Wrath Of An Exile Quotes

Pitiful and pitied by no one, why have I come to the ignominy of this detestable old age, who was ruler of two kingdoms, mother of two kings? My guts are torn from me, my family is carried off and removed from me. The young king [crown prince Henry, †1183] and the count of Britanny [prince Geoffrey, †1186] sleep in dust, and their most unhappy mother is compelled to be irremediably tormented by the memory of the dead. Two sons remain to my solace, who today survive to punish me, miserable and condemned. King Richard [the Lionheart] is held in chains [in captivity with Emperor Henry VI of Germany]. His brother, John, depletes his kingdom with iron [the sword] and lays it waste with fire. In all things the Lord has turned cruel to me and attacked me with the harshness of his hand. Truly his wrath battles against me: my sons fight amongst themselves, if it is a fight where where one is restrained in chains, the other, adding sorrow to sorrow, undertakes to usurp the kingdom of the exile by cruel tyranny. Good Jesus, who will grant that you protect me in hell and hide me until your fury passes, until the arrows which are in me cease, by which my whole spirit is sucked out?" [Third letter to Pope Celestine (1193)]

Poland! Poland! The very name carries with it sighings and groanings, nation-murder, brilliance, beauty, patriotism, splendors, self-sacrifice through generations of gallant men and exquisite women; indomitable endurance of bands of noble people carrying through world-wide exile the sacred fire of wrath against the oppressor, and uttering in every clime a cry of appeal to Humanity to rescue Poland.

...the intellectual is a person who nurtures, preserves and propagates independent judgment, a person loyal exclusively to truth, a courageous and wrathful individual for whom no force of this world is too great or too frightening not to be subjected to scrutiny and called to account. ... A true intellectual, a genuine one, is always an outsider, …he is a person who lives in self-imposed exile on the margins of society.

Can I still be considered a girl’s girl if I have the urge to it run her over with my car? I’m not jealous. I’m just…mildly homicidal.

But for her? I’d kneel.

Love is the only drug I’ve ever wanted in my bloodstream. Craved and crippled my heart for it. It’s the core of human existence. Forever wanting what we will never have

Right here, right now, we’re no one. There’s no history. No last names. You’re just Jude. I’m just Phi. We can create something that’s ours.

How’s our universe, baby?

If you hurt my niece, I will give your spine to my wife as an anniversary gift,” Thatcher says, voice low and steady, the kind of threat that doesn’t need repeating.

You don’t get it, do you? I always see you.

I’m the only one allowed to hate you.

I named you Seraphina because your father’s name means smoke.” Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. 

I glance up from under the hood, spotting him in his work clothes—tie loosened, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose his tattooed arms, creases of a long day softened by the dim garage light.

I’m always fucking seeing you, Phi. In every room, no matter how much I want to ignore you, you burn too fucking bright. You’re the goddamn sun, and I hate that I can’t stop looking at you.

Give it to me, Phi.” I seethe, the words barely escaping through clenched teeth. “Give me all your pain, all your hurt, every ounce of that rage in your vicious fucking heart. I can take it.

A hopeless exile from his native home, From death alone exempt—but cease to mourn; Let all combine to achieve his wish'd return; Neptune atoned, his wrath shall now refrain, Or thwart the synod of the gods in vain.

Watch your fucking mouth when you’re speaking to my wife.” Rook’s voice cuts through the air like a serrated blade, scorched and swift. Shoulders tensed, he wears a look I can only describe as pure evil in his features.

