior code, I love him more that I could imagine loving any other cat. And if Fireheart knew, would he love me, too? - Sandstorm

Fear doesn't go away. The warrior and the artist live by the same code of necessity, which dictates that the battle must be fought anew every day.

Fox dung! I'm a loyal ShadowClan cat. If I'm ever made deputy or leader it will be because I have earned it myself - and my Clanmates and StarClan wish it. You're twisting the warrior code to get what you want, just like you did when you were alive.

Our code is different from the warrior code. It reaches across boundaries. To us, every cat is simply that — a cat, with the same right to life as any other. We made a promise to heal and protect, remember?

We have to let the Warrior Code rule our hearts. The death of a warrior does not mean victory.

The excitable observer will pass judgement first and then make knowledge conform to judgement; the prudent observer will first learn to know and then judge according to knowledge.

Our father was a great warrior. Our mother is proud and strong. They shared only one flaw: that their only loyalty was to themselves above all other cats. We're not like that. We understand what it means to be loyal to our Clan. We have the courage to live by the warrior code. And because of that we'll be the most powerful cats in RiverClan one day, and our Clanmates will have to respect us then.

The War Has Been Declared. Your Ally Been Ensnared. It Is Now Or It Is Never. Break The Code Or Die Forever. Time Is Running Out Running Out Running Out To the Warrior Give My Blade By His Hand Your Fate Is Made But Do Not Forget the Ticking Or the Clicking, Clicking, Clicking While a Rat's Tongue May Be Flicking With Its Feet It Does the Tricking For the Paw and Not the Jaw Makes the Code of Claw Time Is Standing Still Standing Still Standing Still Since the Princess Is the Key To Unlock the Treachery She Cannot Avoid the Matching or the Scratching, Scratching, Scratching When a Secret Plot is Hatching In the Naming Is the Catching What She Saw, It Is the Flaw Of the Code of Claw Time is Turning Back Turning Back Turning Back When the Monster's Blood Is Spilled When the Warrior Has Been Killed You Must Not Ingore the Rapping Or the Tapping, Tapping, Tapping If the Gnawers Find you Napping You Will Rot While They Are Mapping Out the Law of Those Who Gnaw In the Code of Claw

The warrior guided by the spirit serves humanity, the warrior without, serves the ego

There is nothing unnatural about loving, no matter who it is we love.

Jules she said impulsively. " can I stay?" It was there code, the short version of the longer request; stay and make me forget my nightmares. stay and sleep next to me. Stay and chase the bad dreams away, the memories of blood, of dead parents, of endarkened warriors with eyes like dead black coals, it was a request they'd both made, more than once. -Cassandra Clare - lady midnight

But loyalty isn't rooted in friendship. It's much stronger than that. It comes from being born and raised under the same sky, from walking the same path as our ancestors, and from sharing the warrior code. With this life I commit you to upholding the warrior code, whatever challenges you might face. This is the wisdom of our ancestors, all our traditions distilled. Trust the code to lead you along the right path.

Warriors do not lower themselves to the standards of other people; they live independently according to their own standards and code of honor.

What’s the point of knowing the warrior code if all you do is ignore what it says?

The Warrior Woman Code: A confident woman doesn't beg a man to stay, cry if they don't or need to tear down other women to be loved. She knows her value. When the person she is meant to be with finds her, that person will know it also. He won't be confused by it. He will fight for her because without her he feels incomplete. She will always be foremost in his mind above anyone else. She doesn't have to scheme to keep or entice him. She is okay walking away from him because she doesn't want to be seen as a choice or a woman that has some potential. She demands to be seen as "the one." To settle for anything less than that is an admission of insecurity and lack of self love.

The thing about lipstick, the reason it’s so powerful, is that it is distracting. Men don’t see the flashes of anger in your eyes or your clenched fists when you wear it. They see a woman, not a warrior, and that gives me the advantage.

His warrior's eyes met hers. "You're the reason. My compass home points toward you.

It's the ultimate story of survival! Nemo is taken by the enemy, but his father doesn't give up trying to retrieve him. He forms unlikely alliances and conquers his fears to get his son back. Nemo also refuses to remain a prisoner and follows the warrior's code to escape and return to his family unit.

She closed her eyes and in her last moment felt only warmth. Only love.

