“Life,” he said softly, “is more than flesh. Your body is a candle, your soul the flame. The longer I burn the candle...” He did not finish.
“A candle unused is nothing but wax and wick,” I said.“I would rather light the flame, knowing it will go out than sit forever in darkness.”
“What’s the use of running, if we are on the wrong road.”
“There is music in your soul. A wild and untamed sort
of music that speaks to me. It defies all the rules and laws you humans set upon it. It grows from inside you, and I have a wish to set that music free.”
“The kiss is sweeter than sin and fiercer than temptation. I am not gentle, I am not kind; I am rough and wild and savage.”
“What is eternal life but a prolonged death.”
“Once there was a little girl who played her music for a little boy in the wood. She was small and dark, he was tall and fair, and the two of them made a fancy pair as they danced together, dancing to the music the little girl heard in her head.”
“You are the monster I claim, mein Herr.”
“You are the one who wanted a happy ending, my dear. So you tell me, how does the story end?"
Tears slipped from my face, and he wiped them away with his thumbs.
"The foolish young man lets the beautiful maiden go."
"Yes." His voice was clotted thick with unshed emotion. "He lets her go.”
“Yes, you have the very soul of me, Elisabeth.”
“Then your name, mein Herr.”
He laughed softly, but it was a gasp of pain, not of joy. “No.”
“Why?”
“So you will forget me,” he said simply. “You cannot love a man with no name.”
“What would you do, if you were a free man?”
“I would take my violin and play. I would walk the world and play, until someone called me by name and called me home.”
“Your music," he said at last. "Your music was the only thing that kept me sane, that kept me human instead of a monster.”
“I am not a saint; I am a sinner. I want to sin again and
again and again.”
“What I wouldn’t give to be the object of someone’s desire, just for one moment. What I wouldn’t give to taste that fruit, that heady sweetness, of being wanted. I wanted. I wanted what Käthe took for granted. I wanted wantonness.”
“You are a man with music in his soul. You are capricious, contrary, contradictory. You delight in childish games, and delight even more in winning. For a man of such intense piety, you are surprisingly petty. You are a gentleman, a virtuoso, a scholar, and a martyr, and of those masks, I like the martyr least of all. You are austere, you are pompous, you are pretentious, you are foolish.”
“I looked him straight in the eye. "What was it your father used to say?" Hans said nothing. He turned his head away. "What's the use of running, if we are on the wrong road?”
“You are the monster I choose”
“Love is the bridge that spans the world above and below, and keeps the wheel of life turning.”
“If I were a burning smolder, he was the poker, stirring
me into flames.”
“His beauty hurt, but it was the pain that made it beautiful”
“Skills could be taught, but talent could not.”
“This was the Goblin King. The abductor of maidens, the punisher of misdeeds, the Lord of Mischief and the Underground.”
“To love is to be selfless. Let me be selfless.”
“She was the sun and he was the earth waking from a thaw.”
“It takes love, you see, to bring the world back to life.”
“Wait? I had waited my entire life for this moment. Not for consummation, but for validation; I desired so hard I wanted to be found desirable in return. The Goblin King saw me— all of me— and now I wanted him to know me. I pushed away his restraining hand and leaped forward; I was a cat, a wolf, a huntress. I was out for blood and flesh.”
“A sparrow is beautiful in its own way," Käthe said severely. "Don't force yourself to be a peacock, Liesl. Embrace your sparrow self.”
“Beware the goblin men and the wares they sell.”
“Elisabeth.” The way the Goblin King said my name made my heart flutter. “Will you marry me?” This time, it was a long time before I replied. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I will.”
“I am not afraid of you,” I said quietly.
“Oh?” The Goblin King lifted his head. “I am the Lord of Mischief, the Ruler Underground,” he said, mismatched eyes glinting. “I am wildness and madness made flesh. You’re just a girl”—he smiled, and the tips of his teeth were sharp—“and I am the wolf in the woods.”
“I hadn't expected the game to start off so poorly, so I hadn't yet gathered any ideas for penalties to dole out. So I asked another question. "Fine. What is your favorite color?"
"Green. What's yours?"
My glance fell on the salver beside me. "Red. Favorite smell?"
"Incense. Favorite animal?"
My eyes lingered on his. "Wolf. Favorite composer?"
"You.”
“Two thousand years later, John’s call remains a wilderness call, a cry from the margins. Because we religious types are really good at building walls and retreating to temples. We’re good at making mountains out of our ideologies, obstructions out of our theologies, and hills out of our screwed-up notions of who’s in and who’s out, who’s worthy and who’s unworthy. We’re good at getting in the way. Perhaps we’re afraid that if we move, God might use people and methods we don’t approve of, that rules will be broken and theologies questioned. Perhaps we’re afraid that if we get out of the way, this grace thing might get out of hand. Well, guess what? It already has. Grace got out of hand the moment the God of the universe hung on a Roman cross and with outstretched hands looked out upon those who had hung him there and declared, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
“the mundane can be quite satisfying. In fact, being ordinary in general is highly underrated.”
“A life lived well gets messy,”
“At some point in this course, perhaps even tonight, you will read something difficult, something you only partially understand, and your verdict will be this is stupid. Will I argue when you advance that opinion in class the next day? Why would I do such a useless ting? My time with you in short, only thirty-four weeks of classes, and I will not waste it arguing about the merits of this short story or that poem. Why would I, when all such opinions are subjective, and no final resolution can ever be reached?'
Some of the kids - Gloria was one of them - now looked lost, but Pete understood exactly what Mr. Ricker, aka Ricky the Hippie, was talking about...
'Time is the answer," Mr Ricker said on the first day of Pete's sophomore year. He strode back and forth, antique bellbottoms swishing, occasionally waving his arms. "Yes! Time mercilessly culls away the is-stupid from the not-stupid."
...
"It will occur for you, young ladies and gentlemen, although I will be in your rear-view mirror by the time it happens. Shall I tell you how it happens? You will read something - perhaps 'Dulce et Decorum Est,' by Wilfred Owen. Shall we use that as an example? Why not?'
Then, in a deeper voice that sent chills up Pete's back and tightened his throat, Mr. Ricker cried, " 'Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge...' And son on. Cetra-cetra. Some of you will say, This is stupid."
....
'And yet!" Up went the finger.
"Time will pass! Tempus will fugit! Owen's poem may fall away from your mind, in which case your verdict of is-stupid will have turned out to be correct. For you, at least. But for some of you, it will recur. And recur. Each time it does, the steady march of your maturity will deepen its resonance. Each time that poem sneaks back into your mind, it will seem a little less stupid and a little more vital. A little more important. Until it shines, young ladies and gentlemen. Until it shines.”
“I read a story once about a guy who killed himself. Some shrink was going on about the futility of trying to understand it. It’s impossible, makes no sense at all. Once a person reaches that point, he’s in another world, one that his survivors will never understand.”
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