Torture Lulz?

Eco, Umberto. The Name of the Rose. Trans. William Weaver. New York: Harcourt, Inc., 1984. 59-60.

“What does it matter? The Devil is stubborn, he follows a pattern in his snares and his seductions, he repeats his rituals at a distance of millennia, he is always the same, this is precisely why he is recognized as the enemy! I swear to you: They lighted candles on Easter night and took maidens into the cellar. Then they extinguished the candles and threw themselves on the maidens, even if they were bound to them by ties of blood. . . . And if from this conjunction a baby was born, the infernal rite was resumed, all around a little jar of wine, which they called the keg, and they became drunk and would cut the baby to pieces, and pour its blood into the goblet, and they threw babies on the fire, still alive, and they mixed the baby’s ashes and his blood, and drank!

“But Michael Psellus wrote this in his book on the workings of devils three hundred years ago! Who told you these things?”

“They did. Bentivenga and the others, and under torture!”

“There is only one thing that arouses animals more than pleasure, and that is pain. Under torture you are as if under the dominion of those grasses that produce visions. Everything you have heard told, everything you have read returns to your mind, as if you were being transported, not toward heaven, but toward hell. Under torture you say not only what the inquisitor wants, but also what you imagine might please him, because a bond (this, truly, diabolical) is established between you and him. . . . These things I know, Ubertino; I also have belonged to those groups of men who believe they can produce the truth with white-hot iron. Well, let me tell you, the white heat of truth comes from another flame. Under torture Bentivenga may have told the most absurd lies, because it was no longer himself speaking, but his lost, the devils of his soul.”

“Lust?”

“Yes, there is lust for pain, as here is lust for adoration, and even a lust for humility. If it took so little to make the rebellious angels direct their ardor away from worship and humility toward pride and revolt, what can we expect of a human being? There, now you know: this was the thought that struck me in the course of my inquisitions. And this is why I gave up that activity. I lacked the courage to investigate the weaknesses of the wicked, because I discovered they are the same as the weaknesses of the saintly.”

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Accept the Gift

Sullivan, Randall. The Miracle Detective. New York: Grove Press, 2004. 434-435.

He sighed. “Look, I’m not anti-Medjugorje. Far from it. I believe God has used Medjugorje. I believe Medjugorje is part of the providential plan. But I also believe it would be a great mistake for you to hang your faith only on Medjugorje, or even on what happened to you in Medjugorje. I also think that you don’t have to be afraid to be completely honest with yourself about what you believe has happened there and what you believe is happening there.”

When I replied with a questioning expression, Groeschel said he wasn’t trying to read my mind, but merely to interpret what he had seen and heard during the two hours we’d spent together. “It’s obvious to me that you are convinced a major supernatual phenomenon, a breaking of God into this world, took place in this situation,” the priest said. “You are not so sure it continued, however, and in fact strongly suspect that it got altered or corrupted or lost or replaced by something else.” This was not so far from what he himself believe, Groeschel added, “except that, unlike you, I am willing to say I think that what goes on now, and has gone on for some time, may be a form of hysteria. A deeply devout hysteria, to be sure, almost a positive kind of hysteria, because it’s an echo of the original event. Or it could still be real but somehow not pure and so not real in the same way. Not wholly real.”

He believed that the apparitions had begun-probably had begun-as a means of preparing the people there to survive, in a spiritual sense, the war that had commenced ten years later, Groeschel said. “You look back through history, and the number of times these events have taken place, especially the ones accompanied by apocalyptic prophecies, and it’s astounding how often they seem to have anticipated terrible and bloody events. Each time people believe they are preparing for the Apocalypse, because we tend to forget that apocalypses, lowercase, occur regularly. I think all this stuff about the ten Secrets is a crock, but I also think it may have been produced by the warning given to those six kids that something terrible was coming and that only faith in God would see people through it.

“Of course,” Groeschel added with a smile, “I’m only talking about my belief here. I don’t actually know anything. Nobody does.”

He wanted to leave me with two pieces of counsel, Groeschel said in conclustion. “One, I believe that you will serve both God and yourself best if you end your book by leaving the question open. Don’t try to answer it, because you never will. Two, I hope you come to understand that even if you were capable of making an airtight case about Medjugorje, that wouldn’t result in true belief. True belief is a decision. It’s also a gift. Accept the gift and you will make the decision.”

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Growing

Green, Simon R. Deathstalker Return. New York: Roc Science Fiction, 2005. 264-265.