You're really going to do it, aren't you? You're really going to go back to war?" Gregor said. He could feel something boiling up inside of him. "So, we'll just forget about what happened. The jungle, the Firelands, the Bane." His voice was rising and he could feel the rager side of him taking over. "Forget about everybody who's dead! Tick and Twitchtip and Hamnet and Thalia and Ares! And your parents, Luxa! And your pups, Ripred! Let's just forget about everybody who gave their lives so that you could have this moment where you could — could make things right again! So you could stop the killing! We were fighting for the same thing, remember? You two owe each other your lives! You owe me your lives! And now you stand there and ask me to choose between you? To help you kill each other?" Gregor yanked Sandwich's sword from his belt and swung it so violently that even Luxa and Ripred stepped back. "Well, guess what? The warrior's not fighting for either of you!

Barbarian --A Code of Conduct honored by all true barbarian warriors, requiring excellent coordination with weapons, closeness to nature, awkwardness with women, common sense, and completion of the mission.

You have no understanding of the warrior code at all. What you've done here proves it. You've risked the lives of young kits... by leaving them alone here. Anything could have happened to them. They could have been lost. They could have died. My kits could have died. But you didn't just betray me. You betrayed the entire Clan. You did all this... and you never considered how it would make any of us feel. The Clan is a family, Sol. A community. And you're incapable of thinking about anyone but yourself.

These mysteries were too much for him; he was a warrior, and all he wanted was to follow the warrior code. But what should he do, when the code did not speak clearly to him?

Next time,” Lionblaze muttered, “I’ll check who my parents are before I’m born.

Cedarstar was the first of the nine cats to step forward. He bowed his head to Brokentail and meowed, “I give you a life to live by the warrior code. Remember it well, Brokentail, and let it be your guide. Wiser cats than you or I have lost their way without it.

Bushido as an independent code of ethics may vanish, but its power will not perish from the earth; its schools of martial prowess or civic honor may be demolished, but its light and its glory will long survive their ruins. Like its symbolic flower, after it is blown to the four winds, it will still bless mankind with the perfume with which it will enrich life.

A Martial Artist may become A professional fighter but not every Fighter is capable of becoming A martial artist. Martial Arts are about restoration of physical and spiritual balance and fluidity; they are about observing restraints and 'setting example'. Every practice session is A reminder of the play of opposites (yin and yang), . . . .

The diversity of sounds rule my ever presence with their highs and blows, encompassing the totality of sensual experience. I'm a child of the sirens of knowledge, a warrior for the truth in a world of washed perspectives and harsh realities. My voice cries the initial cry of the unborn into the perplexing illusion. I long for the realization of the human drama, the defeat of the dogs war, and the unity of existence. The beloved Gods of virtue have been undersold for the bleeding bread of empathy. I now awaist the triumphant roar of destiny, dressed in the inviting hand of a mother, perplexed by discovering, aroused by spirit. The door is open, the road transformed. The exit code to civilization is hacked beyond dispair, chased but the moon toward the freeing sun, on our journey to light. This is an open plea to the beautiful insanity of your hearts. It is time to consummate the kiss of oblivion into the obsidian of love!

Our elders, and our elders’ kin, and their kin before them, fought to keep Sunningrocks in our territory. Many of them lost their lives, giving up their last breath for stones that belong to us. Can we give up where they did not, turn tail and flee when they kept fighting so that their kits could hunt and play and bask on these rocks? Will you fight with me now, in honor of all our elders and all our unborn kits?

A karate practitioner should possess two things : wicked hands, and Buddha's heart

I so love taking care of alpha warriors.

The warrior and the artist live by the same code of necessity, which dictates that the battle must be fought anew every day.

All right, let's consider some history here. I see a number of girls are wearing pants. This used to be frowned upon. In 1938, Helen Hulick was jailed for wearing slacks -- put behind bars. Do you think society should have the right to jail or punish you for what you choose to wear?

You will stay and help defend our cave against all comers, protect those weaker than yourself and honor our code. Always use the sword to stand for good and right, never do a thing you would be ashamed of, and never let your heart rule your mind ... And never let another creature take this sword from you, not as long as you live. When the time comes, pass it on to another, maybe your own son. You will know instinctively if he is a warrior. If not, hide the sword where only a true warrior who is brave of heart would dare to go and find it. Swear this to me, Martin.

