Explosives Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
We are all of us exposed to grief: the people we love die, as we shall ourselves in due course; expectations are disappointed and ambitions are thwarted by circumstance. Finally, there are some who insist upon feeling guilty over the ill they have done or simply on account of the ugliness which they perceive in their own souls. A solution of a kind has been found to this problem in the form of sedatives and anti-depressant drugs, so that many human experiences which used to be accepted as an integral part of human life are now defined and dealt with as medical problems. The widow who grieves for a beloved husband becomes a 'case', as does the man saddened by the recollection of the napalm or high explosives he has dropped on civilian populations. One had thought that guilt was a way, however indirect, in which we might perceive the nature of reality and the laws which govern our human experience; but it is now an illness that can be cured. Death however, remains incurable. Though we might be embarrassed by Victorian death-bed scenes or the practices of mourning among people less sophisticated than ourselves, the fact of death tells us so much about the realities of our condition that to ignore it or try to forget it is to be unaware of the most important thing we need to know about our situation as living creatures. Equally, to witness and participate in the dying of our fellow men and women is to learn what we are and, if we have any wisdom at all, to draw conclusions which must in their way affect our every thought and our every act.

Charles Le Gai Eaton
If those few words were the last ones ever said. And this goodbye would be the final one. Those cents the last ones ever spent. If this night would stop or never end. The snow would never melt or the sun never be again. Could it be the last night and the last one, you? We would never grow old, become pale parodies and forget all of our memories. We would never know all about the upcoming failures in the world that carried us. We would avoid all the hatred, the wars, and the genocides, the breaking point of devastation, witness the world folding on itself. Isn't it enough? We could be the next target in the war on power, terror, or in explosives attacks on fallen cities. Could it be the last night? We would miss the day of the sure awakening, the sleeping giant hate filled for his vengeance. Or the moment we won't be able to afford more waste of human life. And more evidence of torture, widespread confusion and violence. If this was the last day I would tell you, I'm confused. All we do is fight. Life isn't that nice. Karma is just a fairy tale. There is no promised land. Maybe your life would have been different. Maybe you would have been fulfilled or believed in god. You won't see a world doomed to collapse. I can't offer land, just a pile of toxic waste. Saving tomorrow, I have no fears. Going forward in the path of a lonesome quest, with the leftovers of an honest adventure. I will silence my rage and let bravery stand. The bland flavor, I spit on the basis of living. It's over crowded dirty and useless, let me take a rest. We will avoid all the hatred, the wars, and genocides, the breaking point of devastation, witness the world folding on itself. You will never see or have your chance. This moment is our last one. Something will never happen; the start of your life, the day you would have seen the light. My hand is reaching for you, you my daughter. It's our last night.

Fuck the Facts
Eddie saw great things and near misses. Albert Einstein as a child, not quite struck by a run-away milk-wagon as he crossed a street. A teenage boy named Albert Schweitzer getting out of a bathtub and not quite stepping on the cake of soap lying beside the pulled plug. A Nazi Oberleutnant burning a piece of paper with the date and place of the D-Day Invasion written on it. He saw a man who intended to poison the entire water supply of Denver die of a heart attack in a roadside rest-stop on I-80 in Iowa with a bag of McDonald's French fries on his lap. He saw a terrorist wired up with explosives suddenly turn away from a crowded restaurant in a city that might have been Jerusalem. The terrorist had been transfixed by nothing more than the sky, and the thought that it arced above the just and unjust alike. He saw four men rescue a little boy from a monster whose entire head seemed to consist of a single eye. But more important than any of these was the vast, accretive weight of small things, from planes which hadn't crashed to men and women who had come to the correct place at the perfect time and thus founded generations. He saw kisses exchanged in doorways and wallets returned and men who had come to a splitting of the way and chosen the right fork. He saw a thousand random meetings that weren't random, ten thousand right decisions, a hundred thousand right answers, a million acts of unacknowledged kindness. He saw the old people of River Crossing and Roland kneeling in the dust for Aunt Talitha's blessing; again heard her giving it freely and gladly. Heard her telling him to lay the cross she had given him at the foot of the Dark Tower and speak the name of Talitha Unwin at the far end of the earth. He saw the Tower itself in the burning folds of the rose and for a moment understood its purpose: how it distributed its lines of force to all the worlds that were and held them steady in time's great helix. For every brick that landed on the ground instead of some little kid's head, for every tornado that missed the trailer park, for every missile that didn't fly, for every hand stayed from violence, there was the Tower. And the quiet, singing voice of the rose. The song that promised all might be well, all might be well, that all manner of things might be well.

Stephen King
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