#samuel

Jane Austen is at the end of the line that begins with Samuel Richardson, which takes wonder and magic out of the novel, treats not the past but the present. ↗

— Leslie Fiedler

#begins #end #jane #jane austen #line

The revision of the books of Judges, Samuel, and Kings, undertaken towards the end of the Babylonian exile, a revision much more thorough than is commonly assumed, condemns as heretical the whole age of the Kings. ↗

— Julius Wellhausen

#assumed #books #commonly #condemns #end

See, the institutions and specialist, experts, you see. Yes, yes, experts, indeed. See, they would have us believe that there is an order to art. An explanation. Humans are odd creatures in that way. Always searching for a formula. Yes, a formula to create an expected norm for unexplainable greatness. A cook book you might say. Yes, a recipe book for life, love, and art. However, my dear, let me tell you. Yes, there is no such thing. Every individual is unique in their own design, as intended by God himself. We classify, yes, always must we classify, for if not, then we would be lost, yes lost now wouldn't we? Classification, order, expectations, but alas, we forget. For what is art, if not the out word expression of an artist. It is the soul of the artisan and if his expectations are met, than who are we to judge whether his work be art or not? ↗

— Cristina Marrero

#cristina-marrero #fiction #gay #homosexual #lesbian

His (Samuel Coleridge) dark senses were constantly in play, the frustration of them bringing illness. Weather and organic nature combined in a synaesthetic multi-media event, and this was the ground of all perception before it was divded up in daily living: the Primary Imagination giving way to the Secondary. Poetry was forever seeking a conscious return to this state, which existed all the time, whether he knew it or not. ↗

— Peter Redgrove

#inspiration #nature #poetry #samuel-taylor-coleridge #senses

But leaving is just something that happens in life. We all do it someday, one way or another. There's worse things than going away with the taste of love still fresh in our mouths. ↗

— Jenny Wingfield

#life

Into the breach, then. Against mobs of middle-aged moms and frightening harridans we shall prevail.” She nodded sharply, raising an invisible sword. “And damned be he—she—who cries, ‘Hold, enough!’” “Misquote Shakespeare in front of Samuel, I dare you,” I told her, and she laughed. ↗

— Patricia Briggs

#frost-burned #humor #jesse-hauptman #mercy-thompson #samuel-cornick

If God didn't make men equal, Samuel Colt did. ↗

— COLT

#equal #equality #god #gun #guns

[Samuel Prescott was] returning from a lady friend's house at the awkward hour of 1 a.m. ↗

— John M. Murrin

#midnight-ride #paul-revere #samuel-prescott #equality

It took me a long time, my lifetime so to speak, to realise that the colour of an eye half seen, or the source of some distant sound, are closer to Giudecca in the hell of unknowing than the existence of God, or the origins of protoplasm, or the eistence of self, and even less worthy than these to occupy the wise, It's a bit much, a lifetime, to achieve this consoling conclusion, it doesn't leave you much time to profit by it. ↗

— Samuel Beckett

#samuel-beckett #love

Something Vimes had learned as a young guard drifted up from memory. If you have to look along the shaft of an arrow from the wrong end, if a man has you entirely at his mercy, then hope like hell that man is an evil man. Because the evil like power, power over people, and they want to see you in fear. They want you to know you're going to die. So they'll talk. They'll gloat. They'll watch you squirm. They'll put off the moment of murder like another man will put off a good cigar. So hope like hell your captor is an evil man. A good man will kill you with hardly a word. ↗

— Terry Pratchett

#samuel-vimes #men