Jayfeather snorted. “If I’ve broken the code then I’m sorry for it, but every cat knows I’m loyal. I don’t need to swear an oath.” “Just do it,” Lionblaze told him. “Then perhaps we can get back to normal.” Bramblestar’s pelt twitched. “We can get back to normal when I say so,” he growled. “This oath is just so that your Clanmates can see that you’re sorry and that you are committed to obeying the code from now on.” “Next time,” Lionblaze muttered, “I’ll check who my parents are before I’m born.

The Samurai lived by a code of honor, not unlike the code that you live by. It’s called the Bushido. It was never written down; was always something the Samurai knew, and it was handed down from one warrior to another. One of the tenets of the code is about justice. Not the pounding of a gavel on the bench of some judge who’s been appointed to pass judgment on people by some politician. No, malaka, this concept of justice is what you feel in your bones: to die when it is right and to strike when it is right.

His helmet touched hers, and even through all the clothes and gear, she felt him squeeze her. "It's just like making love, Snow White, let go and feel," he said in a low voice, sending sparks ripping through her, squashing the fear and replacing it with desire.

Contrary to what the bourgeois and liberal polemics claim, the warrior idea may not be reduced to materialism, nor is it synonymous with the exaltation of the brutal use of strength and destructive violence. Rather, the calm, conscious, and planned development of the inner being and a code of ethics; love of distance; hierarchy; order; the faculty of subordinating the emotional and individualistic element of one’s self to higher goals and principles, especially in the name of honor and duty – these are the elements of the warrior idea, and they act as the foundations of a specific “style” that has largely been lost.

As Mr. Darcy walked off, Elizabeth felt her blood turn cold. She had never in her life been so insulted. The warrior code demanded she avenge her honour. Elizabeth reached down to her ankle, taking care not to draw attention. There, her hand met the dagger concealed beneath her dress. She meant to follow this proud Mr. Darcy outside and open his throat. But

What a brave little psycho she was. What a reckless woman. What a fierce and sensitive warrior.

Our entire lives are wars, our very breaths little fights with our fears and ambitions.

There’s only so much luck and mercy God can offer, and I’ve used up my fair share, Pat. I can see her standing by my coffin, and I won’t do that to her.

In the end, it’s lies that tear a Clan apart, not the truth.

training him well, Dewtail.” “Dewnose.” Dewnose blinked at him. “I’m called Dewnose.

But he knew now, with a sureness that filled him with horror, that the voice had never been the voice of StarClan.

We should if they’re being driven out of their territory and starved to death,” Lionpaw argued. “What the Tribe needs is the warrior code, and we’re going to teach it to them!

Pleasure bubbled in Ashfur’s chest. I’m not cruel, he told himself. This was all Squirrelflight’s fault. She drove me to this. I only wanted the Clans to see what hypocrites they are.

If a heart could actually swell with warmth, he knew his just had. He was the anchor and she was the beautiful vessel swinging around him drifting on a tropical sea, but he was in danger of dragging, and he knew it.

Are you absolutely certain that Grace is yours? She's not just a woman who would be suitable because she carries the genetic code we need? Francesca is my world. Your woman needs to be yours." "Grace is my Francesca, " Vittorio assured.

I didn't offer to help him carry any of his stuff. That's the unwritten code between cabbies and movers.... It's his punishment for tricking the cab driver into playing Mayflower, because he knows he's not going to give you a tip, and so do you.

Be independent of the opinions of others. Don’t be easily influenced by what they say or what they believe. You have to take the time to meditate on what you know is right and wrong. Know what your code of ethics is and do not allow the arguments of others to cause you to doubt what you know is right. You must remain true to your convictions, even if everyone else disagrees with you.

Henry Fonda was still throwing up before each stage performance, even when he was seventy-five. In other words, fear doesn't go away. The warrior and the artist live by the same code of necessity, which dictates that the battle must be fought anew every day.

I wish to create a new rule for the warrior code: that each Clan has the right to be proud and independent, but in times of trouble they must forget their boundaries and fight side by side to protect the four. Each Clan must help the others so that no Clan will fall.

If wishes were prey, we'd eat like lions come leaf-bare. But we'd die of boredom! You know that's not what the life of the Clans is like. The warrior code guides us through the dark times, the cold and the hunger. And the good times seem all the sweeter for it. Have faith, Bluestar. We'll survive.

I just want to say that I will continue to serve my Clan and the warrior code, even from the elders’ den.” Her green gaze, full of love and loyalty, swept around the circle of her Clanmates. “I wish Firestar were here at my side,” she went on, her voice shaking, “but I know he’s watching over me, and over all of us.

