Conquerors, visionaries, artists, poets, and resolute men of all sorts throughout time have been driven to extraordinary acts by their commitment to triumphs that most of us admire - but would prefer to leave to someone else
Conquerors, visionaries, artists, poets, and resolute men of all sorts throughout time have been driven to extraordinary acts by their commitment to triumphs that most of us admire - but would prefer to leave to someone else
Progress always travels with unpleasant offspring. Cutting-edge technology cuts both ways. I suppose there's nothing to be done about the consequences. Nothing ventured, nothing gained - although, nothing ventured, nothing ruined, is also true.
I have some entirely unreliable thoughts about four particular Eras. Worse yet, I'm shamelessly appropriating the large idea of Era to describe smaller ideas about shorter-lived cultural enthusiasms. I say, the time of the season is an Era.
Satan's target is the individual human soul. The human soul is sovereign. Groups are an abstraction. A human soul bound to a group is no longer sovereign. Souls enmeshed in group abstraction no longer think for themselves. The group thinks for them.
Local weather-reports could be standardized: "42° Fahrenheit, more-or-less, rain, snow, and violent winds expected". The forecast rarely varies: cold, wet, stormy and overcast.
I decided years ago to walk with God. My walk may be wobbly, but I do the best I can. When I can't do good, I try at least to avoid doing harm. It's not much, but It's something. It's also calming. God's in charge, not me.
Still, Wolf wondered philosophically. If both Ram and Lamb were Sheep, why didn’t they taste the same?
Even though Wolf had never actually tasted Stag, Wolf assumed Stag would taste as bad as Ram because Stag put up the same bothersome fuss as Ram.
I said this world is a phantasma. I didn't say nothing is real. Souls are real. God is real. Satan is real. Satan's demons, and God's angels are real. Everything else isn't.
This world is an elaborate stage show designed to reveal the talent of each actor - that is, each soul.
Tom was six-foot something and well over two hundred pounds. Tom was large. I was small. Despite the Mut & Jeff appearance, we were the best of friends.
I remember trouble with a few bullies in middle school. I don't remember any trouble with bullies in high school. I'm pretty sure that's because Tom was usually towering behind me.
Preternatural wisdom in a young person can convince that person they know it all. They don't. Only the bumps and bruises of the years will allow schooled wisdom to penetrate to the bone.
Tales of human becoming animal and then back again are older than the Stone Age. Every paleolithic culture in the world has their own version, including modern-day paleolithic cultures from Siberia to the Amazon.
I don't think Tom has ever been inclined to sift the chaff from the grain. His interest in the connection between the two, precludes interest in examining the value of either.
Despite the obvious truth that generalities are generally true, righteous quibblers are driven to expose the exceptions. This is only useful when the number of exceptions prove the generality wasn't really the rule after all.
When a bank gives your money to someone that isn't you, the bank is as guilty of theft as the thieving I.D. hacker. The bank was remiss in protecting your account, therefore the bank should reimburse you for allowing your money to be stolen. I think the same should apply to I.D. theft of any sort.
Admiral Byrd was a serious, well-respected man of impressive accomplishment. He was not the least given to making things up.
Seconds before the attack, Joyce had been quietly peddling along the bike path in the parkway, enjoying her day off. She didn't even notice the goose-nest by the edge of the stream.
Anything a Jew sets out to do will be given very earnest attention. Jews have heard about goofing-off, they just can't get the hang of it.
It wasn't so much that every day was a party, as it was that every day seemed like a party.
Black Dog delights in crunch of bone and spurting blood. Fiends from hell relish the same. Except it's not the same. Fiends from hell relish pain and violence; their pleasure is destruction. Black Dog thrills only to the throbbing fulfillment of primordial impulse:
Now what? Should I try to nurse her back to health? How would I do that? Maybe if I let her just rest she'd recover on her own. I left her, and walked back inside.