I increasingly fear that nothing good can come of almost any adaptation, and obviously that’s sweeping. There are a couple of adaptations that are perhaps as good or better than the original work. But the vast majority of them are pointless.
If gods are transcendent ideas, then the idea of a god IS a god.
Justice be above the Street, for lightnings mark our transit and the corners of Eternity are opened. This.
I no longer wish to look at dead things.
If somebody asked why you weren’t seeking work, you could explain that you were already employed as an archaic mental.
Truly, life is hell and death’s rough hand our only deliverance.
This had been before the war on drugs, of course, when launching military campaigns against abstract emotions or inanimate materials would have been seen as the behaviour of highly-strung and over-reaching Daleks.
Why, Aza Chorn is dead. Just dead. About his monument, the ghosts parade. The zephyrs shriek and howl and tear apart the clouds, rail uselessly at death and in frustration snatch up blossoms shaped like human lips, and fling them like blood-red confetti from Olympus to those mortal pastures far below, a rain of angry kisses showering down upon those tiny, distant lives...
Crazed with helplessness, I cursed God and wept, wondering if He wept also. But then, what use are His tears, if His help was denied me?
In my opinion, the existence of life is a highly overrated phenomenon.
Even though it’s somebody else’s tragedy rather than my own. I was there and I laughed along with all the rest and I guess that makes it part of my story also.
Although the fire is dead, these cinders are its voice.
In this world, you shouldn’t rely on help from anybody. In the end, a man stands alone.
The horror is this: In the end, it is simply a picture of empty meaningless blackness. We are alone. There is nothing else.
If you had a population that were miserable and restless because they had nowhere bearable to live, then the preferred solution seemed not to be spending money on improving their condition but on hiring more police in case things should turn ugly, housing these new myrmidons in properties from which the itchy and disgruntled man-herds were already serendipitously purged.
Nor does anyone know what the purpose is in anything, or why things happen in the way they do. It don’t seem fair when you see some of them mean buggers living to a ripe old age and here’s your lovely daughter took so soon. All I can tell you is what I believe. There’s justice up above the street, my dear.
Do you understand how I have loved you? You’d have all been dead in a year or two from liver failure, men, or childbirth. Dead. Forgotten. I have saved you. Do you understand that? I have made you safe from time, and we are wed in legend, inextricable within eternity.
All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy.
There’s no point worrying about it now, at any rate. Things tend to sort themselves out, Alma thinks, although she knows that this directly contradicts the laws of physics, common sense, and her political experience of the last forty years.
Poverty was timeless and you could depend upon it. It was never out of fashion.
Wherever did these jumped-up monkeys get all their ideas from?