Quotes About Freedom

Pretty, pink Barbie fucks hard and raw like an animal. Her head is thrown back, spine arched, she's oblivious to rules, to moral order, to all but inner imperatives. And I wonder: could she live like she fucks?

Who and what are you?" "You called my name when you released me the first time," he said impatiently. " 'Tis Cian MacKeltar. As for the what of me, I'm but a man.

Guilt is for losers. Guilt is for folks who have stupid things like regrets. I contemplate the notion that maybe regrets are a process of accumulation of time, as unavoidable as a closet full of clothes and more bags of them in the attic. Is accumulated baggage what makes people get old? If so, they need to clean out their fecking attics, send the stuff to consignment shops and remember how to walk around naked like kids, little bellies sticking out, always ready for a good laugh.

Once, he told them the truth. Chiseled a single commandment upon a slab of stone: That is how to live: in the choosing. There are no rules but those you make for yourself. The man to whom he'd entrusted the tablet promptly shattered it, chiseled ten precise commands upon two stone slabs and carried them down a mountain with the pomp and circumstance of a prophet. Religious wars ravaged that world ever since.

Through the annals of history, women have paid a price for protection. One day, I won't have to.

I hate cages. For most folks, they're built from fear and they do it to themselves. Not me. Mine were forged of helplessness. Most kids' are.

It was like being owned." "Some women like that." "Not me." "Perhaps it depends on the man doing the owning." "I doubt it. I couldn't breathe with him kissing me." "One day you may kiss a man you can't breathe without, and find breath is of little consequence.

Who wants to be around someone that can change them? Too much power to let another person have!

That is how to live: in the choosing. There are no rules but those you make for yourself.

You would bound off faster than a hare if I were such a fool." He grasped her shoulders and pulled her close. "I would advise against running from me. I would catch you easily, and the chase would only arouse me." When she tried to shrug his hands off her shoulders, he said, "Is this the fashion in which you thank me for freeing you?" he teased. "You might grant me a boon for my efforts.

Then you shouldn't be boinking him!" "It's my own business who I boink

You cannot control me, lass. No one can," he said wearily. "If I give to you, it is because I choose to give to you. And Lisa, I would choose to give you everything, if you would but permit.

Chiseled a single commandment upon a slab of stone: That is how to live: in the choosing. There are no rules but those you make for yourself.

Life rocks. It's better than Woodstock.

Below me, inside me, there's a pit that's dark and comforting and quite completely insane. If I sink into it, I can be free of all torture.

How dare anything tamper with our innate structure? Who the hell was it to decide what was right and wrong with us?

I love books, by the way, way more than movies. Movies tell you what to think. A good book lets you choose a few thoughts for yourself. Movies show you the pink house. A good book tells you there's a pink house and lets you paint some of the finishing touches, maybe choose the roof style, park your own car out front.

I hate organizations. Folks got to be free, able to breathe, and make up their own minds about stuff, not be fed a party line. Ritual numbs the brain. Repetition is grass for sheep.

It's today and we're free!

They did not want to be normal anymore, which only they knew. All they wanted was a roaring fire, a beach, and a wintry day with a friend.

But her favorite is the Houdini fantasy. Big Red disagrees with his biographers, who say that he was driven by his longing to shuck off this mortal coil. She knows that he was all the time just searching for a box that could hold him.

Live long enough, and your life becomes your own to gamble with again

I have worked with many people in this waking life who seem congenitally incapable of accepting any human donation of blood, marrow, sleep, criticism, praise, money, or love. Some days, I know, I'm one of them. You find that you're not a match with the donor. Or you sense that the gift will take some freedom from you. Your body rebels, maybe you don't even know why. But the donation is rejected.

Who doesn't dream of it? The silence that blots up thought. The silence that frees one from the burden of being oneself.