Winter's Orbit Quotes

You think I’m perfect?” He didn’t look away. Didn’t look bashful or even nervous. Just stared at her, like she’d asked him if Luna orbited the Earth. Then he leaned over and brushed a kiss against her forehead. “Just sort of,” he said. “You know. On a good day.

If he couldn't cope with you, then he couldn't have coped with anything [...]. Nobody could want more than who you are.

Just because it’s not important doesn’t mean it’s not important to someone.

Since September it's just gotten colder and colder. There's less daylight now, I've noticed too. This can only mean one thing - the sun is going out. In a few more months the Earth will be a dark and lifeless ball of ice. Dad says the sun isn't going out. He says its colder because the earth's orbit is taking us farther from the sun. He says winter will be here soon. Isn't it sad how some people's grip on their lives is so precarious that they'll embrace any preposterous delusion rather than face an occasional bleak truth?

For all its material advantages, the sedentary life has left us edgy, unfulfilled. Even after 400 generations in villages and cities, we haven’t forgotten. The open road still softly calls, like a nearly forgotten song of childhood. We invest far-off places with a certain romance. This appeal, I suspect, has been meticulously crafted by natural selection as an essential element in our survival. Long summers, mild winters, rich harvests, plentiful game—none of them lasts forever. It is beyond our powers to predict the future. Catastrophic events have a way of sneaking up on us, of catching us unaware. Your own life, or your band’s, or even your species’ might be owed to a restless few—drawn, by a craving they can hardly articulate or understand, to undiscovered lands and new worlds. Herman Melville, in Moby Dick, spoke for wanderers in all epochs and meridians: “I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas…” Maybe it’s a little early. Maybe the time is not quite yet. But those other worlds— promising untold opportunities—beckon. Silently, they orbit the Sun, waiting.

I used to be unusable because I was a mess," Tennal said. "Now I've spent time as a ranker and time as an officer, and you know what? Now I'm unusable by choice.

I don't know where that comes from. You can't be one of my own hallucinations. I haven't thought that.

Jainan,” he said into his fingers. He pulled his hands down until his dark agonized eyes met Jainan’s. “You’re beautiful.

wasn’t really about facts, it was about people. People were many things, but by and large they weren’t masterminds. They always wanted something. They always had a reason for what they did.

It's not fair. It's not equal. You have to let things go, over and over and over again. But it's mine, and it's important, and I'm doing what I can.

It's not fair for goats to be in space, sir. They don't know which way is up.

Surit worked in a universe of fixed possibilities. Tennal was a chaos event. Surit was drawn to it like a gravity well.

Smelling A Stone In The Middle Of Winter I can't remember What gravel and weeds look like. This little stone becomes important And starts to act big. I expect it to orbit the kitchen stove Any minute now. Near my nose It gets Bigger and bigger Until it's a mountain I'm lost on. This stone is different Than the stone that grinds me down All day At work. This stone Smells like the inside of your dress On a spring afternoon. It's the hard feeling in my stomach When I'm talking nonsense to you. This stone is so inviting Everyone wants to walk right into it And become a fossil.

Jainan felt a sudden intense gratitude for Kiem’s existence: for his easygoing manner, for his ability to take everything in his stride, for how he seemed to think Jainan’s opinion was important.

Ancient philosophies were entranced by the order of the cosmos; they marveled at the mysterious power that kept the heavenly bodies in their orbits and the seas within bounds and that ensured that the earth regularly came to life again after the dearth of winter, and they longed to participate in this richer and more permanent existence. They expressed this yearning in terms of what is known as the perennial philosophy, so called because it was present, in some form, in most premodern cultures.11 Every single person, object, or experience was seen as a replica, a pale shadow, of a reality that was stronger and more enduring than anything in their ordinary experience but that they only glimpsed in visionary moments or in dreams. By ritually imitating what they understood to be the gestures and actions of their celestial alter egos—whether gods, ancestors, or culture heroes—premodern folk felt themselves to be caught up in their larger dimension of being.

[...] he would see that birth and death were only two tremendous moments in an eternal waking, and his face would glow with amazement as he understood this; he would feel - gently he grasped the copper handle of the door - the warmth of the mountains, woods, rivers and valleys, would discover the hidden depths of human existence, would finally understand that the unbreakable ties that bound him to the world were not imprisoning chains and condemnation but a kind of clinging to an indestructible sense that he had a home; and he would discover the enormous joys of mutuality which embraced and animated everything: rain, wind, sun and snow, the flight of a bird, the taste of fruit, the scent of grass; and he would suspect that his anxieties and bitterness were merely cumbersome ballast required by the live roots of his past and the rising airship of his certain future, and, then - he started opening the door - he would finally know that our every moment is passed in a procession across dawns and day's-ends of the orbiting earth, across successive waves of winter and summer, threading the planets and the stars. Suitcase in hand, he stepped into the room and stood there blinking in the half-light.

Let us not, however, exaggerate our power. Whatever man does, the great lines of creation persist; the supreme mass does not depend on man. He has power over the detail, not over the whole. And it is right that this should be so. The Whole is providential. Its laws pass over our head. What we do goes no farther than the surface. Man clothes or unclothes the earth; clearing a forest is like taking off a garment. But to slow down the rotation of the globe on its axis, to accelerate the course of the globe on its orbit, to add or subtract a fathom on he earth's daily journey of 718,000 leagues around the sun, to modify the precession of the equinoxes, to eliminate one drop of rain--never! What is on high remains on high. Man can change the climate, but not the seasons Just try and make the moon revolve anywhere but in the ecliptic! Dreamers, some of them illustrious, have dreamed of restoring perpetual spring to the earth. The extreme seasons, summer and winter, are produced by the excess of the inclination of the earth's axis over the place of the ecliptic of which we have just spoken. In order to eliminate the seasons it would be necessary only to straighten this axis. Nothing could be simpler. Just plant a stake on the Pole and drive it in to the center of the globe; attach a chain to it; find a base outside the earth; have 10 billion teams, each of 10 billion horses, and get them to pull. THe axis will straighten up, ad you will have your spring. As you can see, an easy task. We must look elsewhere for Eden. Spring is good; but freedom and justice are beter. Eden is moral, not material. To be free and just depends on ourselves.

Society isn't something you can just snap your fingers and change.

Gender on Iskat was easy: anyone wearing flint ornaments was a woman, wooden ornaments signified a man, and glass—or nothing—meant nonbinary.

I wondered if any of us really had a choice about our judgments, or if we were forced by circumstances beyond our control into our own orbits, our own pathways.

Some things feel the same no matter how much time passes.

We have solved your situation for you," Tennal announced grandly. "You haven't!" Zin said. "You absolutely haven't!" "We have fucked up the situation," Tennal amended, just as grandly, "in a new and interesting way.

His eyes reflected the light from the hall; behind him, beyond the void, the stars burned in the enduring points; far beyond them, a telescope could have seen the maelstrom of the link, and a million more stars beyond that; and this tiny station spinning around a tiny jeweled planet like the fulcrum of the universe.

Beverly had thought how strange and wonderful it would be if the earth were hurled far from its orbit, into the cold extremes of black space where the sun was a faint cool disc, not even a quarter-moon, and night was everlasting. Imagine the industry, she thought, as every tree, every piece of coal, and every scrap of wood were burned for heat and light. Though the sea would freeze, men would go out in the darkness and pierce it's glassy ice to find the stilled fish. But finally all the animals would be eaten and their hides and wool stitched and woven, all the coal would be burned, and not a tree would be left standing. Silence would rule the earth, for the wind would stop and the sea would be heavy glass. People would die quietly, buried in their furs and down.

Kiem smiled that ridiculous, unfairly stunning smile. "Did I say thank you, by the way? You know, for saving my life. Possibly twice. I must have said thank you." Jainan just wanted to store that smile in his memory forever. He groped for a reply. "I didn't save your life." "You did. You fought off a bear." ''That was chance.'' "Fine, play it down," Kiem said. "I'll sell the story to a vidmaker, then you'll see." The helpless amusement was getting worse. Jainan held his grave face with an effort. "It's hardly vid material." "It'll star me, falling into a river. In my undershirt. The ratings will be off the charts." Jainan's felt his face crack into a smile. "I might watch it for that.

It’s because you wear your enormous heart on your sleeve, whether it swells with love or bleeds from grief—it’s a compelling force that has grown demons begging to be in your orbit.

The Fitchburg Railroad touches the pond about a hundred rods south of where I dwell. I usually go to the village along its causeway, and am, as it were, related to society by this link. The men on the freight trains, who go over the whole length of the road, bow to me as to an old acquaintance, they pass me so often, and apparently they take me for an employee; and so I am. I too would fain be a track-repairer somewhere in the orbit of the earth. The whistle of the locomotive penetrates my woods summer and winter, sounding like the scream of a hawk sailing over some farmer’s yard, informing me that many restless city merchants are arriving within the circle of the town, or adventurous country traders from the other side.

