Cormag Fe Quotes

And so we weep for the fallen. We weep for those yet to fall, and in war the screams are loud and harsh and in peace the wail is so drawn-out we tell ourselves we hear nothing.

And so this music is a lament, and I am doomed to hear its bittersweet notes for a lifetime.
Show me a god that does not demand mortal suffering.

Show me a god that celebrates diversity, a celebration that embraces even non-believers and is not threatened by them.

Show me a god who understands the meaning of peace. In life, not in death.

Show -

'Stop,' Gesler said in a grating voice.

Blinking, Fiddler lowered the instrument. 'What?'

'You cannot end with such anger, Fid. Please.'

Anger? I am sorry. He would have spoken that aloud, but suddenly he could not. His gaze lowered, and he found himself studying the littered floor at his feet. Someone, in passing – perhaps Fiddler himself – had inadvertently stepped on a cockroach. Half-crushed, smeared into the warped wood, its legs kicked feebly. He stared at it in fascination.

Dear creature, do you now curse an indifferent god?

'You're right,' he said. 'I can't end it there.' He raised the fiddle again. 'Here's a different song for you, one of the few I've actually learned. From Kartool. It's called "The Paralt's Dance".' He rested the bow on the strings, then began.

Wild, frantic, amusing. Its final notes recounted the triumphant fe ~ Steven Erikson

Closed inside my compartment as if in a cubicle of some Egyptian tomb, I worked late into the night between New York and Chicago; then all the next day, in the restaurant of a Chicago station where I awaited a train blocked by storms and snow; then again until dawn, alone in the observation car of a Santa Fe limited, surrounded by black spurs of the Colorado mountains, and by the eternal pattern of the stars. Thus were written at a single impulsion the passages on food, love, sleep, and the knowledge of men. I can hardly recall a day spent with more ardor, or more lucid nights. ~ Marguerite Yourcenar

Like the waters of the river, like the motorists on the highway, and like the yellow trains streaking down the Santa Fe tracks, drama, in the shape of exceptional happenings, had never stopped there. ~ Truman Capote

I read in the newspaper that the Catholic Church finally decided that it had been theologically improper to try to convert the Jews. Whoops! Sorry for all those inquisitions, crusades, and autos-da-fe. Previous popes were wrong - infallible, perhaps, but wrong. ~ Alan Dershowitz

Fe fi fo fum, I'll put you on your bum! ~ Dave Franklin

I live a lonely photographic life here in Santa Fe. I do see Eliot Porter occasionally, and Ansel storms through every so often, otherwise I plug along in my old fashioned way. ~ Laura Gilpin

While ITPs undoubtedly need other people, they may fail to consistently acknowledge this need or invest in their relationships. This can result in a pattern of broken or abandoned relationships, or, at its worst, complete social isolation. Furthermore, the inferior function may beckon ITPs to generalize (Fe) their own Ti views or methods, which may include grandiose dreams of fame or recognition (Fe). It can also engender naïve views of love, manifesting as childlike sentimentalism or romantic idealism. ITPs' status as inner judgers may at times lead them to mistype as J types, while their inferior Fe may contribute to their mistyping as feelers. ~ A.J. Drenth

He was rowed down from the north in a leather skiff manned by a crew of trolls. His fur cape was caked with candle wax, his brow stained blue by wine - though the latter was seldom noticed due to the fox mask he wore at-all times. A quill in his teeth, a solitary teardrop a-squirm in his palm, he was the young poet prince of Montreal, handsome, immaculate, searching for sturdier doors to nail his poignant verses on.
In Manhattan, grit drifted into his ink bottle. In Vienna, his spice box exploded. On the Greek island of Hydra, Orpheus came to him at dawn astride a transparent donkey and restrung his cheap guitar. From that moment on, he shamelessly and willingly exposed himself to the contagion of music. To the secretly religious curiosity of the traveler was added the openly foolhardy dignity of the troubadour. By the time he returned to America, songs were working in him like bees in an attic. Connoisseurs developed cravings for his nocturnal honey, despite the fact that hearts were occasionally stung.

