Random Literary Quotes thread.

[mortimermcmirestinks]

I'll begin.

To be, or not to be, that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.

[KeenEmpire]

Since I posted this on the wish thread,

The first dawn of light in your universe brings pain.

The light burns you. It will always burn you. Part of you will always lie upon black glass sand beside a like of fire while flames chew upon your flesh.

You can hear yourself breathing. It comes hard, and harsh, and it scrapes nerves already raw, but you cannot stop it. You can never stop it. You cannot even slow it down.

You don’t even have lungs anymore.

Mechanisms hardwired into your chest breathe for you. They pump oxygen into your bloodstream forever.

Lord Vader, can you hear me? Lord Vader, can you hear me?

You cant. Not in the way you once did. Sensors in the shell that prisons your head trickle meaning directly into your brain.

You open your scorched-pale eyes; optical sensors integrate light and shadow into a hideous simulacrum of the world around you.

Or perhaps the simulacrum is perfect, and it is the world that is hideous.

Padmé? Are you here? Are you all right? You try to say, but another voice speaks for you. Out from the vocabulator servers you for burned-away lips and tongue and throat.

Padmé? Are you here? Are you all right?

I´m very sorry, Lord Vader. I´m afraid she died. It seems in your anger, you killed her.

That burns hotter than the lava had.

No……., no, it is not possible!

You loved her. You will always love her. You could never will her death.

NEVER.
But you remember…

You remember all of it.

You remember the dragon that you brought Vader forth from your heart to slay. You remember the cold venom in Vader´s blood. You remember the furnace of Vader´s fury, and the black hatred seizing her throat to silence her lying mouth –

And there is one blazing moment in which you finally understand that there was no dragon. There was no Vader. That there was only you. Only Anakin Skywalker.

That it was all you. Is you.

Only you.

You did it.

You killed her.

You killed her because, finally, when you could have saved her, when you could have gone away with her, when you could have been thinking of her, you were thinking of yourself…

It is this blazing moment that you finally understand the trap of the dark side, the final cruelty of the Sith –

Because now your self is all you will ever have.

And in your rage you scream and reach through the Force to crush the shadow who has destroyed you, but you are so less now than what you were, you are more than half machine, you are like a painter gone blind, a composer gone deaf, you can remember where the power was but the power you can touch is only a memory, and so with all your world-destroying fury it is only the droids around you that you implode, and equipment, and the table on which you were strapped shatters, and in the end, you cannot touch the shadow.

In the end, you don’t even want to.

In the end, the shadow it all you have left.

Because the shadow understands you, the shadow forgives you, gathers your unto its self –

And within your furnace heart, you burn in your own flame.

This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker.

Foverer…

[Dynamo]

I wouldn't know about a literary quote, but I do have something to say:

[StupidBunny]

What light through yonder window breaks?
Oh, it's the neighbors leaving their damn porch light on again. fucl.

[mortimermcmirestinks]

LOL! But actually, this is supposed to be relatively serious thread, guys.

Oh, and (see signature)

[Commander Spleen]

I'm sitting on my floor, staring at the door. My voice is making a series of random sounds. I'm searching for that certain noise that will resonate with my surroundings and automagically cause them to do something interesting.
Why is my door closed? Perhaps I should stand up and open it. That might make it easier for interesting things to find me. But I just sit there.
If I had a phone, maybe it'd ring. If there was a doorbell out the front of my house, perhaps it would explode for no apparent reason. If my house was infested with mice, maybe I'd see one emerge from the gap under my door.
None of these things happen.
If someone wrote a story about what I was doing right now, I doubt it would be very interesting.
I lie back on the ground. Maybe the roof will cave in or something.

[mortimermcmirestinks]

Those who are angry are not always wise.

[Ceilick]

Quotes from Roger Zelazny, my favorite author.

"The Agnostic's Prayer"

Insofar as I may be heard by anything, which may or may not care what I say, I ask, if it matters, that you be forgiven for anything you may have done or failed to do which requires forgiveness. Conversely, if not forgiveness but something else may be required to insure any possible benefit for which you may be eligible after the destruction of your body, I ask that this, whatever it may be, be granted or withheld, as the case may be, in such a manner as to insure your receiving said benefit. I ask this in my capacity as your elected intermediary between yourself and that which may not be yourself, but which may have an interest in the matter of your receiving as much as it is possible for you to receive of this thing, and which may in some way be influenced by this ceremony. Amen.

From the Chronicles of Amber

Life's incessant ceremonies leap everlasting, humans spring eternal on hope's breast, and frying pans without fires are often far between.

Edit: Almost forgot, but Spleen, that is awesome.

[Paramultart]

MMS, could you be any more cliche?
Quoting Shakespeare on PCKF doesn't make you look sophisticated.

Anyway...


(Poem written by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart to his mother in 1778):

"Oh mother of mine:
Butter is fine.
Praise and thanks be to Him,
We're alive and full of vim.
Through the world we dash,
Though we're rather short of cash,
But we don't find this provoking
And none of us are choking.
Besides, to the people I'm tied
Who carry their muck inside
And let it out if they are able,
Both before and after the table.
At night of farts there is no lack,
Which let off, forsooth, with a powerful crack.
The king of farts came yesterday
Whose farts smelt sweeter than the may.
His voice, however, was no treat
And he himself was in a heat.
Well, now we've been over a week away
And we've been garg everyday.
Wendling, no doubt, is in a rage
That I haven't composed a single page;
But when I cross the Rhine once more,
I'll surely dash home through the door
And, least he call me mean and petty,
I'll finish off his four quartetti.
The concerto for Paris I'll keep, tis' more fitting.
I'll scribble it there someday when I'm garg.
Indeed I swear ‘twould be far more fun
With the Webers around the world to run
Then go with those bores, you know whom I mean.
When I think of their faces, I get the spleen.
But I suppose it must be and off we shall toddle,
Though Weber's arse I prefer to Ramm's noodle.
A slice of Weber's arse is a thing
I'd rather have than Monsieur Wendling.
With our garg God we cannot hurt,
And least of all if we bite the dirt.
We are honest birds, all of a feather,
We have summa summarum eight eyes together
Not counting those on which we sit.
But now I must rest a bit
From Rhyming. Yet this I must add,
That on Monday I'll have the honor, egad,
To embrace you and kiss your hands so fair.
But first in my pants I'll garg, I swear.

Your faithful child, With distemper wild.
Trazom.

I hate Mozart, by the way... Just thought I'd share that.

[RoboBlue]

Since I posted this on the wish thread,

*a bunch of star wars stuff*

Isn't it padme, and not pamde?

[mortimermcmirestinks]

I know posting sophisticated stuf won't etc etc, but I'm trying (maybe vainly) to bring together a small group of people who like this king of stuff.

...


Wait, is Star Wars "literary"?

[tulip]

Another way fathers impact sons is that sons, once their voices have changed in puberty, invariably answer the telephone with the same locutions and intonations as their fathers. This holds true regardless of whether the fathers are still alive.

[KeenEmpire]

Wait, is Star Wars "literary"?

Depends on the author.

In this case, yes.

[RoboBlue]

Shouldn't this be in The Theater forum, actually?

[Fleexy]

Oh yeah, just realized that.

8 more posts, RoboBlue, and you're an Elite!