“Tired?” said Lewis. “Feeling sorry you came?”

“Absolutely bone-dead weary, darling, but . . . no. Not sorry at all, really. I’m changing, Lewis. I can feel it. The more I have to fight and protect myself, the better I get at it and the better I feel. I haven’t felt this self-sufficient in ages. Reminds me of the old days, when I was just starting out, and the only way to get your money out of the club manager at the end of an evening was to put a gun to his head and threaten to listen to see if it was loaded. I hadn’t realized how soft, how limited I’d become. And how bored . . . I mean, at least part of why I agreed to become Douglas’s Queen was that I had nowhere else to go in my profession, except down. The trouble with achieving all your ambitions is, what do you do for an encore? To tell the truth and shame the Devil, sweetie, I’d been coasting for years. Taking on roles and shows I knew weren’t worthy of me, just to keep my face in front of the public. But now . . . I’d forgotten how good it feels, to be faced by challenges and overcomes them. So, I’m glad we did this together, love. I feels so alive with you. More alive than I’ve felt in years.

“Does that mean you won’t be moaning and complaining anymore?” Lewis said solemnly.

Jesamine snorted with laughter. “Darling! I Have an image to maintain, even here.”

They laughed together quietly. Lews put an arm around Jesamine, and they snuggled up together. But Lewis had his own private thoughts. He approved of the new Jesamine. It was good to see her grown and blossom. But deep inside, where he though the dark thoughts he didn’t care to consider in the bright light of day, he wondered that there might come a day when Jesamine would be so strong, so self-sufficient, that she wouldn’t need him anymore. And that if she didn’t need him, then she might not want him anymore either. And then the only way to keep her . . . would be to break her spirit, make her dependent on him again. He knew that for a selfish thought immediately, and pushed it aside. He wanted what was best for her. He did. He’d always known that sometimes loving someone meant having the strength to let them go, when they outgrew you. He hoped that wouldn’t happen. But here in the ancient Standing, he couldn’t help but remember the oldest saying of his Clan.

Deathstalker luck. Always bad.

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To Believe

Green, Simon R. Deathstalker Honor. New York: Roc Science Fiction, 1998. 508-510.

“What we need is a miracle,” said Hazel. “Maybe if we asked Saint Bea very nicely . . .”

“I don’t think God is listening to us right now,” Owen said tiredly. “We’re on our own.”

“Nonsense,” said Mother Beatrice briskly, coming out of the infirmary, freshly starched and spotlessly clean. “God is always with us. He just won’t fight our battles for us.”

“I don’t believe in God anymore,” said Hazel. “Not after everything I’ve seen. All the evil, all the suffering, all the death.”

“People were responsible for that evil,” said Mother Beatrice, “Not God. And you have lived to see much of that evil come to an end. Be content with that.” She sat down beside Owen on the steps, rubbing her hands with a damp cloth. There were still specks of dried blood around her fingernails.

“Why did you come here?” said Hazel. “Didn’t you have enough of seeing people die after Technos III?”

“I came here because I was needed,” said Mother Beatrice calmly. “Why do you and Owen keep throwing yourselves into danger?”

“Same reason, I suppose,” said Owen. “Becaue people need us, because no one else can do what we can do. I still believe in the old virtues of duty and honor, even though they seem to have gone out of fashion in today’s new order of deals and compromises.”

Mother Beatrice smiled. “And that part of you is the part that hears God’s voice. You can’t ignore it anymore than I can.”

“I fight because I’m good at it,” Hazel said stubbornly. “My life’s revolved around violence and kiling as long as I can remember. Everywhere I’ve been, it was always kill or be killed. Where’s God’s voice in that?”

“It isn’t what you do that matters,” said Mother Beatrice patiently. “It’s why you do it. It is the cause we fight for that defines us. God gave you the warrior’s gift, Hazel, but left it up to you what to do with it.”

“I never wanted to be a warrior,” said Owen. “It was thrust upon me by circumstances.”

“Maybe in the beginning,” said Mother Beatrice. “Nobody sane wants to be a hero. Few tales of real heroes have happy endings. But you became what you are because of who you are, because you couldn’t look aside and do nothing while evil flourished. You are the best kind of warrior, Owen—the man who never wanted to be one. I never wanted to be a Saint. I still wince inside whenever anyone uses the word. Hell, I only joined the Church originally to get out of marrying Valentine Wolfe. But I found my faith, or it found me, and I can no more turn aside from those who need help than I can stop breathing. In the end, honor defines us all. Because without honor, our lives would have no meaning at all.”