Verily, there is no dishonor in death at the hands of a far superior enemy.

enjoying

That was not the professional hatred of one warrior for another in the heat of battle, in which even beneath the hatred there still existed a certain begrudging respect.

You’re stronger than you think,

Every word was poison, like snake venom dripping into a pool, but it’s helped me understand him.

The cold that gripped her seemed at last to let her go. She closed her eyes and in her last moment felt only warmth. Only love.

You’re training him well, Dewtail.” “Dewnose.” Dewnose blinked at him. “I’m called Dewnose.

WHEN THE WARRIOR HAS BEEN KILLED,

He only wanted to be with her. Why couldn’t he simply decide to leave SkyClan?

If every cat tried to kill their Clanmates after they had been dumped, there would be no Clans left. - Rootspring

Ashfur broke his neck,” she mewed bleakly. “I’m sorry to say that he’s dead.

HEATHERTAIL—light brown tabby she-cat with blue eyes (mother to Breezepelt’s kits: Woodkit, a brown she-kit, and Applekit, a yellow tabby she-kit)

I no longer deny that StarClan exists.

But he knew now, with a sureness that filled him with horror, that the voice had never been the voice of StarClan

And,” Squirrelflight continued, “if I’m right, it’s even worse than we thought.

For the next quarter moon,” Bramblestar began, “no cat is to talk to Spotfur.

I’m a codebreaker, aren’t I?” Squirrelflight winked at her, then

Bramblestar nodded toward Bumblestripe. “I sent a loyal warrior to see where you went,” the ThunderClan leader growled.

Shut up!” The words burst from Rootpaw before he could stop himself.

But then he saw Bristlefrost stroll past him, following Violetshine. She glanced at Rootpaw and winked. Without another thought, he fell into step behind the ThunderClan warrior. I’m in.

Squirrelflight looked at the ground. “I think you are paying for my mistake.” “Because you and Leafpool lied about who our mother was?” Lionblaze sounded as though he couldn’t believe his ears. She nodded meekly. “But that was moons ago!” Lionblaze snapped. “Why should StarClan drag that up now? And what has it got to do with me and Jayfeather? Did we break the code by being born?

I don’t remember much about my life,” he confessed. “I vaguely remember that I wasn’t the nicest cat. Well, if I had been, I wouldn’t have ended up here, would I? When I was alive, I know I cared a lot about power. But what does that power mean now?” He shrugged. “Nothing. When you spend forever slinking through a dark and dying forest, alone, you realize how little power you ever had.

For the next quarter moon,” Bramblestar began, “no cat is to talk to Spotfur.” Spotfur lifted her head sharply and stared at the ThunderClan leader. Bristlefrost felt cold. Was this a normal way to punish Clanmates? She glanced at Graystripe. He’d know, surely. But the old warrior looked as surprised as she felt. Bramblestar’s gaze moved to Lionblaze. “You are banished from the camp for a quarter moon.” Cinderheart stepped forward. “You can’t do that. . . .” She stared at Bramblestar. “He’s a ThunderClan warrior. We protect each other!” Bramblestar looked coolly at Lionblaze’s mate. “He has broken the warrior code, and questioned me for trying to uphold it. I will not let any cat undermine me or my Clan like that.” He returned his gaze to Lionblaze, who was staring at him in amazement. “You’re a seasoned warrior. You should know better.” Lionblaze’s gaze cleared. He blinked in disbelief but didn’t speak.

Shadowsight pressed on. “This is what they told me,” he insisted. “They showed me a vision of the cats who have broken the code.” Kestrelflight’s ears flattened. “Which cats?” he demanded. “Crowfeather, Squirrelflight, Jayfeather—

She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men." As Mr. Darcy walked off, Elizabeth felt her blood turn cold. She had never in her life been so insulted. The warrior code demanded she avenge her honour. Elizabeth reached down to her ankle, taking care not to draw attention. There, her hand met the dagger concealed beneath her dress. She meant to follow this proud Mr. Darcy outside and open his throat.

