#ata

There is a sort of mental treason That smothers dreams outside of reason ↗

— Mike Corbett

#demons #heaven #hell #intelligent-humor #irreverent-humor

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too;! ↗

— Rudyard Kipling

#ataraxy #coming-of-age #fathers-and-sons #philosophical #age

It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses. ↗

— Virginia Woolf

#catastrophes #deaths #diseases #kill #laugh

Janey accuses me of chasing jailbait. She bursts into angry tears, asking if it's because she's getting older. It's true. She's aging more noticeably every day—while I am standing still. I prefer the stillness here. I am tired of Earth. These people. I am tired of being caught in the tangle of their lives. ↗

— Alan Moore

#dr-manhatan #realization #tired #age

Doyle: "What is it now, then?" Cordelia: "Isn't java supposed to be a coffee?" Doyle: "Ready to abandon the the Web project?" Cordelia: "No way. We have a chance here to make contact with the millions of people out there who are glued to their computers." Doyle: "All those millions, shunning human contact. I'll never understand it. Call me old-fashioned, if you like, but I want to interface with a face, not a hunk of plastic and glass." Cordelia: "Climb out of the Dark Ages, Munchkin man." Doyle: "It's leprechaun, and either way, I don't appreciate the insult. ↗

— John Passarella

#avatar #cordelia #doyle #humour #joss-whedon

At the age of fifty-six Eleanor Stoddard was still a beautiful woman. She owned three hotels in France and another two in England. From nothing at all, she had built an empire. Eleanor had it all. Her one weakness was the young man sleeping beside her. ↗

— Barbara Taylor Bradford

#older-women #power #age

The real catastrophes are always different-unimaginable, unprepared for, unknown ↗

— Karen Thompson Walker

#age

They stand beside a grave. Hermann sprinkles upon it a powder, which falls in sparkles of light from his fingers. The earth begins to heave; and presently, as a volcano casts up its ashes, the grave empties itself. Slowly and slowly, like the rippling waves of a becalmed ocean, it rises to the surface, divides, and falls in crumbling heaps on either side. Then there ascends the venerable figure of an aged man, clothed in robes of purple and scarlet, the ensigns of senatorial dignity. At the same moment, the spectre arm, by wondrous motion of its own, tears itself aloft, and becomes a dimly gleaming torch; each livid finger sending forth pale red dusky flames, which fling a horrid glare upon the cadaverous features of the phantom. ("The Forsaken Of God") ↗

— William Mudford

#black-magick #grave #hand-of-glory #incantation #magick

I see her body as an arousing work of architecture. A sky-scraping building that I wouldn’t mind laying over a mountain to inject my whale-sized shank through its front entrance, knocking the doorman out of the way and flooding the lobby once I am finished with her. ↗

— Carlton Mellick III

#satan-burger #architecture

Mi-a povestit, mie, ca unui mare, frica lui. A zis că pe-acolo pe unde fusese dus, în Rusia, în lagăr, pe front, din nou în lagăr în România, ca prizonier, apoi cu refugiul şi bombardamentele, cunoscuse frica. Dar era numai frica lui. Că frica de moartea ta nu e cu adevărat frică - tot nu depinde de tine moartea ori nemoartea ta. Frica cea mare, adevărată, a zis tata, e cea pentru alţii: nevastă, copii. Ştii că de tine a depins să-i fereşti de pericol şi n-ai făcut-o. Frica cea mare nu e moartea ta, e viaţa pe care or s-o îndure ai tăi, din pricina ta. ↗

— Paul Goma

#tata #art