| Dean Koontz's Frankensten, by Dean Koontz and Kevin J. Anderson |
[05 Dec 2009|02:46pm] |
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All flesh is grass, and withers, and the fields of the mind, too, are burned black by death and do not grow green again.
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[02 Dec 2009|06:59pm] |
Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life…You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore.
Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like ‘maybe we should be just friends’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.
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| 1984 by george orwell |
[01 Dec 2009|08:53pm] |
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
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| Better Than Sex: Confessions of a Political Junkie, by Hunter S. Thompson. |
[01 Dec 2009|06:53pm] |
I was pushed and leaned on like the Marquis de Sade. In the summer of 1990 I came under serious attack by the forces of evil. I was in full retreat, like Lee after Gettysburg, and my spirit was feeling week--and it was then, at my weakest, that I was backed into a corner and attacked on my own turf by the president of the United States, the prime minister of Englang, the Secret Service, the press, the liberals, John Denver, the police, Pat Buchanan, all my creditors, many foreigners and a coalition of extremely rich Nazis who had swarmed into Aspen that summer to mingle and wallow in the glitz.
They were ugly people, but they were expensively dressed and they had a certain glow about them that said were in charge. Which was true. They were the rich and powerful, the elite suave friends of the New World Order.
And I was definitely not one of them. I was on the run, a crude outlaw about to be captured and put in some kind of cage for the amusement of George and Maggie.
It was weird, Bubba--and then it began to get weirder. Take my word for it. I was there.
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| an education, lynn barber |
[30 Nov 2009|11:07am] |
"But there were other lessons Simon taught me that I regret learning. I learned not to trust people; I learned not to believe what they say but to watch what they do; I learned to suspect that anyone and everyone is capable of living a lie. I came to believe that other people, even when you think you know them well, are ultimately unknowable. Learning all this was a good basis for my subsequent career as an interviewer, but not, I think, for life. It made me too wary, too cautious, too ungiving. I was damaged by my education."
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| new moon stephenie meyer |
[29 Nov 2009|04:43pm] |
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Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.
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| Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk. |
[21 Nov 2009|10:38pm] |
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In the house on Paper Street, a police detective stated calling about
my condominium explosion, and Tyler stood with his chest against my
shoulder, whispering into my ear while I held the phone to the other ear,
and the detective asked if I knew anyone who could make homemade dynamite.
"Disaster is a natural part of my evolution," Tyler whispered, "toward
tragedy and dissolution."
I told the detective that it was the refrigerator that blew up my
condo.
"I'm breaking my attachment to physical power and possessions,' Tyler
whispered, "because only through destroying myself can I discover the
greater power of my spirit."
The dynamite, the detective said, there were impurities, a residue of
ammonium oxalate and potassium perchloride that might mean the bomb was
homemade, and the dead bolt on the front door was shattered.
I said I was in Washington, D.C., that night.
The detective on the phone explained how someone had sprayed a canister
of Freon into the dead-bolt lock and then tapped the lock with a cold chisel
to shatter the cylinder. This is the way criminals are stealing bicycles.
"The liberator who destroys my property," Tyler said, "is fighting to
save my spirit. The teacher who clears all possessions from my path will set
me free."
The detective said whoever set the homemade dynamite could've turned on
the gas and blown out the pilot lights on the stove days before the
explosion took place. The gas was just the trigger. It would take days for
the gas to fill the condo before it reached the compressor at the base of
the refrigerator and the compressor's electric motor set off the explosion.
"Tell him," Tyler whispered. "Yes, you did it. You blew it all up.
That's what he wants to hear."
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| Kindred by Octavia Butler |
[16 Nov 2009|10:26am] |
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He had written and published three novels, he told me, and outside members of his family, he'd never met anyone who'd read one of them. They'd brought so little money that he'd gone on taking mindless jobs like this one at the warehouse, and he'd gone on writing—unreasonably, against the advice of saner people. He was like me—a kindred spirit crazy enough to keep on trying.