Jesus, then, went to Jerusalem not just to preach, but to die. Schweitzer was right: Jesus believed that the messianic woes were about to burst upon Israel, and that he had to take them upon himself, solo. In the Temple and the upper room, Jesus deliberately enacted two symbols, which encapsulated his whole work and agenda. The first symbol said: the present system is corrupt and recalcitrant. It is ripe for judgment. But Jesus is the Messiah, the one through whom YHWH, the God of all the world, will save Israel and thereby the world. And the second symbol said: this is how the true exodus will come about. This is how evil will be defeated. This is how sins will be forgiven. Jesus knew—he must have known—that these actions, and the words which accompanied and explained them, were very likely to get him put on trial as a false prophet leading Israel astray, and as a would-be Messiah; and that such a trial, unless he convinced the court otherwise, would inevitably result in his being handed over to the Romans and executed as a (failed) revolutionary king. This did not, actually, take a great deal of “supernatural” insight, any more than it took much more than ordinary common sense to predict that, if Israel continued to attempt rebellion against Rome, Rome would eventually do to her as a nation what she was now going to do to this strange would-be Messiah. But at the heart of Jesus’ symbolic actions, and his retelling of Israel’s story, there was a great deal more than political pragmatism, revolutionary daring, or the desire for a martyr’s glory. There was a deeply theological analysis of Israel, the world, and his own role in relation to both. There was a deep sense of vocation and trust in Israel’s god, whom he believed of course to be God. There was the unshakable belief—Gethsemane seems nearly to have shaken it, but Jesus seems to have construed that, too, as part of the point, part of the battle—that if he went this route, if he fought this battle, the long night of Israel’s exile would be over at last, and the new day for Israel and the world really would dawn once and for all. He himself would be vindicated (of course; all martyrs believed that); and Israel’s destiny, to save the world, would thereby be accomplished. Not only would he create a breathing space for his followers and any who would join them, by drawing on to himself for a moment the wrath of Rome and letting them escape; if he was defeating the real enemy, he was doing so on behalf of the whole world. The servant-vocation, to be the light of the world, would come true in him, and thence in the followers who would regroup after his vindication. The death of the shepherd would result in YHWH becoming king of all the earth. The vindication of the “son of man” would see the once-for-all defeat of evil, the rescue of the true Israel, and the establishment of a worldwide kingdom. Jesus therefore took up his own cross. He had come to see it, too, in deeply symbolic terms: symbolic, now, not merely of Roman oppression, but of the way of love and peace which he had commended so vigorously, the way of defeat which he had announced as the way of victory. Unlike his actions in the Temple and the upper room, the cross was a symbol not of praxis but of passivity, not of action but of passion. It was to become the symbol of victory, but not of the victory of Caesar, nor of those who would oppose Caesar with Caesar’s methods. It was to become the symbol, because it would be the means, of the victory of God.14

sin. Israel’s most pressing need (v. 9; 32:32). wickedness, rebellion and sin. The use of the three major OT words for sin emphasizes that God is willing to forgive all kinds of sin/sinners. Yet . . . unpunished. God’s forgiveness is never at the expense of his justice; the guilty cannot simply be acquitted. punishes . . . generation. See note on 20:5. There is no such thing as sin without consequences, which here, as in 20:5, impacts successive generations. The implicit tensions of vv. 6–7 are only partially resolved by the various judgments of Israel’s sin that culminated with the exile; but they are fully resolved in the death of Jesus, which was both the ultimate expression of God’s love and a full expression of God’s wrath (Rom 3:25–26).

Only one passage needs to be quoted to support this point. After the people have been subjected to the just punishment of the exile on account of their infidelity, God, in his mercy, gives them another chance. For a brief moment I abandoned you, but with great compassion I will gather you. In overflowing wrath for a moment I hid my face from you, but with everlasting love I will have compassion on you.… For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed, says the LORD, who has compassion on you. (Isa 54:7–8, 10)25 Mercy is God’s creative and fertile justice.

Villicus Vadum: Soldier Of Fortune by Stewart Stafford I am the ghost of lupine Romulus, Founder of Rome, hear my tale, Of Villicus Vadum - young, driven, Steward to Senator Lucius Flavius. Villicus wanted Flavia, the senator’s daughter, But she was betrothed to Marcus Brutus; A consul of noble and virtuous stock, Villicus conspired to take Flavia's hand. Treachery and deception were his tools, Knavish peacock of Rome's epic stage, Sought to take Flavia from Marcus Brutus, To snatch and cage his treasured gem. Bribed a false soothsayer to trap her, Believing her beloved began with V, Flavia agreed to elope with him to Gaul, With Brutus vowing deadly vengeance. Fleeing to the bosom of Rome's enemy - Vercingetorix, at war with Julius Caesar, Villicus offered to spy on the Senate, While plotting to seize Gaul's throne. Queen Verica also caught his eye, Villicus was captured by Mark Antony, Taken to Caesar's camp as a traitor; Brutus challenged him to a duel. Brutus slashed him but spared his life, They dragged Villicus to Rome in chains, To try him for his now infamous crimes; Cicero in defence, Cato as prosecutor. Cicero argued Villicus acted out of love, And that his ambition merited mercy, Cato wanted death for his wicked threat, Julius Caesar pondered a final verdict. Villicus - pardoned but banished from Rome, Immediate death if he returned to Flavia, Villicus kissed the emperor's foot for naught, Flavia refused to join him in fallen exile. Now learn from this outcast's example, friends, That I, Romulus, warn you to avoid at your peril, Villicus Vadum, the wrath of the gods upon him, Until time ceases, sole spectre of night's edge. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