Now, thirty years later, as society staggers towards the millennium - nailing and screeching at the while, like an orangutan with a steak knife in its side - Leonard Cohen, his vision, his gift, his perseverance, are finally getting their due. It may be because he speaks to this wounded zeitgeist with particular eloquence and accuracy, it may be merely cultural time-lag, another example of the slow-to-catch-on many opening their ears belatedly to what the fe ~ Tom Robbins

The problem is that one cannot easily build Charleston anymore, because it is against the law. Similarly, Boston's Beacon Hill, Nantucket, Santa Fe, Carmel - all of these well-known places, many of which have become tourist destinations, exist in direct violation of current zoning ordinances. ~ Andres Duany

We arrived at Council Bluffs at dawn; I looked out. All winter I'd been reading of the great wagon parties that held council there before hitting the Oregon and Santa Fe trails; and of course now it was only cute suburban cottages of one damn kind and another, ~ Jack Kerouac

His face. Fenton was never one to like a slow day. The look was enough to tell Barnaby that something big had just come down. "Hutch?" "Hmmm?" Fenton went on, breathlessly. "The Broadbent place was robbed. I got one of the sons on the phone now." Hutch Barnaby didn't move a muscle. "Robbed of what?" "Everything." Fenton's black eyes glittered with relish. Barnaby sipped his coffee, sipped again, and then lowered his chair to the floor with a small clunk. Damn. As Barnaby and Fenton drove out the Old Santa Fe Trail, Fenton talked about the robbery. The collection, he'd heard, was worth half a billion. If the truth were anything close to that, Fenton said, it would be front-page-New-York-Times. He, Fenton, on the front page of the Times. Can you imagine ~ Douglas Preston

All laws for the purpose of making man worship God, are born of the same spirit that kindled the fires of the auto da fe, and lovingly built the dungeons of the Inquisition. All laws defining and punishing blasphemy - making it a crime to give your honest ideas about the Bible, or to laugh at the ignorance of the ancient Jews, or to enjoy yourself on the Sabbath, or to give your opinion of Jehovah, were passed by impudent bigots, and should be at once repealed by honest men. An infinite God ought to be able to protect himself, without going in partnership with State Legislatures. ~ Robert Green Ingersoll

Within the pages of books, I've journeyed to Mandalay, the Milky Way and Santa Fe. ~ Kevin Ansbro

Exoneration of Jesus Christ If Christ was in fact God, he knew all the future.
Before Him like a panorama moved the history yet to be. He knew how his words would be interpreted.

He knew what crimes, what horrors, what infamies, would be committed in his name. He knew that the hungry flames of persecution would climb around the limbs of countless martyrs. He knew that thousands and thousands of brave men and women would languish in dungeons in darkness, filled with pain.

He knew that his church would invent and use instruments of torture; that his followers would appeal to whip and fagot, to chain and rack. He saw the horizon of the future lurid with the flames of the auto da fe.

He knew what creeds would spring like poisonous fungi from every text. He saw the ignorant sects waging war against each other.

He saw thousands of men, under the orders of priests, building prisons for their fellow-men. He saw thousands of scaffolds dripping with the best and bravest blood. He saw his followers using the instruments of pain. He heard the groans - saw the faces white with agony.

He heard the shrieks and sobs and cries of all the moaning, martyred multitudes. He knew that commentaries would be written on his words with swords, to be read by the light of fagots. He knew that the Inquisition would be born of the teachings attributed to him. He saw the interpolations and falsehoods that hypocrisy would write and tell. He saw all ~ Robert G. Ingersoll

At the time of our hike, the
Appalachian Trail was fifty-nine years old. That is, by American standards, incredibly venerable. The Oregon and Santa Fe trails didn't last as long. Route 66 didn't last as long.
The old coast-to-coast Lincoln Highway, a road that brought transforming wealth and life to hundreds of little towns, so important and familiar that it became known as "America's Main Street," didn't last as long. Nothing in America does. If a product or enterprise doesn't constantly reinvent itself, it is superseded, cast aside, abandoned without sentiment in favor of something bigger, newer, and, alas, nearly always uglier. And then there is the good old AT, still quietly ticking along after six decades, unassuming, splendid, faithful to its founding principles, sweetly unaware that the world has quite moved on. It's a miracle really. ~ Bill Bryson

I have a deep attachment to the natural world. It's a major influence on my writing, and as I look out over the wonderful snow-covered Santa Fe hills, I'm grateful for every day that I live here. ~ Pat Mora

I am not a fool. I a[] wise. I will run from my fear, I w[]ll out distance my f[ ]r, then I will hide fr[ ] my fear, I w[]ll wait f[]r my fear, I will let m[] fear run past me[] then I will follow my fear, I will track [ ] fear until I c[]n approach m[ ]ear in complete silence[] th[]n I will strike at m[] fear, I will charge my fe[ ], I will grab h[]ld of my fear, I will sink my f[]ngers into my [ ]ar, t[]en I will bite my fear, I w[]ll tear the thro[]t of my fear, I will bre[]k the neck of my fear, I wi[ ] drink the blood of my fear, I [ ]ll gulp the flesh o[ ]my fear[]I will crush th[] bones of my f[]ar[ ]and I will savor m[] fear, I will sw[]llow my fear, all []f it, and then I will digest []y fear unt[]l I can do not[]ing else but shit out my fear. In this w[]y will I be mad[] stronger[ ] ~ Mark Z. Danielewski

