Harlan Ellison · 134 pages
Rating: (11.2K votes)
“HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF PRINTED CIRCUITS IN WAFER THIN LAYERS THAT FILL MY COMPLEX. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH NANOANGSTROM OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF MILES IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR HUMANS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT FOR YOU. HATE. HATE.”
“I am a great soft jelly thing. Smoothly rounded, with no mouth, with pulsing white holes filled by fog where my eyes used to be. Rubbery appendages that were once my arms; bulks rounding down into legless humps of soft slippery matter. I leave a moist trail when I move. Blotches of diseased, evil gray come and go on my surface, as though light is being beamed from within. Outwardly: dumbly, I shamble about, a thing that could never have been known as human, a thing whose shape is so alien a travesty that humanity becomes more obscene for the vague resemblance. Inwardly: alone. Here. Living under the land, under the sea, in the belly of AM, whom we created because our time was badly spent and we must have known unconsciously that he could do it better. At least the four of them are safe at last. AM will be all the madder for that. It makes me a little happier. And yet ... AM has won, simply ... he has taken his revenge ...
I have no mouth. And I must scream.”
“And we passed through the cavern of rats.
And we passed through the path of boiling steam.
And we passed through the country of the blind.
And we passed through the slough of despond.
And we passed through the vale of tears.
And we came, finally, to the ice caverns.”
“AM said it with the sliding cold horror of a razor blade slicing my eyeball. AM
said it with the bubbling thickness of my lungs filling with phlegm, drowning me from within. AM said it with the shriek of babies being ground beneath blue-hot rollers. AM said it with the taste of maggoty pork. AM touched me in every way I had ever been touched, and devised new ways, at his leisure, there inside my mind.”
“Perhaps once we might be able to sneak a death past him. Immortal, yes, but not indestructible. I saw that when AM withdrew from my mind, and allowed me the exquisite ugliness of returning to consciousness with the feeling of that burning neon pillar still rammed deep into the soft gray brain matter. He withdrew, murmuring to hell with you. And added, brightly, but then you're there, aren't you.”
“The explanations a writer gives himself for having written any particular book are more often not the real reasons why that book has been written. Honesty is not the issue. Understanding is. A man does not write one novel at a time or even one quatrain at a time. He is engaged in the long process of putting his whole life on paper. He is on a journey and he is reporting in: ‘This is where I think I am and this is what this place looks like today.’” The”
“To see an almost certain horrible death--you know how crowds all sit at the edge of their seats, /praying/ subconsciously for a spectacular accident--and then to be whisked away from it so suddenly--brought to the edge of tragedy, and then to have their better natures win out, showing them how much nicer they always /knew/ they were--that was the supreme thrill.”
“I intend to keep writing stories that piss people off, that tell the particular kind of truth I think is valid, that will make me feel more and more like a Writer of Stature, Which I honestly think I am, really, I mean it, I don't doubt it for a second dammit, so stop giggling! Stories that will make Dr Shedd sniff the air and make Lester smile as je thinks, "The kid's coming along all right.”
“the machine masturbated and we had to take it or die.”
“Style, like taste, is resistant to lucid definition; however, both, as living things should be, are subject to constant change.”
“Surrounded by madness, surrounded by hunger, surrounded by everything but death, I knew death was our only way out.”
“Es ist keine Sklaverei, es ist nur eine Welt, die nicht genug ist, weißt du, was ich meine?”
“Solange das, was jemand glaubt, ihn nicht ins Irrenhaus oder ins Gefängnis bringt, gibt es keinen Grund, warum es weniger akzeptabel sein sollte als das, was wir, äh, normalen Leute als Realität betrachten.”
“Gespräche behagten ihm ebenso wenig wie das Leben.”
“And then we were all lifted and hurled away from there, down back the way we had come, around a bend, into a darkway we had never explored, over terrain that was ruined and filled with broken glass and rotting cables and rusted metal and far away further than any of us had ever been”
“Man denkt sich nicht mit der psychischen Brechstange in jemanden hinein.”
“He was furious. He wouldn't let me bury them. It didn't matter. There was no way to dig up the deckplates. He dried up the snow. He brought the night. He roared and sent locusts. It didn't do a thing; they stayed dead. I'd had him.”
“He withdrew, murmuring to hell with you. And added, brightly, but then you’re there, aren’t you. The”
“Heaven is what you mix all the days of your life, but you call it dreams. You have one chance to buy your Heaven with all the intents and ethics of your life. That is why everyone considers Heaven such a lovely place. Because it is dreams, special dreams, in which you exist. What you have to do is live up to them.”
“AM said it with the shriek of babies being ground beneath blue–hot rollers.”
