This is the nature of war, whose stake is at once the game and the authority and the justification. Seen so, war is the truest form of divination.
Those who travel desert places do indeed meet with creatures surpassing all description.
Those whom life does not cure death will. The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and the reality, even where we will not. Between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.
Tilting back in his chair he framed questions for the quaking ovoid of lamplight on the ceiling to pose to him: Supposing there be any soul to listen and you died tonight? They’d listen to my death. N...
Todo va a ir bien, ¿verdad, papá?Sí. Todo irá bien.Y no nos va a pasar nada malo.Desde luego que no.Porque nosotros llevamos el fuego.Así es. Porque llevamos el fuego.
Tolling in the silence the minutes of the earth and the hours and the days of it and the years without cease.
Toward early morning he woke, sat up quickly and looked about him. It was still dark and the fire had long since died, still dark and quiet with that silence that seems to be of itself listening, an a...
Una negrura como para que dolieran los oídos de escucha
Vive in silenzio il Dio che ha purgato questa terra con sale e cenere.
Vous ne me laisserez pas plaider ma cause.Je connais votre cause. Votre cause c'est qu'il s'est passé certaines choses sur lesquelles vous n'avez aucun pouvoir.C'est vrai.Je suis certaine que c'est vr...
War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence. War is God.
War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner. That is the way it was and will be. That way and not some other way.
War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner.
We could of brought weeners, she said. Yeah. Marshmallers. You wouldnt think a car would burn like that.
What deity in the realms of dementia, what rabid god decocted out of the smoking lobes of hydrophobia could have devised a keeping place for souls so poor as is this flesh. This mawky worm-bent tabern...
What discordant vespers do the tinker's goods chime through the long twilight and over the brindled forest road, him stooped and hounded through the windy recrements of day like those old exiles who d...
What do you say to a man that by his own admission has no soul? Why would you say anything?
What do you say to em?Say to them?Yeah. Say.Hell, say anything. It doesnt matter, they dont listen. Well you gotta say somethin. What do you say?Try the direct approach.What's that?Well, like this fri...
What have you got that a man could drink with just a minimum risk of blindness and death.
What he could bear in the waking world he could not by night and he sat awake for fear the dream would return.
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