Quotes About Humanity

Psychoanalysis and dianetics are, on the face of it, both absurd. People are what they are because of causes that go infinitely farther back than infancy of the mother's womb

By taking on our nature and becoming human, Jesus raised humanity to the level of the Son in relation to the Father. God has made us alive together with Christ and seated us with him in heavenly places (Eph 2:4-7).

That was how it started, Enoch thought, almost a hundred years ago. The campfire fantasy had turned into fact and the Earth now was on galactic charts, a way station for many different peoples traveling star to star. Strangers once, but now there were no strangers. There were no such things as strangers. In whatever form, with whatever purpose, all of them were people.

He sat there thinking of Man's capacity for the wiping out of species--sometimes in hate or fear, at other times for the simple love of gain.

to regard all life as brother life, to meet all things as people.

Pues esto no es nada risible. Se trata sólo de un arco y una flecha, pero no es risible. Pudo haberlo sido en otro tiempo, pero la historia destruyó la comicidad de muchas cosas. Si el arco es un chiste, también lo es entonces la bomba atómica y lo mismo el polvo pestífero que barrió ciudades enteras, y lo mismo el cohete sibilante que se eleva y cae a quince mil kilómetros de distancia matando a un millón de personas.

The first question, of course, is whether there ever was such a creature as Man. At the moment, in the absence of positive evidence, the sober consensus must be that there was not, that Man, as presented in the legend, is a figment of folklore invention. Man may have risen in the early days of Doggish culture as an imaginary being, a sort of racial god, on which the Dogs might call for help, to which they might retire for comfort.

succinct description

He had given them everything that a human being had with the one exception of that most important thing of all -- the ability to exist within the human world.

For Man had flown too fast, had driven far beyond his physical capacity. Not by strength did he hold his starry outposts, but by something else…by depth of human character, by his colossal conceit, by his ferocious conviction that Man was the greatest living thing the galaxy had spawned. All this in spite of many evidences that he was not…evidence that he cast aside, scornful of any greatness that was not ruthless and aggressive.

Sport, they called it, but that had been nothing more than a softer name for the bloodlust that man had carried

Man was spread thin throughout the galaxy. A lone man here, a handful there. Slim blobs of bone and brain and muscle to hold a galaxy in check. Slight shoulders to hold up the cloak of human greatness spread across the light-years. For Man had flown too fast, had driven far beyond his physical capacity.

I was born alive. Isn't that punishment enough?

The un-people, the anti-tribe, humanity's sack unpicked and sewn together again with the moon inside.

Zombies are the liberal nightmare. Here you have the masses, whom you would love to love, appearing at your front door with their faces falling off; and you're trying to be as humane as you possibly can, but they are, after all, eating the cat. And the fear of mass activity, of mindlessness on a national scale, underlies my fear of zombies.

Quitoon knew the world well. It wasn't jut Humankind and its works he knew, but all manner of things without any clear connection between them. He knew about spices, parliaments, salamanders, lullabies, curses, forms of discourse and disease; of riddles, chains, and sanities; ways to make sweetmeats, love and widows; tales to tell children, tales to tell their parents, tales to tell yourself on days when everything you know means nothing.

I am not your Father. I am but a child, like you. Afraid, like you. Fearing sometimes, as you fear.

We're all in it together, Harry. We're all pieces of the fisherman. I know that sounds like a bullshit answer, but you'll see, when you start to work with the dead. Everyone's complicit: the most innocent little kiddies; babies who live a day, an hour—they still have a hand in things, even their own deaths. I know that's very hard for you to get your head around right now, but take it from someone that's spent a lot of time with death.

tonight they all wished they could cut from their mind's configuration the part that knew—had always known, since infancy—that the great wound of the world was deepening, day on day, and they had no choice but feel the hurt as if it was their own, which of course in part it was.

Perhaps to be flawless was another kind of sadness.

was enough to know they had no Devil on their backs. Just old humanity, cheated of love, and ready to pull down the world on its head.

Everybody is a book of blood; Wherever we're opened, we're red. The Book of Blood The dead have highways.

being with people makes me vomit. I don't like em. I never did.

Real people are messy and complicated and generally inconvenient, but at least they are there