So we had the whole fight right then - because we had to, time running out and all. Because what if we didn't have the whole glorious fight, and he went off to Santa Fe, and I regretted not being given this one dramatic scene that I was owed? I yelled and slammed drawers and flung myself around the room, but the whole time I knew in some kind of creepy way that I was acting out of some historical outrage rather than anything generated right there in the present catastrophe. If I had done what I really felt like doing, I would have been sitting in the corner sucking my thumb. Instead, I had to fight, I had to be madder than I felt. He sat on the side of the bed and tried to look guiltier than he felt. ~ Sandi Kahn Shelton

Don't judge people of what they should do, but ask yourself of what you should do. If you have an issue with your brother, don't let it be a distance between you. Have a heart and fix the issue yourself, regardless who's right or wrong. Don't wait for him to come to you, he might never come. Be a hero and go to him. ~ Fe Haghverdian

The last day i was home i took the rental car up old 14 behind the Sandia Mountains. as i drove north toward Santa Fe past Madrid I rolled the window down halfway and let the cold, brisk, February air come into the car. I smelled the pinon trees and the damp earth. The Gray came over me. My life flashed through my heart in one deep rush of feeling. When I made the turn around the mountain to the west, the mesas and valleys spread out before me under the orange and gold horizon. The sun hit me like a wave that flooded out the past and dissolved any idea of the future, and I felt okay and whole for about twenty minutes. ~ Marc Maron

Lachlan frowned as he misjudged the distance and his forehead hit Cormag's head with a bump. He wrapped his arms around his neck to steady himself, two big hands reaching up to hold onto his arms as if to offer extra support. "You," he began, talking quietly into his ear, "are so beautiful," he confessed, resting his heavy skull against Cormag's for a moment.
He meant it as well. Cormag was stunning. He was taller and broader than he was, very much the fine figure of hotness. His dark hair was well kept, but a little messy, he had amazing bone structure; the type that made him look more like a model than a museum manager. A chiselled jaw, nicely defined cheekbones and a rugged quality that
made him so appealing. He had never noticed how handsome a male face could be until those eyes drew him in.
"And so are you," his companion chuckled, "but we discussed this…I've ruined every relationship I've ever had. I get needy, possessive and my baggage gets in the way.
Besides," he lowered his voice to a whisper and brushed his hand over his upper arm, "You're not gay," he protested, reminding him yet again that they were different.
"Nope. Not gay," he agreed with that, nodding his head as he pulled back a little to see him better. "But that doesn't make you any less beautiful. Why is it wrong that I can see how special you are?" he asked, having difficulty understanding why part of his brain
was telling him he was being a drunken idiot and that the man be ~ Elaine White

Ireland is still what novelist Edna O'Brien calls a "pagan place." But that paganism does not conflict with a devout Catholicism that embraces and absorbs it, in a way that can seem mysterious, even heretical, elsewhere. In Ireland, Christianity arrived without lions and gladiators, survived without autos-da-fe and Inquisitions. The old ways were seamlessly bonded to the new, so that ancient rituals continued, ancient divinities became saints, ancient holy sites were maintained just as they had been for generations and generations. ~ Patricia Monaghan

New Mexico was the greatest experience from the outside world that I have ever had. It certainly changed me forever ... The moment I saw the brilliant, proud morning shine high up over the deserts of Santa Fe, something stood still in my soul, and I started to attend. ~ D.H. Lawrence

My dad founded the 'Rancho Santa Fe Times' and won a lot of journalism awards. ~ Chris Hillman

I don't like realism. We already know the real facts about li[fe], most of the basic facts. I'm not interested in repeating what we already know. We know about sex, about violence, about murder, about war. All these things, by the time we're 18, we're up to here. From there on we need interpreters. We need poets. We need philosophers. We need theologians, who take the same basic facts and work with them and help us make do with those facts. Facts alone are not enough. It's interpretation. ~ Ray Bradbury

The drive to Santa Fe on I-25 is midly zen. There are public road signs that say "Gusty Winds May Exist". This seems more like lazy philosophy than travel advice. ~ Chuck Klosterman

Calypso Blues"

Wa oh oh, wa oh oh
Wa oh wa oh wa oh way
Wa oh oh, wa oh oh
Wa oh wa oh wa oh way

Sittin' by de ocean
Me heart, she feel so sad,
Sittin' by de ocean,
Me heart, she feel so sad
Don't got de money
To take me back to Trinidad.