It’s a bad day, not a bad life.

Reign grunts, flipping his hat backward and leaning on my dresser.

A slow grin spreads across Rook’s face, like the idea of my death brings him nothing but pure joy. He takes another slow drag from his cigar, smoke curling in front of his face.

The secret part of me that believes in fated souls says it’s romantic, but the piece of me that shuns any form of true intimacy says it’s simply fucking pathetic.

I’m a tragedy the gods forgot to write.

You’re lonely too. All that endlessness bullshit? It’s a cover-up. If it wasn’t, you’d know we give meaning to the universe, not the other way around.

I hate that I notice him. I hate even more that my stomach is filled with those vicious, terrible butterflies that seem to flutter when he’s around.

How long do you think it’ll take before you give in and let me fuck those pretty little lies out of your mouth, sweetheart?

But fear has never and will never own me. Anger does. Fear is fleeting, temporary, but this rage in me? It’s carved into the marrow of my bones. A living entity. A snarling, feral creature rooted deep in my soul, and it’s never been more hungry than in this moment.

The pain of silence will forever be worth it because it keeps her safe. It keeps them all happy, unburdened. I’ll go to the grave with this hurt because they are worth it. They are worth everything.

Seraphina Van Doren has spent years mastering the art of hiding in plain sight— locking herself in her own personal hell, building walls too thick for anyone to climb. And to her credit, no one has noticed. But that’s because no one has ever really looked.

When he looked at me, really looked at me, it was like he saw everything. Every crack and splinter in my facade, every jagged piece of me that’s come undone, every sharp shard no one else would dare to touch. He saw it all and didn’t run. Didn’t look at me differently. He stayed. And for a split second, for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t alone, drowning in my pain. Someone had started treading water with me.

But she doesn’t budge. Instead, she stays rooted to the spot, blue eyes narrowing into slits as one perfectly manicured eyebrow arches in defiance. “You think being an asshole is gonna scare me off? Sweetheart, I invented petty.

Our noses bump as I tilt my head, resting my forehead against hers. A live wire cords through my veins as I feel the heat of every exhale from her mouth on my own, filling our lungs with each other’s resentment, and I hope mine tastes as bitter as hers does sweet.

No matter how much my behavior hurts them, my secrets would hurt them more.

Now isn’t the time to be smart with me, kid. Trust me.” “Should I reschedule?” I arch a brow, voice dripping with sarcasm. Thatcher chuckles, the sound devoid of humor. “Karma is truly the sweetest gift. How’s your medicine taste, Van Doren?

You can hate that it’s me all you want, but that vicious fucking heart of yours? It’s aching to be soft.” Jude pauses, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line along my jaw, and I feel my pulse quicken. “Let it, Phi. Let it be gentle, just this once. You deserve that. Worry about it being me later.

I know we’ve been out of sync for a while,” he says quietly, his tone steady yet laced with pain. “I don’t know what I did… or what changed. But no matter how far you think you’ve wandered, no matter how lost you feel, I’ve always got you. You’re never too far gone. Home’s always right here.

God left me to die at the hands of his gift.  Now calls me to ask, “Why don’t you believe I exist?

Don’t sit there and talk about him like you fucking cared. You’re a heartless bi⁠—” “Watch your fucking mouth when you’re speaking to my wife.

I pour my wrath down her throat in tidal waves when our mouths meet again. I can taste how horrible this idea is the moment her tongue swipes against mine. Blood and contempt mingle together. But I can’t bring myself to care ’cause it tastes like payback. 

