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8,363 voters
I’ve always thought of her in the way I think of a precious gem: The beauty isn’t in the jewel itself, but in the way the light shines through it.
“After all, what is every man? A horde of ghosts – like a Chinese nest of boxes – oaks that were acorns that were oaks. Death lies behind us, not in front – in our ancestors, back and back until...”
― The Return
― The Return
“When they (the men, the scavengers)
come for you, do not give yourself
to them so easily.
Wear your strength like armour,
fight like a beast.
Do not let them tell you that
you belong to them.
Be fearless.
Be a lion.
Be like lava.
Rip them apart,
and burn their bones.
And when you are done,
tell the world that
you belong to no man.
That you are a lady,
a warrior,
a tsunami,
and you belong only to yourself.”
― The Sky Is Purple
come for you, do not give yourself
to them so easily.
Wear your strength like armour,
fight like a beast.
Do not let them tell you that
you belong to them.
Be fearless.
Be a lion.
Be like lava.
Rip them apart,
and burn their bones.
And when you are done,
tell the world that
you belong to no man.
That you are a lady,
a warrior,
a tsunami,
and you belong only to yourself.”
― The Sky Is Purple
“A rug feels like a lion, but that doesn't mean you can ride it.”
― File Under: 13 Suspicious Incidents
― File Under: 13 Suspicious Incidents
“Rise to the occasion. Roar like a lion.”
― Poseidon's Wake
― Poseidon's Wake
“His brow is seamed with line and scar;
His cheek is red and dark as wine;
The fires as of a Northern star
Beneath his cap of sable shine.
His right hand, bared of leathern glove,
Hangs open like an iron gin,
You stoop to see his pulses move,
To hear the blood sweep out and in.
He looks some king, so solitary
In earnest thought he seems to stand,
As if across a lonely sea
He gazed impatient of the land.
Out of the noisy centuries
The foolish and the fearful fade;
Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes,
Time hath not dimmed, nor death dismayed.”
―
His cheek is red and dark as wine;
The fires as of a Northern star
Beneath his cap of sable shine.
His right hand, bared of leathern glove,
Hangs open like an iron gin,
You stoop to see his pulses move,
To hear the blood sweep out and in.
He looks some king, so solitary
In earnest thought he seems to stand,
As if across a lonely sea
He gazed impatient of the land.
Out of the noisy centuries
The foolish and the fearful fade;
Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes,
Time hath not dimmed, nor death dismayed.”
―
Cass’s 2025 Year in Books
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