She felt as if she knew the stars, and had been among them, or would be. Why was it that in planetarium lectures the telescopic photographs flashed upon the interior of the dome were so familiar—not just to her, but to everyone. Farmers and children, and, once, Paumanuk Indians pausing in their sad race to extinction, had all understood the sharp abstract images, immediately and from the heart. The nebulae, the sweep of galaxies, the centrifugal clusters—nothing more, really, than projected electric light on a plaster ceiling—carried them away in a trance, and the planetarium lecturer need not have said a word. And why was it that certain sounds, frequencies, and repetitious rhythmic patterns suggested stars, floating galaxies, and even the colorful opaque planets orbiting in subdued ellipses? Why were certain pieces of music (pre-Galilean, post-Galilean, it did not matter) harmonically and rhythmically linked to the stars and suggestive of the parallel light that rained upon the earth in illusory radiants bursting apart? She had no explanation for these or a hundred other questions about the same matters.

I introduce the subject of fine structure with a mini-calendar of events. ... Winter 1914-15. Sommerfeld computes relativistic orbits for hydrogen-like atoms. Pashcen, aware of these studies, carefully investigates fine structures, .... January 6, 1916. Sommerfeld announces his fine structure formula, citing results to be published by Paschen in support of his answer. February 1916. Einstein to Sommerfeld: "A revelation!" March 1916. Bohr to Sommerfeld: "I do not believe ever to have read anything with more joy than your beautiful work." September 1916. Paschen publishes his work, acknowledging Sommerfeld's "indefatigable efforts.

Structurally unsound,” Jainan said. “Blame the contractors.

Jainan’s thoughts were transparent and slippery, and every time he tried to face one, it fled.

So…” Kiem said. He trailed off. For once he didn’t seem to know the right thing to say. “So,” Jainan echoed. The shadows of the tent wavered. Jainan took his courage into both hands and plunged over the edge. “Come here.

Jainan opened his eyes as something coursed through his body like molten metal: shock and need, his own desire casting off its last restraints. Kiem’s face was very close to his and his eyes were dark. Jainan said without even thinking, “You really do want me.” “Oh, fuck yes—please—Jainan, I’m losing my mind—” Kiem broke off and swallowed, his touch still a pool of heat on Jainan’s skin. “Not if you don’t want it,” he said. “And not for duty. Never for duty.

Y’know, your elbow. ’S perfect.” Jainan shifted his head and made an inquiring noise before he had time to realize that Kiem was still half-asleep, or might even be talking in his sleep. But Kiem woke up further and seemed to take that as a request for clarification. “I mean, probably both your elbows. Can’t see the other one. Everything’s perfect.

I don’t get how you can be such a miserable bundle of wet atmosphere and still get in my way all the time. Holy fuck, it feels good to stop acting,” Aren added.

Kiem hadn’t previously supposed an ally might come in the form of a tearful teenager with anti-Iskat pins on her jacket, but right at this moment he was prepared to consider her Heaven-sent.

Jainan did not strike out and create a random mess, like Kiem would have done. He caused deliberate, targeted mayhem. “I love him,” Kiem said. He shouldn’t say it. Jainan’s declarations had just been politics, he knew that, but Kiem was unable to stop smiling. “Of course you do,” the Emperor said. “You have never made good choices. Sell this, or the Empire falls.

He was talking to the reporters, but he was only looking at Jainan, and his words were only the edges of what he was saying, like the breaking crests of waves on a tide. Jainan didn’t laugh, but only because laughter was no more than a fraction of what he felt. He stepped up and kissed Kiem.

I think,” Jainan said slowly, “that it’s very possible to spend all your energy doing the right thing but still miss something obvious. I think that doesn’t make your effort meaningless.

Kiem had seen a couple of the Empire’s planets from space—Eisafan, Rtul—but he was prepared to award Thea the prize for first impressions, with a bonus entry for Planet He Might Consider Dating.

The cold against Jainan’s face was clean and purifying; he felt detached, but in a strange way, as if he could see his tiny, insignificant form moving at the center of the huge spaces around them. Something in the space and silence was trickling into his bones, gradually filling them up with an itchiness like shoots of grass unfolding. It came with an aching feeling, and for some reason, the ache felt like loss.

Kiem talked in fragments that were barely audible, can I, and you’re beautiful, and Jainan, Jainan, his name whispered against the skin of his neck over and over like a prayer.

This is nothing. One more incredibly dumb problem to baffle my therapist with.

Jainan stared at the wreckage of the flybug’s dome and empty seat for a full three seconds before he looked farther and saw a dark form lying at the end of a track gouged in the snow. It was suddenly very hard to breathe again. His head must still be hazy, because there didn’t seem to be any time at all between spotting Kiem and kneeling down next to him, shaking so badly he had to stop with his hand an inch from Kiem’s face. Kiem’s eyes were shut. It wouldn’t help to touch him. What would help? Jainan was useless.

