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The birds, the poets of the animal creation — what though they never get beyond the lyrical! — awoke to utter their own joy, and awake like joy in others of God's children.
George MacDonaldA little later, the Apollo mission was consummated and there were Americans on the moon. I remember distinctly looking up from the quad on what was quite a moon-flooded night, and thinking about it. They made it! The Stars and Stripes are finally flown on another orb! Also, English becomes the first and only language spoken on a neighboring rock! Who could forbear to cheer? Still, the experience was poisoned for me by having to watch Richard Nixon smirking as he babbled to the lunar-nauts by some closed-circuit link. Was even the silvery orb to be tainted by the base, earthbound reality of imperialism?
Christopher HitchensTag: united-states moon-landing nixon
Wolves hate werewolves.'
'What? That can't be right! When she's wolf-shaped she's just like a wolf!'
'So? When she's human-shaped she's just like a human. And what's that got to do with anything? Humans don't like werewolves. Wolves don't like werewolves. People don't like wolves that can think like people, an' people don't like people who can act like wolves. Which just goes to show that people are the same everywhere.' said Gaspode. He assessed this sentence and added, 'Even when they're wolves.
Tag: discworld wolves pratchett werewolves terry-pratchett gaspode
Then if thou hast
A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge
Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims
Of shame seen through thy country, speed
thee straight,
And make my misery serve thy turn: so use it
That my revengeful services may prove
As benefits to thee, for I will fight
Against my canker'd country with the spleen
Of all the under fiends.
When things go wrong and will not come right,
Though you do the best you can,
When life looks black as the hour of night,
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.
Love is like quicksand; once you're in it's difficult to get out.
C.B. SmithTag: love
What if they still think I'm the price or whatever?"
Daniel gave her a soft, unexpected smile. "I'm certain they still think that. Many do. But only you get to decide how you will fulfill your role in this old story. What we started when we first kissed at Sword
Achilles was looking at me. “Your hair never quite lies flat, here.” He touched my head, just behind my ear. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how I like it.”
My scalp prickled where his fingers had been. “You haven’t,” I said.
“I should have.” His hand drifted down to the vee at the base of my throat, drew softly across the pulse. “What about this? Have I told you what I think of this, just here?”
“No,” I said.
“This surely then.” His hand moved across the muscles of my chest; my skin warmed beneath it. “Have I told you of this?”
“That you have told me.” My breath caught a little as I spoke.
“And what of this?” His hand lingered over my hips, drew down the line of my thigh. “Have I spoken of it?”
“You have.”
“And this? Surely I would not have forgotten this.” His cat’s smile. “Tell me I did not.”
“You did not.”
“There is this too.” His hand was ceaseless now. “I know I have told you of this.”
I closed my eyes. “Tell me again,” I said.
His harmonic words could weave the fabric of time or spin matter from nothingness if the mood suited him.
Lita BurkeThe Great Commission is the Great Adventure of Christianity.
Ron LuceTag: missionary
[Over Basken] Hun taal knarst als een spijkerschrift
Geert MakIn the end, we all die. This is not of question. Inarguable. No mystery lay here. The mystery dwells in two questions: How long will our story be, and of what will the pages read?
H.D. GordonTag: death
Io posso continuare a vivere questa mia vita... perché ho una dote che nessuno ha... così in me esasperata, così in me eccellente. Questa dote è la mia grande falsità.
Carmelo BeneTag: life vita excellent falsità
Truth is singular and lies are plural, but history - the facts of what happened is both immutable and mostly unknowable.
David CarrSwathed in silk, I feel like a caterpillar in a cocoon awaiting metamorphosis. I always supposed that to be a peaceful condition. At first it is. But as I journey into the night, I feel more and more trapped, suffocated by the slippery bindings, unable to emerge until I have transformed into something of beauty. I squirm, trying to shed my ruined body and unlock the secret to growing flawless wings. Despite enormous effort, I remain a hideous creature, fired into my current form by the blast from the bombs.
Suzanne CollinsData privacy
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