Living—comes with a price, as does freedom. The sons and daughters, friends and soul mates surrounding us today, offer their lives as a shield against dark things, giving peace a fighting chance. There is no greater irony, and only those who protect a nation can understand the paradox. Whether by some crinkle of fate or man’s eternal flaws, struggle is a part of life, but so is hope. There are things crushingly certain in this world. The warmth of blood and tears will always chill as it blankets soil and gravestones. In the silent but healing breath seized between war and peace, there will always be memorable moments. The ones that keep life worth living. You just need to recognize them, and hold onto them as long as you can. Today—belongs to all of us.

Crowfeather: Leafpool, I know you feel the same as I do. Somehow we have to be together. Leafpool: But I'm a medicine cat, and I'm from another clan. There isn't any future for us Crowfeather. Crowfeather: Leafpool, do you want to be with me as much as I want to be with you? Leafpool: Yes, I do.

Spotfur lifted her head sharply and stared at the ThunderClan leader. Bristlefrost felt cold. Was this a normal way to punish Clanmates? She glanced at Graystripe. He’d know, surely. But the old warrior looked as surprised as she felt. Bramblestar’s gaze moved to Lionblaze. “You are banished from the camp for a quarter moon.

I wondered about making hunting patrols bring each piece of prey back to camp as soon as they catch it, instead of bringing back a whole day’s hunting in one go.” “Wouldn’t that make hunting harder?” Bristlefrost ventured. Bramblestar narrowed his eyes. “But I worry that, when warriors are out in the forest too long, they forget that Clan rules apply to them.

Legendary strategist Maj Gen Carl von Clausewitz cuts to the chase with characteristic brutal clarity: “The soldier trade, if it is to mean anything at all, has to be anchored to an unshakable code of honor. Otherwise, those of us who follow the drums become nothing more than a bunch of hired assassins walking around in gaudy clothes . . . a disgrace to God and mankind.”6

This is why you should be your own cat," Tree meowed at last. "Like it or not, you have a different ancestry from most of the other young cats in SkyClan. The way of a warrior is not the only way, and you should be grateful for the chance to see that. There's more to life than fighting and showing yourself off as a strong cat. It's not always about who is the biggest and bravest.

THE SHADOWCLAN WARRIOR BOULDER was born and raised in Twolegplace. He first encountered cats from the forest when Yellowpaw and Raggedpelt visited Twolegplace looking for Raggedpelt’s father. Even then, Boulder was full of curiosity about the mysterious wild cats. Later, he took part in a skirmish with ShadowClan cats after one of their patrols caught Twolegplace cats stealing prey. The ShadowClan warriors were victorious, and Boulder had nothing but admiration for the way they had fought: in particular, the fact that the Clan cats could have killed their rivals, but chose not to. He was intrigued by this warrior code that brought with it honor, dignity, and fiercely honed battle skills. With another Twolegplace rogue named Red, Boulder went to ShadowClan and asked Cedarstar to accept him as a warrior—and Cedarstar agreed.

The [articles of the Genva Convention] adopted by The International Committee drew upon...the codes of a warrior's honour...these codes vary from culture to culture and their common features are the oldest artifacts of human morality: from Christian chivalry... to the Japanese Bushido or way of the warrior... The codes acknowledged the moral paradox of battle: that those who fight ...bravely are bound [by]...mutual respect...

Fine. You won’t tell me why your crew worked me over. You won’t let me see Derek. That’s your prerogative. We’ll do it your way. James Damael Shrapshire, in your capacity as the Pack’s chief security officer, you have permitted Pack members under your command to deliberately injure an employee of the Order. At least three individuals involved in the assault wore the shapeshifter warrior form. Under the Georgia Code, a shapeshifter in a warrior form is equivalent to being armed with a deadly weapon. Therefore, your actions fall under O.C.G.A. Section 16-5-21(c), aggravated assault on a peace officer engaged in the performance of her duties, which is punishable by mandatory imprisonment of no less than five and no more than twenty years. A formal complaint will be filed with the Order within twenty-four hours. I advise you to seek the assistance of counsel.” Jim stared at me. The hardness drained from his eyes, and in their depths I saw astonishment. I held his stare for a long moment. “Don’t call; don’t stop by. You need something done, go through official channels. And the next time you meet me, mind your p’s and q’s, because I’ll fuck you over in a heartbeat the second you step over the line. Now return my sword, because I’m walking out of here, and I dare any of your idiots to try and stop me.