Beg me. Beg for mercy like a good fucking whore.” I smirk. “I’ll make you come so hard you see God before I send you to meet him.

I know that weight on your shoulders is heavy. I can see it. When you’re ready, I’m right here, baby. I’m strong enough to help you carry it, always.

Fear runs rampant in her chest, yet every word is laced with defiance.

Her pink mouth curves into a grin, an authentic smile. Briefly, just briefly, it knocks the fucking breath out of me. My lungs struggle to expand, brain forgetting how to operate simple bodily functions. Phi smiles at everyone. It’s not rare for that grin to make an appearance. Kinda like the sun rising each morning, even when it doesn’t feel like it. Phi’s natural default is to be a beam of light, anywhere, anytime. But this is the first time Seraphina Van Doren has ever smiled at me.

We were scared. We just had Reign, and I was already terrified of trying to be a good mother to one child. Then suddenly, we had two.” A smile breaks across her red lips, eyes distant with the memory. “But when your father laid eyes on you? When I watched him refuse to leave your side? All the fear left, and I knew you were ours. I named you Seraphina because your father’s name means smoke.” Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.  I hate crying. Loathe it with every fiber of my being. It makes me feel weak, exposed, like my heart is on display for the world to pick apart. I’ve spent years building walls, brick by brick, to keep all that vulnerability locked away. But now, as she speaks, those walls slide down a little, and I can feel the burn of tears in my eyes. And the worst part? I can’t even be angry at her for making me feel this way ’cause all I feel is love. “You are exactly who we expected you to be,” she mutters, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “Our daughter. Nothing will ever change that.”  “Not even if I hate Shakespeare?” I counter, arching a brow as I quickly wipe the tears from my cheeks.  She tilts her head back with a laugh, shaking it as she says, “Not even then.” Before we part, she pulls me into a hug, squeezing me a little tighter than normal.  Her parting words remind me why blood has never and will ever determine who my family is. “I know that weight on your shoulders is heavy. I can see it. When you’re ready, I’m right here, baby. I’m strong enough to help you carry it, always.

I just want it to stop— the pain, the anger, the endless cycle of tearing myself apart and putting the pieces back together. I’m tired. So tired of fighting. Tired of bleeding, inside and out.

The guy I swore to hate forever is the only one who’s seen every broken, ugly piece of me.

Jude Sinclair did not fix me … But Jude is the person who makes it feel lighter. Who helps me carry it, who walks beside me as I navigate healing.

Specifically, that one artist who sculpted Lucifer so beautifully that it was too tempting for the church, so they commissioned his brother to try again—and he made him even hotter? That kind of art. Sinful. Forbidden. Perfected.

She presses a kiss to my forehead, soft and reassuring, the way she always does, the way the Hawthornes always do—like they know the exact moment when the world gets a little too heavy. Her dad does the same thing whenever he sees me, as if with each press of lips to skin, Silas is stitching me back together.

Dirty, traitorous lust tries to crawl out of my skin, and I have no idea how to stop it. Jude is catnip for me. Every reckless and dangerous inch of him is the brand of trouble I love. It’s the kind that makes me numb. Gives me the kind of adrenaline that blacks out all of the pain, all the memories. It allows me to just exist.

When it’s just us, like this, either lost in pleasure or settled with one another, I feel like nothing can touch this. We exist in a world of our own making— a secret garden of intimacy and raw emotion that no one else can access. It’s all ours, and no one can take it from us. I think I’ve been waiting my entire life for Jude Sinclair.

Maybe love isn’t meant to be easy. Maybe it’s meant to be this— two people desperately trying to find each other across the chaos, across the darkness, across everything that should’ve kept us apart.

We forget that even the worst of humanity still partakes in the mundane. For example: A serial killer needs food to live, so they go grocery shopping. A ruthless hit man will abide by traffic laws by stopping at red lights, and in my case, an abusive father reads to his kid every night before bed.

Until I find the one who feels like silence, all of this is just noise.

The concrete dam I’d built inside my mind, designed to keep the world out and myself locked in, explodes. Shards of cement rip through my insides, and a crimson river of unbridled fury pours out of me. 

A vivid image of me shoving his face into my spinning bike tire hits me hard.

