Sickens Quotes

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nothing-sickens-me-more-than-closed-door-library-barbara-tuchman
beauty-has-wings-too-hastily-flies-love-unrewarded-soon-sickens-dies-george-edward-moore
what-can-still-that-hunger-heart-which-sickens-eye-for-beauty-makes-sweetscented-ease-oppression-george-eliot
oh-how-this-sickens-me-this-wretched-fools-affair-i-cant-erase-this-from-me-and-now-it-permeates-in-every-thought-i-feel-the-anger-writhes-in-my-soul-all-that-remains
you-fall-into-my-arms-you-are-good-gift-destructions-path-when-life-sickens-more-than-disease-and-boldness-is-root-beauty-which-draws-us-together
you-fall-into-my-arms-you-are-good-gift-destructions-path-when-life-sickens-more-than-disease-and-boldness-is-root-beauty-which-draws-us-together-boris-pasternak
if-you-crave-for-knowledge-banquet-knowledge-grows-groans-on-board-until-finer-appetite-sickens
while-i-am-compassed-round-with-mirth-my-soul-lies-hid-in-shades-grief-whence-like-bird-night-with-halfshut-eyes-she-peeps-sickens-at-sight-day-john-dryden
fearr-imprisons-faith-liberates-fear-paralyzes-faith-empowers-fear-disheartens-faith-encourages-fear-sickens-faith-heals-fear-makes-useless-faith-also-harry-emerson-fosdick
bitterness-imprisons-life-love-releases-it-bitterness-paralyzes-life-love-empowers-it-bitterness-sours-life-love-sweetens-it-bitterness-sickens-life-love-heals-it-bitterness-blin
I dont believe in God. Can you understand that? Look around you man. Cant you see? The clamour and din of those in torment has to be the sound most pleasing to his ear. And I loathe these discussions. The argument of the village atheist whose single passion is to revile endlessly that which he denies the existence of in the first place. Your fellowship is a fellowship of pain and nothing more. And if that pain were actually collective instead of simply reiterative then the sheer weight of it would drag the world from the walls of the universe and send it crashing and burning through whatever night it might yet be capable of engendering until it was not even ash. And justice? Brotherhood? Eternal life? Good god, man. Show me a religion that prepares one for death. For nothingness. There's a church I might enter. Yours prepares one only for more life. For dreams and illusions and lies. If you could banish the fear of death from men's hearts they wouldnt live a day. Who would want this nightmare if not for fear of the next? The shadow of the axe hangs over every joy. Every road ends in death. Or worse. Every friendship. Every love. Torment, betrayal, loss, suffering, pain, age, indignity, and hideous lingering illness. All with a single conclusion. For you and for every one and every thing that you have chosen to care for. There's the true brotherhood. The true fellowship. And everyone is a member for life. You tell me that my brother is my salvation? My salvation? Well then damn him. Damn him in every shape and form and guise. Do I see myself in him? Yes, I do. And what I see sickens me. Do you understand me? Can you understand me?

Cormac McCarthy
i-dont-believe-in-god-can-you-understand-that-look-around-you-man-cant-you-see-the-clamour-din-those-in-torment-has-to-be-sound-most-pleasing-to-his-ear-and-i-loathe-these-discus
My theme is memory, that winged host that soared about me one grey morning of war-time. These memories, which are my life-for we possess nothing certainly except the past-were always with me. Like the pigeons of St. Mark's, theywere everywhere, under my feet, singly, in pairs, in little honey-voiced congregations, nodding, strutting, winking, rolling the tender feathers of their necks, perching sometimes, if I stood still, on my shoulder or pecking a broken biscuit from between my lips; until, suddenly, the noon gun boomed and in a moment, with a flutter and sweep of wings, the pavement was bare and the whole sky above dark with a tumult of fowl. Thus it was that morning. These memories are the memorials and pledges of the vital hours of a lifetime. These hours of afflatus in the human spirit, the springs of art, are, in their mystery, akin to the epochs of history, when a race which for centuries has lived content, unknown, behind its own frontiers, digging, eating, sleeping, begetting, doing what was requisite for survival and nothing else, will, for a generation or two, stupefy the world; commit all manner of crimes, perhaps; follow the wildest chimeras, go down in the end in agony, but leave behind a record of new heights scaled and new rewards won for all mankind; the vision fades, the soul sickens, and the routine of survival starts again. The human soul enjoys these rare, classic periods, but, apart from them, we are seldom single or unique; we keep company in this world with a hoard of abstractions and reflections and counterfeits of ourselves - the sensual man, the economic man, the man of reason, the beast, the machine and the sleep-walker, and heaven knows what besides, all in our own image, indistinguishable from ourselves to the outward eye. We get borne along, out of sight in the press, unresisting, till we get the chance to drop behind unnoticed, or to dodge down a side street, pause, breathe freely and take our bearings, or to push ahead, out-distance our shadows, lead them a dance, so that when at length they catch up with us, they look at one another askance, knowing we have a secret we shall never share.

Evelyn Waugh
my-theme-is-memory-that-winged-host-that-soared-about-me-one-grey-morning-wartime-these-memories-which-are-my-lifefor-we-possess-nothing-certainly-except-pastwere-always-with-me-
Speak to me about power. What is it?' I do believe I'm being out-Cambridged. 'You want me to discuss power? Right here and now?' Her shapely head tilts. 'No time except the present.' 'Okay.' Only for a ten. 'Power is the ability to make someone do what they otherwise wouldn't, or deter them from doing what they otherwise would.' Immaculee Constantin is unreadable. 'How?' 'By coercion and reward. Carrots and sticks, though in bad light one looks much like the other. Coercion is predicated upon the fear of violence or suffering. 'Obey, or you'll regret it.' Tenth-century Danes exacted tribute by it; the cohesion of the Warsaw Pact rested upon it; and playground bullies rule by it. Law and order relies upon it. That's why we bang up criminals and why even democracies seek to monopolize force.' Immaculee Constantin watches my face as I talk; it's thrilling and distracting. 'Reward works by promising 'Obey and benefit.' This dynamic is at work in, let's say, the positioning of NATO bases in nonmember states, dog training, and putting up with a shitty job for your working life. How am I doing?' Security Goblin's sneeze booms through the chapel. 'You scratch the surface, ' says Immaculee Constantin. I feel lust and annoyance. 'Scratch deeper, then.' She brushes a tuft of fluff off her glove and appears to address her hand: 'Power is lost or won, never created or destroyed. Power is a visitor to, not a possession of, those it empowers. The mad tend to crave it, many of the sane crave it, but the wise worry about its long-term side effects. Power is crack cocaine for your ego and battery acid for your soul. Power's comings and goings, from host to host, via war, marriage, ballot box, diktat, and accident of birth, are the plot of history. The empowered may serve justice, remodel the Earth, transform lush nations into smoking battlefields, and bring down skyscrapers, but power itself is amoral.' Immaculee Constantin now looks up at me. 'Power will notice you. Power is watching you now. Carry on as you are, and power will favor you. But power will also laugh at you, mercilessly, as you lie dying in a private clinic, a few fleeting decades from now. Power mocks all its illustrious favorites as they lie dying. 'Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay, might stop a hole to keep the wind away.' That thought sickens me, Hugo Lamb, like nothing else. Doesn't it sicken you?

David Mitchell
speak-to-me-about-power-what-is-it-i-do-believe-im-being-outcambridged-you-want-me-to-discuss-power-right-here-now-her-shapely-head-tilts-no-time-except-present-okay-only-for-ten
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