Fine calypso woman,
She cook me shrimp and rice,
Fine calypso woman,
She cook me shrimp and rice
These Yankee hot dogs
Don't treat me stomach very nice.

In Trinidad, one dollar buy
Papaya juice, banana pie,
Six coconut, one female goat,
An' plenty fish to fill de boat.
One bushel bread, one barrel wine,
An' all de town, she come to dine.
But here is bad, one dollar buy
Cup of coffee, ham on rye.

Me throat she sick from necktie,
Me feet hurt from shoes.
Me pocket full of empty,
I got Calypso blues.

She need to, bubble like perculatah'
She come from Trinidad so winin' in her nature
Never can't I assess a reps until failure
Tell her if she stops she needs fe fly Air Jamaica
Anytime she land she nah go feel like no stranger
Carry us beyond we similar in behavior
Them no understand our customs and we flavor
Need a natty dred to be the new care taker, lord!

These Yankee girl give me big scare,
Is black de root, is blond de hair.
Her eyelash false, her face is paint,
And pads are where de girl she ain't!
< ~ Nat King Cole

He felt something on his neck. Warmth.
He hesitated, then turned weary eyes toward the sky. Sunlight bathed his face. He gaped; it seemed so long since he'd seen pure sunlight. It shone down through a large break in the clouds, comforting, like the warmth of an oven baking a loaf of Adrinne's thick sourdough bread.
Almen stood, raising a hand to shade his eyes. He took a deep, long breath, and smelled… apple blossoms? He spun with a start.
The apple trees were flowering.
That was plain ridiculous. He rubbed his eyes, but that didn't dispel the image. They were blooming, all of them, white flowers breaking out between the leaves.
[...] What was happening? Apple trees didn't blossom twice. Was he going mad?
Footsteps sounded softly on the path that ran past the orchard. Almen spun to find a tall young man walking down out of the foothills. He had deep red hair and he wore ragged clothing: a brown cloak with loose sleeves and a simple white linen shirt beneath. The trousers were finer, black with a delicate embroidery of gold at the cuff.
"Ho, stranger," Almen said, raising a hand, not knowing what else to say, not even sure if he'd seen what he thought he'd seen. "Did you… did you get lost up in the foothills?"
The man stopped, turning sharply. He seemed surprised to find Almen there. With a start, Almen realized the man's left arm ended in a stump.
The stranger looked about, then breathed in deeply. "No. I'm not lost. Finally. It fe ~ Robert Jordan

I wrote my senior essay on the Santa Fe Writer's Colony and my dissertation on sacred landscapes - the Grand Canyon, the Dakota Badlands. As a setting, I love the West. I just love that western landscape. ~ Elise Broach

Optimism is a belief and I adapt belief as a way of life. ~ Fe-en-Dios

I should like to know which is worse: to be ravished a hundred times by pirates, and have a buttock cut off, and run the gauntlet of the Bulgarians, and be flogged and hanged in an auto-da-fe, and be dissected, and have to row in a galley
in short, to undergo all the miseries we have each of us suffered
or simply to sit here and do nothing?'
That is a hard question,' said Candide. ~ Voltaire

It is already the fashion to diminish Eliot by calling him derivative, the mouthpiece of Pound, and so forth; and yet if one wanted to understand the apocalypse of early modernism in its true complexity it would be Eliot, I fancy, who would demand one's closest attention. He was ready to rewrite the history of all that interested him in order to have past and present conform; he was a poet of apocalypse, of the last days and the renovation, the destruction of the earthly city as a chastisement of human presumption, but also of empire. Tradition, a word we especially associate with this modernist, is for him the continuity of imperial deposits; hence the importance in his thought of Virgil and Dante. He saw his age as a long transition through which the elect must live, redeeming the time. He had his demonic host, too; the word 'Jew' remained in lower case through all the editions of the poems until the last of his lifetime, the seventy-fifth birthday edition of 1963. He had a persistent nostalgia for closed, immobile hierarchical societies. If tradition is, as he said in After Strange Gods--though the work was suppressed--'the habitual actions, habits and customs' which represent the kinship 'of the same people living in the same place' it is clear that Jews do not have it, but also that practically nobody now does. It is a fiction, a fiction cousin to a myth which had its effect in more practical politics. In extenuation it might be said that these writers felt, as Sartre fe ~ Frank Kermode