Text without context is pretext.
It is all we have left to us. And while it is more than I ever dared dream, it is nowhere near enough.
He barks out a laugh. "My little rebel.
His divine spark lives within me, a presence that will never leave. And I am but one of many tools He has at His disposal. If I cannot act - if I refuse to act - that is a choice I am allowed to make. He has given me life, and all I must do to serve Him is to live. Fully and with my whole heart. With this knowledge comes a true understanding of all the gifts He has given me.
And so it is with us; we serve as handmaidens to Death. When we are guided by His will, killing is a sacrament.
This is what I want to be. An instrument of mercy, not vengeance.
. . . then he offers me his arm. As I take it, I wonder what folly decreed that women cannot walk unassisted.
We are each a dozen people who were all the same child.
It's peculiar what you remember when you're not trying.
With our mad lust for Uniformity and a Higher Standard of Living and Expanding Markets, we go to a country like Afghanistan and cruelly try to jerk her forward two thousand years in two decades, giving no thought to the profound shock this must be to her national psychology.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives.