Ian Tregillis Quotes

Is it beautiful?"
"Really weird. But don't get hung up on the angels. They're mostly assholes.

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You weaselly short-dicked elk-fucker.

His wings, all six, shed embers of incandescent grace as he skidded across the night sky. And when he opened his mouths to scream, the Earth could do naught but shudder.

Magdalene's handjobs,

The Pleroma is the totality. The superset. Magisteria are the subsets." Eat your heart out, Bertrand Russell. "We all have one. Even you. Your own little slice of the divine.

Wait," he said. "Before we leave, can I, um, can I see what you really look like now?"

"Doofus. I look like your sister."

"I know. But there's more now. Right?"

It was a fair question. She said, "Okay. But you have to promise not to freak out. Just remember I'm still me, regardless of what it might look like."

"I promise."

And so it was there, in the reimagined and reconstructed memory of the kitchen she once shared with Ria, that Molly set aside her human form and showed her brother what she had become. The transition went more smoothly than it had in Bayliss's hotel room. She dialed it back when Martin flinched and shielded his eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asked, momentarily consumed with a vision of bloody tears streaking Bayliss's face.

"Oh, Moll," said Martin. He was crying. Not blood, though. "They turned you into starlight.

Then she rooted around until she found the bathroom medicine cabinet. It used to contain a bottle of aspirin. Now it contained her scream from the time she was bitten by a llama at a roadside petting zoo in Manitoba.

What point in having the freedom to enter into promises of your own choosing, to forge bonds of your own design, if your only aim is to shatter them?

Jesus Christ on a six-day wine bender.

Winter had receded in recent days, as though resting

But he couldn't suppress the horror of learning his pursuers would murder innocents to bolster their lies.

The wind fluttering the pennants atop the outer keep and teasing Berenice's hair carried the loamy smell of damp earth, the fresh scent of the river, and, even now, a ghostly chemical astringency. The miasma wafted from the battlefield.

Nobody ever oohs and aahs over wiring conduits and sewer lines.

The Stemwinders made the most bizarre ratcheting sound, like the stripping of gears combined with the metallic whine of an overstressed steel cable.

Raindrops misted the Ridderzal's immense rosette window. Water dripped from the architectural tracery that turned the window into a stained glass cog. It streaked the colored panes of oculi and quatrefoils depicting the empire's arms: a rosy cross surrounded by the arms of the great families all girded by the teeth of the universal cog.

Fire became an emerald mist where it touched his flesh. Its smoke smelled of cinnamon and sulfur, and tasted like pickled starlight. "Did you leave," she asked, "or were you kicked out?" "Don't get cute. I left," said Bayliss. He muttered, "I really wish somebody had given old Milton a sock in the kisser when they'd had the chance.

You greasy shit stain on a diseased elk's warty asshole.

Overwhelming: he could do anything he wanted. But the grand sum of anything-at-all was nothing-at-all. The topology of freedom offered no gradients to nudge him, no landmarks to guide him.

Funny thing about Gabby: you wouldn't know it from looking at him, with his golden halo and platonic beauty, but the guy was something of a pack rat. He'd been collecting little odds and ends since at least the double-digit redshifts. The interior reality of Gabriel's Magisterium burbled and shifted like convection currents in a star on the zaftig end of the main sequence. Because, I realized, that's what they were. Dull dim light, from IR to X-ray, oozed past me like the wax in a million-mile lava lamp while carbon, nitrogen, and oxygen nuclei did little do-si-dos about my toes. Every bubble, every sizzle, every new nucleus, every photodissociation tagged something of interest to Gabriel. The heart of this star smelled of roses and musty libraries.

Someone had awoken METATRON: the Voice of God.
I knew that dame was trouble the minute I saw her.

Free Will was a vacuum, a negative space. It was the absence of coercion, the absence of compulsion, the absence of agony.

They had cut him open and excised his Free Will.

Enochian was the wail of dying stars, the whisper of galaxies winging through the void, the gurgle of primordial oceans, the crackle of a cooling planet,
the thunder of creation. And beneath it all , a simmering undercurrent of malevolence.

How did humans guide themselves? How did they know what to do and what not to do?

humans carried heavy obligations, too, but called them culture. Society.

Jesus's bloody tears.

I'll say this for the celestial spheres, though: great acoustics. We're talking Platonic ideals here. Pythagoras would have smashed his corny little harp across his knee if he'd heard it.

It was the kind of place where hard drinkers came to wrestle their demons while fallen angels drank alone in dark smoky corners.

For the creation of the mechanicals was a seismic event, an earth-rending convulsion that left nothing untouched: palaces, thrones, and empires, yes, but also the way men and women thought about themselves and their relationship to the world, to God, even their own bodies.

Having tasted life without the pain of obligation perpetually burning him from within, he'd choose death over the return to bondage. He'd make that choice in an instant. Life as a slave was unspeakable; life as a slave who had briefly tasted freedom was unthinkable.