3
" The organist was almost at the end of the anthem’s long introduction, and as the crescendo increases the cathedral began to glitter before my eyes until I felt as if every stone in the building was vibrating in anticipation of the sweeping sword of sound from the Choir.
The note exploded in our midst, and at that moment I knew our creator had touched not only me but all of us, just as Harriet had touched that sculpture with a loving hand long ago, and in that touch I sensed the indestructible fidelity, the indescribable devotion and the inexhaustible energy of the creator as he shaped his creation, bringing life out of dead matter, wresting form continually from chaos. Nothing was ever lost, Harriet had said, and nothing was ever wasted because always, when the work was finally completed, every article of the created process, seen or unseen, kept or discarded, broken or mended – EVERYTHING was justified, glorified and redeemed. "
― Susan Howatch
12
" In death we vanquished enemies,
In death, we slew our foes.
Blood soaked rage engulfed our blades,
When blood lust took its hold.
–
In death, a darkness troubled one,
In death, concealed, undone.
Deep in darkness dragons wait,
When blood would set the sun.
–
In death, we glorified his name.
In death, we saw too late,
When drink, to him, we raised in praise,
The dragon sealed his fate.
–
In death, we lived. In death, we fought.
In death, we grew to hate.
In death, the blackened wraith released,
The blinded shade beneath.
–
In death, his darkened eyes grew dim.
In death, his mind was lost within.
With blackened eyes, he slew his kin,
In death, we lost to him.
–
In death, I took up sword and slew.
In death, the dragon’s wrath ensued.
We had no choice. The dragon fumed.
In death, he was consumed.
–
In death, our brother’s blood deplored,
In death, our brother, did I gore,
When I rose up and killed one more.
His blood ensconced my sword.
–
From death, his mutterings are weak.
From death, his voice, to me, it speaks.
Entombed within my brother’s keep,
Revived in death, he sleeps. "
― Angela B. Chrysler , Dolor and Shadow (Tales of the Drui #1)
15
" The men on the show have it easy, in part because men on TV have uniforms: There’s the jacket, in black, blue, or gray. There’s the shirt, the pants. I can never tell whether Tom is gaining or losing weight beneath his boxy suits. He always looks the same. Tom also has the benefit of being Tom, a decorated veteran of the restaurant kitchen. Like so many chefs, he is practiced at the taste-of-this, taste-of-that eating regimen. I’m the one who has to look like a glorified weathergirl, with formfitting dresses and all, which, don’t get me wrong, I love—at least until I don’t. "