Owen listened, and wanted so desperately to believe, but still couldn’t be sure.

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Most Easy

Green, Simon R. Deathstalker Honor. New York: Roc Science Fiction, 1998. 278-279.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. It was just . . . a bit of a shock. Why didn’t you tell me any of this, Addie?”

“Because I knew you’d react like this. I was hoping that once you’d met the children, you’d take it better. I should have known this was a bad idea. You only see your children as extensions of yourself. Someone to follow in your bloody footsteps. And what’s this crap about them leading the Family? You’re not the Campbell; Robert is. His children will lead the clan, if any will.”

“I could have been the Campbell if I’d wanted. My father was the previous Campbell. The position was mine by right if I’d wanted it. I just chose not to.”

“Because you didn’t want the responsibility. You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself.”

“I care about Evangeline! I’d die for her!”

“Death,” said Adrienne. “That’s all you know about, Finlay. Dying for someone is easy. Living for them is much harder. Would you change your life for Evangeline, for your children? Give up who you are, what you’ve made of yourself, for them?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Finlay.

“No, you don’t. That’s what’s so sad. I think you’d better leave now, Finlay.”

“What?” He gaped at her. “But . . . I only just got here. You can’t just throw me out. I didn’t mean to shout. I was upset. Don’t do this to me Adrienne. There was so much I wanted to say. To you, to them.”

“I think you’ve said enough. It’s not for you: home, and family, and children. You wouldn’t know what to do with them. You’d break them without meaning to. You always did play too roughly, Finlay.”

“Addie . . . please. Don’t make me go. You know how much this means to me!”

“Do I? I thought I did. I hoped I did. But I don’t think I ever really knew you, Finlay. There were so many yous to choose from. But in the end I think they were all just masks, faces to show the world so they wouldn’t see the real you. So they couldn’t hurt you. Maybe Evangeline got past the masks. I don’t care enough to try anymore. I think you’re trying to die, Finlay, searching for death like a lover, and I won’t let you take the children down with you. It’s time to go Finlay. Leave now. Please.”

And faced with his wife’s cold, implacable voice, and his childrens’ tears, and words that cut him like knoves, he’d turned and left. Walked away from all the things he’d thought he wanted. He shut the front door behind him, knowing he could never return. Because there were some fights even he couldn’t win. The children weren’t his future. He didn’t have a future. He’d always known that. He’d just tried to forget it for a while, because he wanted to so very much.

He walked home alone in the middle of the crowds, and people in the streets saw his face and hurried to get out of his way.

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Happy Endings

Green, Simon R. Deathstalker Honor. New York: Roc Science Fiction, 1998. 128.

“I’ll go,” said BB. “I’ll walk away and never see you again. Just tell me you don’t love me anymore.”

“BB . . .”

“Tell me that and I’ll go. Even though I love you. Because I’d rather die than see you hurt again. Just say . . . you don’t love me.”

“I don’t love you.”

“Liar,” said BB Chojiro softly.

“Oh, God, of course I love you, BB. I’ll always love you.”

She reached up and placed her fingertips on his mouth. “You don’t have to say anymore, my darling. I know how difficult that must have been for you. But trust me, things will be different this time. I’m free now of many of my old constraints. Still, I think we’ve said enough for now. We have time . . . all the time we need. Goodbye, my love. For now.”

And she turned and walked away, back to Brendan and Stephanie and her advisers. Julian watched her go, and didn’t know what to say or think. She’s given every indication of being honest and genuine, but none of that mattered, because she was Blue Block. All he knew for sure was that his heart was still beating the way it used to, when he still knew what happiness was, when his love had been something more than just a road to damnation. Julian Skye watched her go, and cursed himself a fool for still believing in happy endings.

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Heroes and Power

Green, Simon R. Deathstalker Rebellion. New York: Roc Science Fiction, 1996. 456-457.

 ”I was never meant to be a hero,” said Ruby firmly. “The pay’s lousy and the working conditions suck. I’m a rebel because I was promised first crack at the loot when the Empire finally falls apart. And because that cow Lionstone put a bounty on my head. The way some of these Rejects have been looking at me, you’d think I could do the three-card trick with one hand while walking on water. I have a horrible suspicion they’re going to start asking for my autograph soon.”

