Either way, change will come. It could be bloody, or it could be beautiful. It depends on us.
Fascism itself can only be turned away if all those who are outraged by it show a commitment to social justice that equals the intensity of their indignation.
To stay quiet is as political an act as speaking out.
There’s no division on my bookshelf between fiction and nonfiction. As far as I’m concerned, fiction is about the truth.
Of course, there’s an alternative to terrorism: it’s called justice.
Terrorism is the symptom, not the disease.
The only good thing about nuclear war is that it is the single most egalitarian idea that man has ever had. On the day of reckoning, you will not be asked to present your credentials. The devastation will be indiscriminate.
Sometimes there’s truth in old cliches. There can be no real peace without justice. And without resistance there will be no justice.
Torture has been privatized now, so you have obviously the whole scandal in America about the abuse of prisoners and the fact that, army people might be made to pay a price, but who are the privatized torturers accountable to?
I really worry about these political people that have no personal life. If there’s nothing that’s lovely, and if there’s nothing that’s just ephemeral, that you can just lie on the floor and bust a gut laughing at, then what’s the point?
I am completely a loner. In my head I want to feel I can be anywhere. There is a sort of recklessness that being a loner allows me.
The strange thing about Roman soldiers in the comics was the amount of trouble they took over their armor and their helmets, and then, after all that, they left their legs bare. It didn’t make any sense at all. Weatherwise or otherwise.
Old. A viable die-able age.
People always loved best what they identified most with.
Smells, like music, hold memories. She breathed deep, and bottled it up for posterity.
There are things that you can’t do – like writing letters to a part of yourself. To your feet or hair. Or heart.
She wore flowers in her hair and carried magic secrets in her eyes. She spoke to no one. She spent hours on the riverbank. She smoked cigarettes and had midnight swims...
When she listened to songs that she loved on the radio, something stirred inside her. A liquid ache spread under her skin, and she walked out of the world like a witch.
Humbling was a nice word, Rahel thought. Humbling along without a care in the world.
If he touched her, he couldn’t talk to her, if he loved her he couldn’t leave, if he spoke he couldn’t listen, if he fought he couldn’t win.