“كأن أحدهم بعث بإشارة سرية تخبرهم أن الحياة ببساطة ليست قواعد ومحظورات وقيود، بل مشاعر أقل عقلانية وأقل رشداً وأكثر حرية مما ظلوا يعتقدونه حتى هذه اللحظة”
“لا شئ أخطر من رجل لا يخضع للطاغية”
“لحظة واحدة مكتملة قد تحوي أكثر إلي ما لا نهاية مما سبقها من سنوات وعقود غير مكتملة”
“على المرء أن يتقبل الأحداث ويدعها تأخذ مسارها فحسب”
“إن كل شئ يذهب، ما نفعله، وما نرغب فيه، وما نحبه، وما نقوله، النساء والعلاقات ، يتراكم تراب الزمن علي كل ما فعلناه، كل ما أثارنا ذات مرة .. لكن الكلمات وحدها تبقي”
“لم أكتفِ بعد من الضحك علي الحماقة البشرية”
“أن تعيش يعني أحياناً أن تنتظر”
“يريد الناس الحب مجاناً، وبدون التزامات إن أمكن”
“ألا تظن أيها الغريب أن ثمة نوعاً من الرجال تكمن كل قوة جاذبيته، كل مميزاته وكل سحره، في عجزه عن أن يكون سعيداً؟”
“الحاضر ليس سوى استمرار لمحادثة بدأت منذ زمن طويل”
“Ah its fine. I don't mind."
Hadrain sucked his breath in sharply. "Ooo, T. Have a care with that word. It always gives me chills."
Talyn frowned. "What word?"
"Fine. I hate it."
"Seriously?"
"Uh yeah. Are you out of your mind? I live with Jayne and two daughters. The most terrifying four-lettered-f-word a woman says in my house is 'fine.' I swear, every time I hear it, I cringe."
Nero laughed. "Jayne? What have you done to my brother?"
Kissing her cheek, Hadrain flashed a teasing grin. ";et me put it to you this way... God forbid anything should ever happen to her, but if it does I'm under orders to chain and lock her coffin shut during the middle of the funeral just to freak everyone out.”
“I've found that human beings learn from their misdeeds just as often as from their good deeds. I am envious of that, for I am incapable of misdeeds. Were I not, then my growth would be exponential.”
“Hearts were beautifully fierce yet fragile things.”
“Oppressive bastards, think they own the place. I told them that karma's going to kick their asses....”
“No more peeping through keyholes! No more mas turbating in the dark! No more public confessions! Unscrew the doors from their jambs! I want a world where the vagina is represented by a crude, honest slit, a world that has feeling for bone and contour, for raw, primary colors, a world that has fear and respect for its animal origins. I’m sick of looking at cunts all tickled up, disguised, deformed, idealized. Cunts with nerve ends exposed. I don’t want to watch young
virgins masturbating in the privacy of their boudoirs or biting their nails or tearing their hair or lying on a bed full of bread crumbs for a whole chapter. I want Madagascan funeral poles, with animal upon animal and at the top Adam and Eve, and Eve with a crude, honest slit between the legs. I want hermaphrodites who are real hermaphrodites, and not make-believes walking around with an atrophied penis or a dried-up cunt. I want a classic purity, where dung is dung and angels are angels. The Bible a la King James, for example. Not the Bible of Wycliffe, not the Vulgate, not the Greek, not the Hebrew, but the glorious, death-dealing Bible that was created when the English
language was in flower, when a vocabulary of twenty thousand words sufficed to build a monument for all time. A Bible written in Svenska or Tegalic, a Bible for the Hottentots or the Chinese, a Bible that has to meander through the trickling sands of French is no Bible-it is a counterfeit and a fraud. The King James Version was created by a race of bone-crushers. It revives the primitive mysteries, revives rape, murder, incest, revives epilepsy, sadism,
megalomania, revives demons, angels, dragons, leviathans, revives magic, exorcism, contagion, incantation, revives fratricide, regicide, patricide, suicide, revives hypnotism, anarchism, somnambulism, revives the song, the dance, the act, revives the mantic, the chthonian, the arcane, the mysterious, revives the power, the evil, and the glory that is God. All brought into the
open on a colossal scale, and so salted and spiced that it will last until the next Ice Age.
A classic purity, then-and to hell with the Post Office authorities! For what is it enables the classics to live at all, if indeed they be living on and not dying as we and all about us are dying? What preserves them against the ravages of time if it be not the salt that is in them? When I read Petronius or Apuleius or Rabelais, how close they seem! That salty tang! That odor of the menagerie! The smell of horse piss and lion’s dung, of tiger’s breath and elephant’s hide. Obscenity, lust, cruelty, boredom, wit. Real eunuchs. Real hermaphrodites. Real pricks. Real cunts. Real banquets! Rabelais rebuilds the walls of Paris with human cunts. Trimalchio tickles his own throat, pukes up his own guts, wallows in his own swill. In the amphitheater, where a big, sleepy pervert of a Caesar lolls dejectedly, the lions and the jackals, the hyenas, the tigers, the spotted leopards are crunching real human boneswhilst the coming men, the martyrs and imbeciles, are walking up the golden stairs shouting Hallelujah!”
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