The moment Thistlepaw had left, she glared at Snowpaw. “What’s going on with you and him?” “He makes me purr,” Snowpaw mewed. “I can see that,” Bluepaw growled. Snowpaw’s eyes flashed. “He was only being helpful!” “A little too helpful by the look of it!” “There’s nothing in the warrior code that says denmates can’t be friends,” Snowpaw snapped back. “You looked like more than just friends!” Bluepaw accused her. “So what?” Snowpaw snapped. “There’s nothing in the warrior code about that either.” “So you’re just following the warrior code?” Bluepaw rolled her eyes. “Well, there’s nothing in the warrior code about sleeping or eating. Maybe you should give those up, just so you aren’t breaking the code!” Snowpaw rolled her eyes. “Now you’re being ridiculous.” Before Bluepaw could answer, Sunfall padded around the nettles. “What are you two arguing about?” Both sisters glared at the deputy. “Nothing!

I know prey is scarce,” he meowed. “But you shouldn’t bother coming back until you have something to show for your efforts. If you’re real warriors, you’ll freeze your paws off if you have to, for the survival of your Clan.” As she listened, Bristlefrost grew uneasy at the tone of her leader’s words. His voice sounded rougher than usual, not like the calm, measured leader Bristlefrost had always admired. Squirrelflight seemed to share her misgivings. “Aren’t you being a little harsh?” she murmured to Bramblestar. “All the warriors are doing their best under very difficult conditions.

When you peer into an abyss, you see a monster. If it is a small abyss, then it is a small monster. But if it is the ultimate abyss, then it is the ultimate monster. That is certainly a dragon—perhaps even the dragon of evil itself. The conceptualization of the monster in the abyss is the eternal predator lurking in the night, ready and able to devour its unsuspecting prey. That is an image that is tens of millions of years old, something coded as deeply in the recesses of our biological structure as anything conceptual can be coded. And it is not just the monsters of nature, but the tyrants of culture and the malevolence of individuals. It is all of that, with the latter dominant, terrible as that is to consider. And it is in the nature of mankind not to cower and freeze as helpless prey animals, nor to become a turncoat and serve evil itself, but to confront the lions in their lairs. That is the nature of our ancestors: immensely courageous hunters, defenders, shepherds, voyagers, inventors, warriors, and founders of cities and states. That is the father you could rescue; the ancestor you could become. And he is to be discovered in the deepest possible place, as that is where you must go if you wish to take full responsibility and become who you could be.

Living—comes with a price, as does freedom. The sons and daughters, friends and soul mates surrounding us today, offer their lives as a shield against dark things, giving peace a fighting chance. There is no greater irony, and only those who protect a nation can understand the paradox. Whether by some crinkle of fate or man’s eternal flaws, struggle is a part of life, but so is hope. There are things crushingly certain in this world. The warmth of blood and tears will always chill as it blankets soil and gravestones. In the silent but healing breath seized between war and peace, there will always be memorable moments. The ones that keep life worth living. You just need to recognize them, and hold onto them as long as you can. Today—belongs to all of us. “Hooyah,

In their book Warrior Lovers, an analysis of erotic fiction by women, the psychologist Catherine Salmon and the anthropologist Donald Symons wrote, "To encounter erotica designed to appeal to the other sex is to gaze into the psychological abyss that separates the sexes.... The contrasts between romance novels and porn videos are so numerous and profound that they can make one marvel that men and women ever get together at all, much less stay together and successfully rear children." Since the point of erotica is to offer the consumer sexual experiences without having to compromise with the demands of the other sex, it is a window into each sex's unalloyed desires. ... Men fantasize about copulating with bodies; women fantasize about making love to people. Rape is not exactly a normal part of male sexuality, but it is made possible by the fact that male desire can be indiscriminate in its choice of a sexual partner and indifferent to the partner's inner life--indeed, "object" can be a more fitting term than "partner." The difference in the sexes' conception of sex translates into a difference in how they perceive the harm of sexual aggression. ... The sexual abyss offers a complementary explanation of the callous treatment of rape victims in traditional legal and moral codes. It may come from more than the ruthless exercise of power by males over females; it may also come from a parochial inability of men to conceive of a mind unlike theirs, a mind that finds the prospect of abrupt, unsolicited sex with a stranger to be repugnant rather than appealing. A society in which men work side by side with women, and are forced to take their interests into account while justifying their own, is a society in which this thick-headed incuriosity is less likely to remain intact. The sexual abyss also helps to explain the politically correct ideology of rape. ... In the case of rape, the correct belief is that rape has nothing to do with sex and only to do with power. As (Susan) Brownmiller put it, "From prehistoric times to the present, I believe, rape has played a critical function. It is nothing more or less than a conscious process of intimidation by which all men keep all women in a state of fear." ... Brownmiller wrote that she adapted the theory from the ideas of an old communist professor of hers, and it does fit the Marxist conception that all human behavior is to be explained as a struggle for power between groups. But if I may be permitted an ad feminam suggestion, the theory that rape has nothing to do with sex may be more plausible to a gender to whom a desire for impersonal sex with an unwilling stranger is too bizarre to contemplate. Common sense never gets in the way of a sacred custom that has accompanied a decline of violence, and today rape centers unanimously insist that "rape or sexual assault is not an act of sex or lust--it's about aggression, power, and humiliation, using sex as the weapon. The rapist's goal is domination." (To which the journalist Heather MacDonald replies: "The guys who push themselves on women at keggers are after one thing only, and it's not reinstatement of the patriarchy.")

