BluntCat

“Still running her bones turned to water and she fell flat on her face, still running.”
― William Faulkner, Sanctuary

“Nyolc órakor még homályos a reggel, és homályosan bukdácsolnak álmos fejemben a mai nap esélyei és minden lehetősége. A középiskolai tanuló élete: nyolc éven át napról napra megújuló harcbaszállás, halálos veszedelem: minden reggel pontban nyolckor, a véletlenek és ravasz kelepcék és elhatározó események hullámzó harcterére kiront: sebeket kap, sebeket oszt, néha elvérzik. Másnap újra feltámad, kezdi elölről.
Minden reggel új fegyverzet és új haditerv. Furfangos és végtelenül komplikált megfontolás, amiben százféle ok és okozat kombinálódik.
A fegyverzet ma hiányos: éppen azért gondosan kell összeválogatni.”
― Frigyes Karinthy, Tanár úr kérem

“But the Player was not done yet. When the others reached the kitchen they saw the table flung aside now and Grimm stooping over the body. When they approached to see what he was about, they saw that the man was not dead yet, and when they saw what Grimm was doing one of the men gave a choked cry and stumbled back into the wall and began to vomit. Then Grimm too sprang back, flinging behind him the bloody butcher knife, "Now you'll let white women alone, even in hell," he said. But the man on the floor had not moved. He just lay there, with his eyes open and empty of everything save consciousness, and with something, a shadow, about his mouth. For a long moment he looked up at them with peaceful and unfathomable and unbearable eyes. Then his face, body, all, seemed to collapse, to fall in upon itself, and from out the slashed garments about his hips and loins the pent black blood seemed to rush like a released breath. It seemed to rush out of his pale body like the rush of sparks from a rising rocket; upon that black blast the man seemed to rise soaring into their memories forever and ever. They are not to lose it, in whatever peaceful valleys, beside whatever placid and reassuring streams of old age, in the mirroring faces of whatever children they will contemplate old disasters and newer hopes. It will be there, musing, quiet, steadfast, not fading and not particularly threatful, but of itself alone serene, of itself alone triumphant. Again from the town, deadened a little by the walls, the scream of the siren mounted toward its unbelievable crescendo, passing out of the realm of hearing.”
― William Faulkner, Light in August

“I try each day to memorize the face that looks back at me in the mirror. I hold tight to it. I imagine I'll be in flight when I compare it to my remains that I often dream soon will be found.
I have such an anger and an urge to charge at the sky, to call the wind a liar for never showing itself. An urge to scream at the two who allowed my birth. Cries for help to anyone who will hear them. To scream into the street that there is a lack of miracles in Mother Nature herself. Her divinity is a lie.
In a forest of trees again and again, I have been brought down. Surgery of a strange and indescribable nature takes place. Blood is let. This Mother Nature has not done away with this evil, nor has it opened its wood to allow a scream to escape. Instead, it cradles this man and keeps him safe from discovery, safe from daylight. He knows the planet will not betray him. This light will come, and stay, leave only to return on schedule. He has a promise. The universe's habit, conveniently requiring a twelve-hour fix of the two extremes.”
― Jennifer Lynch, The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer