Quotes About Struggle

the overwhelming impression I got was that if there was a line of least resistance in life, this face had never been along it.

And now he couldn't cloak it any longer, the leaking sense of loss, more fucking loss, soaking through into the same old general, swirling sense of betrayal, years upon pissed-away years of it, made bitter and particular on his tongue now, as if Grace-of-Heaven had come wormwood into his mouth in those final clenched, pulsing seconds.

But I won't watch them go to war again. I've been to war, you know, to save civilization from the reptile hordes. I bled for it, I saw friends and other men die for it. And then I watched men like you piss it away again, the civilization we'd saved, in squabbles over a few hundred square miles of territory and what language the people get to speak there, what color their skin and hair is and what kind of religious horseshit they get crammed down their throats.

We live in bloodbath times... and looks like tonight is bath night.

That's your solution?' asked Wardani in a small, cold voice. 'Take drugs and watch it all slide out of view?' 'Do you have a better idea?' She turned away.

War is like any other bad relationship. Of course you want out, but at what price? And perhaps more importantly, once you get out, will you be any better off? QUELLCRIST FALCONER Campaign Diaries

Humans, short- lived and locked out of the gray places for life, do not do well with uncertainty. If they cannot have what might, what could, what should, and perhaps most awful of all what should have been, then they will dream it up instead, imagine it into being in whatever twisted or beautiful form suits, and then drive their fellows to their knees in chains by the thousand and million to pretend in chorus that it is so.

Fortified with self-loathing, with the reserves of sardonic contempt he'd absorbed in his time spent around Milacar, he'd gone to the gate tight-lipped and filled with a strange, queasy energy, as if walking to his own execution as well as Jelim's. He'd known at some deep, cold level that he would cope. He was wrong. Utterly.

The eyes are dim, but a single bright glimmer tracks down one weathered cheek. Ringil— Gil shakes his head. 's okay. Thanks for the krin. Going to be a big help. He slings the Ravensfriend up and over his shoulder, walks away from the god and down the slope towards the waiting dwenda. After all , he calls back. Worse fates than being forced into a place where your choice of acts is limited to those where your soul burns brightest .

but fuck it, you've got to make a stand somewhere. And a man can stave off his own death wish for only so long.

At about the same time I was working out there were no wounds in my chest someone wiped a towel roughly across my face and I could see. I decided to save that pleasure for later and concentrated on getting the contents of the tank out of my nose and throat.

Voltar dos mortos pode ser dureza.

These days, one of them told me one freezing slow-as-Sunday night, we're all just feeding off the stored fat of a dream gone bad.

The skeins are tangled. Some butterfly shaman up in the north beats his puny fucking wings and the storm gathers before you know it. Chaos gathers, like a bad poet's verse. We run damage control, but the rules of engagement have changed. You think we're any happier about it than you? We've got our balls to the wall here, hero. We're fighting half blind, nothing works, not the way it should, not anymore. Which

They killed us twenty thousand years ago with their crops and their craven connivance at hierarchy.

Residual biosystems glitches, they said, and told me it'd fade with time. I believed them, because in the end almost everything does.

You'll let your life, the most precious thing you have, be stolen from you hour by hour and day by day as long as you can eke out the existence your males will let you have.

We're all small and harmless once, Archidi. But we all grow up. And some of us grow up needing killing.

Le progrès est toujours difficile à définir

The Machinery of Justice will not serve you here—it is slow and cold, and it is theirs, hardware and soft-. Only the little people suffer at the hands of Justice; the creatures of power slide out from under with a wink and a grin.

They'd spit in your eye and walk away if you called them victims, but somehow that same grit never found its way into any built form better than hardscrabble endurance and nonspecific rage.

Scholars have estimated that by 1850, the aboriginal population in North America—besieged by the invaders' explosive weaponry, wondrous technology, contemptuous cruelty, and irresistible pathogens, as well as the Indians' own ever-deepening despair—was just one-tenth of what it had been when Columbus first ventured ashore.

Americans, from the beginning and throughout much of their history, were a warrior people when dealing with those who stood in their path.

Remember that even if you have made a truly rotten piece of art, it may be a necessary stepping-stone to your next work. Art matures spasmodically and requires ugly-duckling growth stages.