This is a dangerous game we are playing—one with no victor or crown to claim. It’ll end in ruin and a kingdom left in ashes. When she darts her tongue out my hands instinctively grip either side of her head. Exiles have no kingdom, and I have no need for a crown. “Fuck it.

Their love is a sickening breed. Just like my parents’. That once-in-a-lifetime, fuck-the-world, we’re-destined-to-be-together love. No amount of science will make me believe that doesn’t exist because I’ve seen it my entire life. Deserving it is a different story.

But this crack in her armor, it makes me curious. Curious enough to stand here a little longer, watching her like some puzzle I can’t solve.

Hating him used to be my armor. As long as I could despise Jude, I could surrender my body without handing over the rest of me. It kept me safe, locked behind walls he couldn’t climb. But that shield? It’s cracked, the pieces slipping through my fingers like sand. And Jude’s hands are right there, catching the fragments before they fall away completely,

In a very literal way the Palestinian predicament since 1948 is that to be a Palestinian at all has been to live in a utopia, a nonplace, of some sort. In an equally literal way, therefore, the Palestinian struggle today is profoundly topical, and it illustrates what I shall say later about the change in Palestinian politics, from fantasy to effectiveness. One redeeming feature of the cubistic form of Palestinian life is that it is focused on the goal of getting a place, a territory, on which to be located nationally. The mere retrospective fact of having been in such a place once, or the contemporary fact of being nonpersons in that place now, no longer supply Palestinians with righteousness or wrath enough to go on fighting. The 1967 war and, ironically, the additional acquisition of Palestinian territory by Zionism put the exiled and dispersed Palestinians in touch with their place. From an esoteric policy of dealing with Palestinians as if they were not there, utopian beings whose brutish presence could be distributed and made to disappear in a maze of regulations forbidding their national presence

the time of John’s writing, most Jews were in “exile” גָּלוּת (galut) across the word, but God promised that in the last days he would gather his people from the four corners of the world (Is. 11:12). This would end the exile and the same time end Israel’s exposure to the wrath of the nations.

What Happened to Our Hearts Beloved, I urge you as sojourners and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul. (1 Peter 2 v 11) Inside every heart, there’s a war; and the heart is both the victim and the culprit. Why? Because every person’s heart is inhabited by sinful desires, and produces sinful desires. There is an ongoing battle within the heart in which unhelpful desires wage war with our conscience. Bitterness. Anger. Envy. Greed. We cannot trust our feelings or all the passions that reside within us simply because we feel them. Our hearts are not pure—far from it: The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it? (Jeremiah 17 v 9) The nature of deception is to convince us that our hearts will not be satisfied unless we indulge what our hearts desire. But our hearts lead us astray in countless ways. Envy robs people of joy and contentment, sours friendships, and can lead to compromising morality in order to “get ahead.” Envy does not produce flourishing or joy in people. Indulging envy only results in misery for yourself and others. But none of us think this way as envy rages on. In the moment, the wrath and bitterness of envy assuages the sense of loss and jealousy residing within each of us. Not every impulse we experience should be indulged. We should be suspicious about “listening to our hearts.” Actually, everyone knows this is true. Prisons are full of people who acted in accord with their feelings—and who have been told by society that they shouldn’t. Every time a therapist tells a patient to view themselves more positively, they are accepting that there are feelings that are unhelpful to someone’s fulfillment. Our hearts’ desires can be at war with what is actually good for our hearts. The real question is: which desires should be fed, and which should be starved?

AND where did the books go when the world turned against them? When the flames of wrath blackened their pages and erased the words, they fled to find solace and redemption in the dark places of the world. “They were exiled into darkness so their own light might one day return to illuminate the world. They went underground, literally and metaphorically, so that their haven became the hidden places far beneath the feet of their persecutors. “Thus was born the Incunabula: it was forged by fire and persecution, to preserve and protect until the book might rise, Phoenix-like, from the ashes of demise.

Fire feels no fear.

No, because they are all afraid of Rook Van Doren.

Trauma isn’t confined to the person who endures it. Its impact ripples outward, touching everyone in its path.

Soon, I’m going to make Oakley Wixx regret breathing. Right now? I’m going to make it crystal fucking clear that I’m not the villain in her story.