“It’s in people’s nature to want heroes,” said Random. “Someone to follow, who’ll make the hard decisions for them. They build us up larger than life, pin all their hopes and dreams on us, and then turn nasty when we let them down by being only human after all. I’ve seen this all before, Ruby. It’s one of the reasons I gave up being the professional rebel and ran away to hide on Mistworld. I got tired of carrying everyone else’s hopes and expectations on my shoulders. They were never that broad in the first place. I’ve spent most of my life trying to get people to think for themselves and take responsibility for their own destinies, but it’s an uphill task. All too often they’d rather cheer and follow a leader, some smiling charismatic bastard who can inspire them into being more than they thought they were. I sometimes think they’d be happy to drag Lionstone off the Iron Throne and replace her with the first smooth-talking hero to come along. Even me.”

“Emperor Jack,” said Ruby. “I like it. You’d shake things up.”

“I’d hate it,” said Random. “No one can be trusted with that much power, not even me. It’s too much of a temptation. I’ve seen the way power corrupts, even when people take it on with the best of intentions. Perhaps particularly people like that. There’s no one more dangerous than a man who knows he’s right. In the end he’ll sacrifice any number of people in the name of his belief, friend or enemy. In my experience people can’t be trusted in the singular when it comes to power. Democracy works because it’s a mass consensus. On the whole people are always better off when they can throw out any leader who starts believing his own press releases.”

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Just A Story

Green, Simon R. Deathstalker Rebellion. New York: Roc Science Fiction, 1996. 393-394.

She rose suddenly to her feet, catching Toby and Flynn by surprise. She emptied the jar of the last of the drink and put it down on the desk. “I’ve said enough. I’ll take you around the beds, so you can see the kind of wounds we’re dealing with. Some of the patients might even talk to you, though you’ll have to edit out the obscenities.

She led them out of her private area and back down the long aisle between the beds. Flynn filmed everything, sweeping his camera back and forth. The tent was still eerily quiet, and no one wanted to talk to them. Toby supposed they didn’t have the strength to waste on moans of pain or complaints. The other Sisters were moving quietly from bed to bed, checking bandages and temperatures, or if there was nothing else they could do, just laying a cool, comforting hand on a fevered brow. Toby kept quiet, too. The last thing this needed was a commentary, and he didn’t have any more questions. The answers were too obvious. To his surprise, he felt mostly angry. This kind of thing shouldn’t be happening, not in this day and age. He’d covered up enough things himself in the past, as Gregor’s PR flack, but never anything like this. A Family’s troops dying, to hide a Family’s shame. He kept telling himself not to get involved. That this was just a good story. And was surprised to find how close to angry, frustrated tears he was.

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Silence is Consent

Green, Simon R. Deathstalker. New York: Roc Science Fiction, 1995. 143-144.

He lurched on through the deepening mud and slush, glaring at everyone and everything around him with renewed disgust. Surely it couldn’t all be like this. There had to be some bright spots in the gloom. A window opened above him, and people scattered out of the way. Someone cried a brief warning, and Owen jumped back just in time to avoid the falling contents of an emptied chamberpot. The window slammed shut again, and people moved on, unperterbed, as if this was an everyday experience. Owen sniffed. Probably was. No sewers. Right.

How could people live like this? Didn’t they know what they were coming to when they ran from the Empire? It came to him slowly that they must have, and came anyway, because for them life in the Empire was worse. The thought nagged at him and wouldn’t let him go. The Empire was full of luxuries and comforts for the upper classes, and security and stability for the lower classes. Unless you were a clone or an esper or some other kind of unperson. Unless you upset someone with connections, or couldn’t meet your quotas, or fell ill once too often. There was no place in the lower orders for the weak, or the troublesome, or the unlucky.

It seemed to Owen that he had always known this, but really never thought about it before. As long as his cushioned world went on uninterrupted, he hadn’t had to. He couldn’t say he hadn’t known. He was a historian, and he knew more about the realities the Empire was based on than most. How corrupt had the Empire become that the living hell of Mistworld could be such an improvement? Owen sighed. He’d think more about this later. He had a feeling he’d have lots of time to think about things in the future.

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The Purpose of all This

So the purpose of this wordpress blog is to basically keep a record of passages and such that I find intriguing, interesting, challenging, inspiring or something or other. To that end: if you actually look at this and find yourself reading one or more of the excerpts, I would like you to comment on it giving whatever your response is. All these passages speak to me (or I think they do) so I would like to know whether they speak to other people or if it is just my own mind’s fabrication. Or if it is just the context I have from reading the novel that makes me like it.

In other words, I want to commentwhore.