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| monster island; david wellington |
[11 Nov 2009|11:16pm] |
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"Give me your wretched dead, yearning to devour, your shambling masses. Give me. That was what they were thinking, wasn't it? The living dead over there on the island. If there was any spark left in their brains, any thought possible, to decayed neurons it was this: give me. Give me. Give me your life, your warmth, your flesh. Give me."
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| i don't know if this would be allowed here or not :-[ |
[31 Oct 2009|01:05pm] |
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does anyone write? poetry, stories, short stories, fan fiction? pm me if you do because i was thinking about maybe putting a little ooc comm together where we could post and leave feedback where there aren't like a thousand members like on webook and stuff. let me know if you're interested and maybe i'll be able to set up the comm right away!
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| Revelations by Melissa de la Cruz |
[25 Oct 2009|11:01am] |
Love. It's so close to hate, it's almost indistinguishable.
But this is how it was for the two of them.
Love and hate.
Life and death.
Joy and anguish.
Finally he lay still against her, drifting into a dreamless sleep. She smoothed his hair from his brow and called his name softly. Abbadon the Unlikely. Named so because his wistful nature masked a cold and fierce rage.
The Destroyer of Worlds, and the emperor of her own heart.
One day he would thank her for saving his life.
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| sigh, this book. |
[21 Oct 2009|07:55pm] |
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music |
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1984 - george orwell. |
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"do not imagine that you will save yourself, winston, however completely you surrender to us. no one who has once gone astray is ever spared. and even if we chose to let you live out the natural term of your life, still you would never escape from us. what happens to you here is for ever. understand that in advance. we shall crush you down to the point from which there is no coming back. things will happen to you from which you could not recover, if you lived a thousand years. never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling. everything will be dead inside you. never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. you will be hollow. we shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves."
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| Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston |
[08 Oct 2009|06:56pm] |
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He drifted off into sleep and Janie looked down on him and felt a self-crushing love. So her soul crawled out from its hiding place.
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| Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston |
[08 Oct 2009|06:47pm] |
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Janie stood where he left her for unmeasured time and thought. She stood there until something fell off the shelf inside her. Then she went inside there to see what it was. It was her image of Jody tumbled down and shattered. But looking at it she saw that it never was the flesh and blood figure of her dreams. Just something she had grabbed up to drape her dreams over. In a way she turned her back upon the image where it lay and looked further. She had no more blossomy openings dusting pollen over her man, neither any glistening young fruit where the petals used to be. She found that she had a host of thoughts she had never expressed to him, and numerous emotions she had never let Jody know about. Things packed up and put away in parts of her heart where he could never find them. She was saving up feelings for some man she had never seen. She had an inside and an outside now and suddenly she knew how not to mix them.
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| The Time Traveler's Wife. |
[06 Oct 2009|12:51pm] |
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"I won't ever leave you," she says. "Even though you're always leaving me."
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| the lightning thief by rick riordan |
[03 Oct 2009|11:51am] |
I turned to Chiron. "So where do we go? The Oracle just said to go west."
"The entrance to the Underworld is always in the west. It moves from age to age, just like Olympus. Right now, of course, it's in America."
"Where?"
Chiron looked surprised. "I thought that would be obvious enough. The entrance to the Underworld is in Los Angeles."
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| Phaedrus by Plato |
[29 Sep 2009|03:46pm] |
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Love is the regrowth of the wings of the soul.
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| 1984 |
[28 Sep 2009|06:58pm] |
Comrade Ogilvy, unimagined an hour ago, was now a fact. It struck him as curious that you could create dead men but not living ones. Comrade Ogilvy, who had never existed in the present, now existed in the past, and when once the act of forgery was forgotten, he would exist just as authentically, and upon the same evidence, as Charlemagne or Julius Caesar.
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[12 Sep 2009|10:37am] |
the master says it's a glorious thing to die for the faith and dad says it's a glorious thing to die for ireland and i wonder if there's anyone in the world who would like us to live. my brothers are dead and my sister is dead and i wonder if they died for ireland or the faith. dad says they were too young to die for anything. mam says it was disease and starvation and him never having a job. dad says, och, angela, puts on his cap and goes for a long walk.
angela's ashes - frank mccourt
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