Now isn’t the time to be smart with me, kid. Trust me.” “Should I reschedule?” I arch a brow, voice dripping with sarcasm. Thatcher chuckles, the sound devoid of humor. “Karma is truly the sweetest gift. How’s your medicine taste, Van Doren?

Some people have 2000s divorced dad rock, but courtesy of Rook Van Doren, I have domesticated stoner dad hip-hop. Which just so happens to be the name of this playlist. 

Lyra Pierson has always been my very own Morticia Addams. I used to think she was a vampire; I searched their estate for days when I was seven, looking for coffins.

Sorry to burst your bubble, but she isn’t a vampire.” Uncle Thatch sets his papers down, leaning forward and peering at me from his chair with a small grin. “And if she was, I’d be one too. Whatever your Aunt Lyra is, I am.

I bite my tongue when I notice on the toe tip in black Sharpie are the words “star child” in Ezra’s scribbly handwriting.

Congratulations, Phi. You’ve got my attention.

Pretty is boring, refined, chemically processed. I need someone raw, someone I can sink my teeth into. The kind of connection that feels toxic when it floods your veins but is actually the best high you’ll ever chase. One you can’t quit even if you wanted to. Love is the only drug I’ve ever wanted in my bloodstream. Craved and crippled my heart for it. It’s the core of human existence. Forever wanting what we will never have.

You were a fucking traitor that night, and you loved every second of it.

To destroy is to make room for creation,” Jude murmurs, a subtle edge in the words. “Destruction strips everything to the bone. That’s where art comes from.

You think you like it rough ’cause a few guys tugged your hair, Van Doren?” I whisper. “You’ll carry my bruises for a goddamn lifetime.

I’ve made a home in my cave tonight. Leave me to rot.

Pain can turn us into people we were never meant to be.

I want her dizzy, dazed, until she finally understands that in our twisted little universe? She belongs to me. Only me.

He gets to witness the sun when it’s cold and distant. I want to explore the dark side of the moon.

Her violence. Her rage. The seething self-loathing that’s barely held together by threads of pride. I want to own them. Fight her for it, to rip it from her with my teeth if I have to, until it’s all mine.

There is so much agony in your eyes I don’t know how I’m the only one who sees it.” I tighten my fingers at the back of her scalp, leaning down so I can feel her breath on my face. “You’re a goddamn tragedy, Van Doren. But fuck, you’re beautiful.

Men’s entitlement to vaginas is an epidemic, and I personally think castrating all chauvinistic pigs might be the only cure.

There are cases, as well, in which, in very similar fashion to Daoist practice, unruly spirits of deceased humans have been domesticated into beneficent kami, such as Tenjin, a God of scholars, who is regarded as having lived a mortal life as the late 9th century scholar Sugawara no Michizane, who suffered exile and became a wrathful spirit after death, but was successfully pacified to emerge as a beneficent and widely worshiped deity

Monsters aren’t born. They’re built. Not in sterile, bright laboratories with syringes of vile thoughts or bitter goals. No. They’re made in dark, crumbling homes where hope rots beneath the weight of silence. Where the walls echo with the cruel words of gossip and the scorn of those too cowardly to confront their own sins. Monsters start as children. Wide-eyed and defenseless, too small to understand why the world is always sharper to them. They are sculpted by hands that never knew how to hold them gently, by the shame pressed into their skin like fingerprints. The kind of shame that leaves eternal bruises.  These children, they grow. First in silence, then in anger. They learn not to cry but to sharpen their smiles into something cruel, something that cuts. They don’t cry for help anymore—they grow teeth.  Teeth made for tearing through the world that fed them nothing but lies. And when they bite back, the world gasps, clutches its pearls, quickly blaming faulty genetics or some cursed bloodline. No one wants to see their reflection in those broken children, to admit that they are responsible for stitching that monster together, piece by jagged piece.  They made me this way. 

And if it all comes crashing down, I’ll still take every broken piece of it, knowing I chose him and he chose me, despite the world that begged us not to.

Never again. I’ll never need anyone. I can’t need anyone.

I wanted to be that. A flame, a blaze, an inferno. I wanted people to be afraid of touching me.