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For all these accumulated associations, with whatever is sweet, and honourable, and sublime, there yet lurks an elusive something in the innermost idea of this hue, which strikes more of panic to the soul than that redness which affrights in blood.
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Nothing is lost. Everything returns later, but you may not recognise the changed form that returns.
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What rare light is this darkness? You cannot fix your gaze upon it! Senses cannot record it. No words describe it.
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Ahhhhh, what a gentle violence.
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Growing older is to grow more wicked.
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“Some things best kept outside.”
“Or inside,” Paul said.
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Outside, yes. And inside: here lay the true horror. How could he protect himself from himself?
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“Some say,” Scytale said, “that people cling to Imperial leadership because space is infinite. They feel lonely without a unifying symbol. For lonely people, the Emperor is a definite place. They can turn toward him and say: ‘See, there He is. He makes us one.’ Perhaps religion serves the same purpose, m’Lord.”
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“I prefer the cynical view,” Paul said, testing. “You obviously are trained in all the lying tricks of statecraft, is nothing more than a weapon to you and, thus, you test my armor.”
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“Are my visions no more than hallucinations?” Paul asked, mock sadness in his voice. “Or do you imply that my worshippers hallucinate?”
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I wanted only to look back and say: “There! There’s an existence which couldn’t hold me. See! I vanish! No restraint or net of human devising can trap me ever again. I renounce my religion! This glorious instant is mine! I’m free!”
What empty words!
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I never wanted to be a god, he thought. I wanted to disappear like a jewel of trace dew caught by the morning. I wanted to escape the angels and the damned alone … as though by an oversight.
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Verily, she is a magician, and of divine might, which hath power to bring down the sky, to bear up the earth, to turn the waters into hills and the hills into running waters, to call up the terrestrial spirits into the air, and to pull the gods out of the heavens, to extinguish the planets, and to lighten the very darkness of hell.
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Why there is not movie about bone wars?
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A poet was I, and I sang that just
Son of Anchises, who came forth from Troy,
After that Ilion the superb was burned.
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Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
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Should we go?
No, we are waiting for Godot.
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