He dropped his gaze back down to the table, but someone with a personality as intense as a laser cannon was focusing it all blindingly on him, and he wasn’t immune.

Rakal’s look gave Kiem pause, even as his indignation picked up steam, because he had come across several of Iskat’s more murderous fauna while on hikes and Rakal reminded him strongly of something with too many teeth.

All his attention was trained on downloading vast amounts of Kingfisher data and heaping it in abstract pools and graphic visualizations all over the desk. Kiem tried to help out, and not stand there watching the way research turned Jainan intent and whetstone-sharp.

Kiem was at the end of the row, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of his seat. His elbows rested on his knees and his foot jiggled restlessly, as if he couldn’t bear to be in a space as confined as a chair. His face was lined with anxiousness, but he was solid and real and alive, and for a moment Jainan was an invisible observer in a private bubble of affection.

Kiem looked up. The whole room was paying attention now, but that wasn’t important. Jainan saw the moment Kiem realized he was there. He saw the way Kiem straightened from his slump like someone had pulled him up, and he saw Kiem’s whole expression light up with hope.

Emma is that world. We’ve been orbiting around each other like two planets, both unsure about the gravity between us. That gravity, and the distance separating us, has now collapsed. We have collided, the mass of our attraction suddenly too great to keep us apart. I don’t know what comes next for us, but I’ve never been this excited in my whole life.

Bears often hoard rose petals to strew on hiking couples. Little-known romantic fact.

The line of Tennal's throat was outlined in crimson and blue light thrown from a sign opposite. Surit knew his own tendencies, which had nothing to do with gender and everything to do with people who were lightning strikes on dead land.

Necessary Equals by Stewart Stafford The grandest hearth cannot warm, Once grave chills touch the aged, The beggar donates his last coin, At a counting house of the well-waged. The giant is meek and misunderstood, As the slighted short one grows fiery, Life's spun gold pawned for pennies, The stricken strive to buy back entirely. In old age, winter shadows lengthen, As babes on tiptoes crave growth, So-called leaders spit out patron's lies, As a street madman roars his frank oath. Opposing siblings they are, but needed, Fellow travellers orbit on a path seeded. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

In the early 1900s a Serbian scientist named Milutin Milanković studied the Earth’s position relative to other planets and came up with the theory of ice ages that we now know is accurate: The gravitational pull of the sun and moon gently affect the Earth’s motion and tilt toward the sun. During parts of this cycle—which can last tens of thousands of years—each of the Earth’s hemispheres gets a little more, or a little less, solar radiation than they’re used to. And that is where the fun begins. Milanković’s theory initially assumed that a tilt of the Earth’s hemispheres caused ravenous winters cold enough to turn the planet into ice. But a Russian meteorologist named Wladimir Köppen dug deeper into Milanković’s work and discovered a fascinating nuance. Moderately cool summers, not cold winters, were the icy culprit. It begins when a summer never gets warm enough to melt the previous winter’s snow. The leftover ice base makes it easier for snow to accumulate the following winter, which increases the odds of snow sticking around in the following summer, which attracts even more accumulation the following winter. Perpetual snow reflects more of the sun’s rays, which exacerbates cooling, which brings more snowfall, and on and on. Within a few hundred years a seasonal snowpack grows into a continental ice sheet, and you’re off to the races. The same thing happens in reverse. An orbital tilt letting more sunlight in melts more of the winter snowpack, which reflects less light the following years, which increases temperatures, which prevents more snow the next year, and so on. That’s the cycle. The amazing thing here is how big something can grow from a relatively small change in conditions. You start with a thin layer of snow left over from a cool summer that no one would think anything of and then, in a geological blink of an eye, the entire Earth is covered in miles-thick ice.

Finally, and then I promise to say no more, Carl Sagan said it better than anyone: ‘For all its material advantages, the sedentary life has left us edgy, unfulfilled. Even after 400 generations in villages and cities, we haven’t forgotten. The open road still softly calls, like a nearly forgotten song of childhood. We invest far-off places with a certain romance. This appeal, I suspect, has been meticulously crafted by natural selection as an essential element in our survival. Long summers, mild winters, rich harvests, plentiful game—none of them lasts forever. Your own life, or your band’s, or even your species’ might be owed to a restless few—drawn, by a craving they can hardly articulate or understand, to undiscovered lands and new worlds. Maybe it’s a little early. Maybe the time is not quite yet. But those other worlds—promising untold opportunities—beckon. Silently, they orbit the Sun, waiting.