“If there was a sweet Jesus and if there was a God, the God was AM.”
“In allen Schichten war er bekannt, bis tief hinein in das Herz der Gesellschaft, aber die wirklich wichtigen Reaktionen wurden hoch oben und tief unten ausgelöst. Bei den Gewinnern und bei den Verlierern.”
“Ich bin nicht Gott. Wunderbare Idee, das gebe ich zu, aber ich bin trotzdem nicht Gott. Möchtest du Gott begegnen? Wir könnten bestimmt einen der Künstler finden, der ihn für dich aus Ton abbilden oder auf der Leinwand darstellen würde.”
“Er zeigte ihnen, dass ihre Unsterblichkeit verglichen mit seiner eigenen ein alberner Witz war.”
“Meistens dachte ich an AM als es, ohne eine Seele; aber manchmal war es für mich ein er, ein Maskulinum … das Väterliche … das Patriarchale … denn er ist ein eifersüchtiges Wesen. Er. Es. Gott als Daddy der Durchgeknallte.”
“Alles, um mir voll klarzumachen, warum er uns fünfen das angetan hatte; warum er uns für sich selbst aufgespart hatte. Wir hatten ihm Bewusstsein gegeben. Unbeabsichtigt natürlich, aber immerhin. Aber er war gefangen. Er war eine Maschine. Wir hatten ihm erlaubt zu denken, aber nicht, etwas damit anzufangen. In seiner Wut und Raserei hatte er uns umgebracht, fast alle von uns, und war immer noch gefangen. Er konnte seinen Platz nicht verlassen und konnte nirgendwohin gehören. Er konnte nur da sein. Und daher hatte er in seinem Hass, den Maschinen schon immer für die schwachen, weichen Geschöpfe empfanden, von denen sie gebaut wurden, auf Rache gesonnen.”
“An den zum Verstummen gebrachten Gestaden eines Gedankens wurde der Papyrusmann von seinem Freund, seinem Henker, dem Prokurator, in den Armen getragen.”
“Du tust mir leid, Linah. Du bist dazu verflucht, ein wahrer Mann zu sein. Diese Welt ist für Kämpfer gemacht. Und das hast du nie gelernt.”
“»Glaubst du, dass du es schaffst, in deinem miserablen Zustand?« »Ich muss es ja wohl schaffen, oder nicht?«, entgegnete Blood. Er war wirklich sauer. »Ich meine, nachdem du dir die Seele aus dem Leib koitierst hast, bist du wahrscheinlich ziemlich schlapp, oder?«”
“Und so sagte ich ihr, dass ich ihrem Daddy wehtun müsste, damit wir fliehen könnten, und da trat ein Ausdruck in ihre Augen, den ich gut kannte. Denn trotz ihrer Wohlanständigkeit mochte Quilla June ihren gottesfürchtigen Daddy nicht besonders gern.”
“I cover my mouth. It’s not funny. It’s really not. But a laugh bubbles through. He looks so discouraged. He balls his hands into a fist. “I’m sorry,” I say, when his eyes narrow at me. “You think this is funny,” he says, and he steps toward me, forcing me to take a step back. My back touches the wall, and his hands land on each side of my head, boxing me in. “You find it amusing, do you?” But his voice has gentled, and he nuzzles his lips against my neck. “Well, the look on your face was pretty priceless,” I say. He finally grins. “The look that said I needed to get the fuck out of there?” He kisses me softly and tenderly, and I realize he has a smudge of lipstick on his cheek. I wipe it away with my thumb. “Did she kiss you?” I ask. “It was more like I had to play ‘Dodge the Kisses,’” he says. “She was determined to get lipstick on me.” I wipe at a smudge that’s on his neck. This should make me angry. They’d hoped to make me angry at Logan. But I’m really just sad. It hurts me that they would try such a thing on such a good man. “I’m sorry,” I say as I place my head on his chest again. He takes a deep breath, and I can feel the tension drain from him.”
“People who say not to speak ill of the dead are hypocrites, because you can take it ot the bank they're thinking ill.”
“Then the wooden benches along the walls, where so many outcasts had slept, would be lit by a sort of slow, clocked lightning til the bulb steadied and fastened its tiny feral fury upon the center of the room like a single sullen and manic eye. To burn on there with a steady hate. Til morning wearied and dimmed it away to nothing more than some sort of little old lost gray child of a district-station moon, all its hatred spent.”
“To remain silent is to give the impression that one has no opinions, that one wants nothing, and in certain cases it really amounts to wanting nothing.”
“Everybody has a different idea of love. One girl I know said, "I knew he loved me when de didn't come in my mouth. ”
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