Keeping a population growing was best served by creating conditions in which as many women as possible were having as many babies as they could, raising those children to be useful to the state as future breeders, workers, and warriors. Ancient Mesopotamian cities became concerned with taking censuses – including gender as a category alongside age and location – so they could measure their human resources and collect taxes more efficiently. Categories were needed for hierarchies to function, for leaders to know how many people they had, and how to allocate work and rations between them. People had to be given social codes to follow so the state would keep ticking over efficiently without falling apart. In many ways it was like a machine: every part designed for a particular function.

I came back . . . for you.” The effort had been too much. Bramblestar’s body sagged and his eyes closed as he lapsed back into unconsciousness. “Is he dead?” Squirrelflight asked, her eyes wide with alarm. Shadowsight bent over the ThunderClan leader, placing a paw on his chest and sniffing around his muzzle. “No, he’s alive,” he mewed at last. Straightening up, he added, “Squirrelflight, what did that mean? ‘I came back for you’?” For a moment Squirrelflight seemed completely confused, gazing up at the roof of the den and back down at Bramblestar’s motionless form. “I’m starting to think there’s something familiar about this fake Bramblestar,” she murmured. “But I can’t quite put my paw on what it is, or who it might actually be. I do know one thing, though,” she added, meeting Shadowsight’s concerned gaze. “I have a terrible feeling about all of this.

To truly be a great warrior in the world, you must step past your fears. It’s inevitable that we get attached to people, to our goals, and fear losing them—but a true Jedi knows that attachments to people and goals can hinder us. It is possible to move toward a goal or to be madly in love with someone—without attachment. Often what we really fear is not losing the other but losing that part of ourselves that this someone or something makes us feel. This happens when we attach our sense of self-worth and happiness to someone or something outside of ourselves. Go ahead and love well. Work hard toward a goal, but know that when you make your feelings of love and fulfillment come from an internal reservoir and not from the other person or the goal, you become much stronger. In fact, you may discover that you can love better and pursue your goals with much more ease. But it starts with a feeling within.

The only thing I can’t figure out is why you still eat the food your captors fed you. Why don’t you hate it as much as you hate them?” Fila glanced down at her plate. It contained a strange mixture of Afghan and Mexican dishes. She held up a flatbread. “This isn’t Taliban food—it’s Afghan food. It’s my mother’s food. I grew up eating it before I was ever captured. To me it means love and tenderness, not hate and violence.” “Taliban, Afghan—it’s all the same.” She waved the bread. “No, it’s not. Not one bit. Afghan culture is over two thousand years old. And it’s a conservative culture—it’s had to be—but it’s not a culture of monsters. Afghans are people like you, Holt. They’re born, they grow up, they live and love and they die just like we do. I didn’t study much history before I was taken, but I know this much. America’s story is that of the frontier—of always having room to grow. Afghanistan’s story is that of occupation. By the Russians, the British, the Mongols—even the ancient Greeks. On and on for century after century. Imagine all those wars being fought in Montana. Foreign armies living among us, taking over your ranch, stealing everything you own, killing your wife and children, over and over and over again.” She paused to catch her breath. “Death is right around the corner for them—all the time. Is it any wonder that a movement that turns men into warriors and codes everything else into rigid rules might seem like the answer?” She still wasn’t sure if Holt was following her. What analogy would make sense to him? She wracked her brain. “If a bunch of Californians overran Chance Creek and forced everyone to eat tofu, would you refuse to ever eat steak again?” He made a face. “Of course not!” “Then imagine the Taliban are the Californians, forcing everyone to eat tofu. And everyone does it because they don’t know what else to do. They still love steak, but they will be severely punished if they eat it—so will their families. That’s what it’s like for many Afghans living under Taliban control. It’s not their choice. They still love their country. They still love their heritage. That doesn’t mean they love the group of extremists who have taken over.” “Even if those Taliban people went away, they still wouldn’t be anything like you and me.” Holt crossed his arms. Fila suppressed a smile at his inclusion of her. That was a step in the right direction even if the greater message was lost on him. “They’re more like you than you think. Defensive. Angry. Always on the lookout for trouble.” Holt straightened. “I have four sons. Of course I’m on the lookout for trouble.” “They have sons, too.” She waited to see if he understood. Holt shook his head. “We’re going to see different on this one. But I understand about the food. Everyone likes their mother’s cooking best.” He surveyed her plate. “You got any more of that bread?” She’d take that as a victory.

