Leroy Rodriguez

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Empires at War: P...
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Jesus and the Eye...
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  (page 225 of 552)
Feb 09, 2020 03:48PM

 
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“Yeah, there's some unlikely beasts in the world, and it's best to stay near the ones that you've bought drinks for.”
Tim Powers, On Stranger Tides

Arnaldur Indriðason
“He knew at once it was a human bone, when he took it from the baby who was sitting on the floor chewing it.”
Arnaldur Indridason, Silence of the Grave

“Thus Milton refines the question down to a matter of faith," said Coleridge, bringing the lecture to a close, "and a kind of faith more independent, autonomous - more truly strong, as a matter of fact - than the Puritans really sought. Faith, he tells us, is not an exotic bloom to be laboriously maintained by the exclusion of most aspects of the day to day world, nor a useful delusion to be supported by sophistries and half-truths like a child's belief in Father Christmas - not, in short, a prudently unregarded adherence to a constructed creed; but rather must be, if anything, a clear-eyed recognition of the patterns and tendencies, to be found in every piece of the world's fabric, which are the lineaments of God. This is why religion can only be advice and clarification, and cannot carry any spurs of enforcement - for only belief and behavior that is independently arrived at, and then chosen, can be praised or blamed. This being the case, it can be seen as a criminal abridgement of a person's rights willfully to keep him in ignorance of any facts - no piece can be judged inadmissible, for the more stones, both bright and dark, that are added to the mosaic, the clearer is our picture of God.”
Tim Powers, The Anubis Gates

Ted Chiang
“Nothing erases the past. There is repentance, there is atonement, and there is forgiveness. That is all, but that is enough.”
Ted Chiang, The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate

Arnaldur Indriðason
“He went into the kitchen. It was eight in the evening. He tried to shut the bright spring evening out with the curtains, but it forced its way past them in places, dust-filled sunbeams that lit up the gloom in his flat. Spring and summer were not Erlendur's seasons. Too bright. Too frivolous. He wanted heavy, dark winters. Finding nothing edible in the kitchen, he sat down at the table with his chin resting in his hand.”
Arnaldur Indridason, Silence of the Grave

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