I’m tired of thinking about Agatha. Well, not about her, but about my loss of her. Today I went through some old boxes of mine and found some journal entries I wrote in the second grade. One was about the loss of a girl, the S name on my list, so I’ll copy and paste it for posterity: Today was a bad day. Stephany broke up with me for Tommy. I don’t like that slimy Tommy. Tommy is a turtle. I used to like turtles but now I like warm blooded creetures. Maybe Stephany is a reptile disguised as a human jerkface. I won’t cry because I am a soldier. Soldiers do not dispense tears. Soldiers kill their enemies. Tommy is my enemy. But the code of the moose says a warrior must eat what he kills. Does this mean I should have eaten my neighbors cat? I will not cry today or ever. I am fearless like my dad. My dad is a superhero. He is courageous and invisible. I haven’t seen him in four years. When I see him next he’ll probably tell me I am taller. Maybe I will tell him he is shorter. And fatter and balder. Maybe he will appear again and I can be normal. I would very much like to not wear wooden shoes anymore. Cats tongues are rough like sandpaper. Cats must never lick my shoes. Nobody licked my shoes the way Stephany did. I will miss her and her early-onset male pattern baldness.

Three cats stood in the center of the camp, their fur frosted by the dazzling white light. “Who are you?” Graywing stammered. These weren’t RiverClan warriors, and she didn’t recognize them from Gatherings. She wondered how they had managed to get all the way into the camp without being challenged. The tallest of the strangers, hard-muscled beneath his brown tabby coat, dipped his head. “Greetings, Graywing,” he meowed. “My name is Runningstorm of WindClan. This is Wolfheart”—he nodded to the elegant gray she-cat beside him—“and our leader, Smallstar.” The third cat, whose tiny frame was covered in sleek black-and-white fur, looked at Graywing. His blue eyes were friendly as he mewed, “We have traveled far to see you.” Graywing looked from one cat to the other. “I don’t understand. Has something happened to Fallowstar?” Smallstar shook his head. “Fallowstar is fine. We are the cats who would have been.” Graywing stared at them in horror. The image of three terrified bundles, falling one by one into the churning river, filled her eyes. “You are the kits who drowned,” she whispered. Wolfheart bent her head. “That is so. Come, we have something to show you.” She turned and led the way across the clearing toward the nursery. Graywing followed without having to tell her paws what to do; they seemed to be carrying her on their own. Runningstorm nosed aside the bramble that was draped across the entrance to the nursery, protecting the precious cats inside. “Look,” he urged Graywing. Oh, StarClan, let our kits be all right, Graywing prayed as she poked her head inside. Had the WindClan kits returned to punish her by hurting the youngest RiverClan cats? The den smelled warm and milky, and enough moonlight filtered through the branches for Graywing to see Hayberry curled around Wildkit and Minnowkit, who snuffled gently in their sleep. Hayberry’s flank rose and fell in time with her kits’ breathing, and although her eyelids flickered when Graywing looked at her, she didn’t stir. Graywing pulled her head out. “They’re safe,” she breathed. Smallstar looked surprised. “Of course. Did you think we’d hurt one hair on their pelts? Kits are the most special part of a Clan. They are the warriors who will defend their Clanmates in moons to come, the hunters who will find food even in the coldest leaf-bare, the cats who will have kits of their own to pass on everything they have learned. A Clan that has no kits might as well be dead.