Fucking things could barely kill a dog, but the scientists had acted like Spetsnaz strapping them on their thighs. Three hard men ready for the mission, yes? No. And here Yuri thought this would be over before supper.
Patrick Todoroff, A Prayer to Saint Strelok: a tale from the Exclusion Zone [Amazon]
This point being established, let me further make a distinction between the two great classes of sodomites. Ulrichs has pedantically christened them Urning and Uranodioning; for the former we have no colloquial name: the latter we term Bimetallist. Being himself an Urning, he has naturally failed to grasp the vast gap that divides the classes, which is that between an indulgence and a morbid craving; between the insane delusion that one is Jesus Christ or Julius Caesar and the sane and healthy resolve to emulate the exploits of these worthies in mysticism and war respectively. We pity the Urning, as we pity the consumptive or the drunkard; but we do not pity him in any special sense, any more than a connoisseur of fine wines pities the drunkard above all other pitiable folk. We do not acknowledge any nervous weakness as having a peculiar claim on us, just because it lies in the same plane as one of our hobbies.
Aleister Crowley, Bagh I Muattar, The Scented Garden of Abdullah the Satirist of Shiraz
An imaginary conviction that this or that thing is true, even if such conviction be based upon the strongest reasons of plausibility and probability, is no real knowledge or self-recognition of truth. The truth is really known to no man until it is realized in him; but when the light of truth arises as a living power within his soul, penetrating and illuminating his understanding, causing him to enter into full harmony and become one with the truth, he may then truly say, not only “I know the truth,” but like one of old, “I [in my personal state] am the Truth.” This, however, is not to be interpreted as if to mean that we should reject all theories or treat opinions of others with contempt. Theories are means by which to arrive at practice; they are like crutches used by children before they are able to walk. They are sometimes good for discarding errors; but a knowledge of theories is not identical with the recognition of truth.
Franz Hartmann, The Correlation of Spiritual Forces
Kalle was burdened with an intense pain located about a hand’s breadth below his right collar bone. No, there was no tumor or anything of the sort there, he had had it checked, but it was exactly there that it started to hurt whenever life got to him. A black heart pumping despair into his body.
John Ajvide Lindqvist, trans. Ebba Segerberg, Let the Old Dreams Die: Stories [Amazon, Bookshop, Publisher, Local Library]
He paused for a second, and asked, “Why did you work on the bomb?” Bryce thought for a minute. Then he laughed at his situation: using a Martian, in a bar, for a confessor. But perhaps it was appropriate. “I didn’t know it was going to be a bomb at first,” he said. “And in those days I believed in pure science. Reaching for the stars. Secrets of the atom. Our only hope in a chaotic world.” He finished the martini. “And you don’t believe those things anymore?” “No.”
Walter Tevis, The Man Who Fell to Earth [Amazon, Local Library]
The secret of the Lord is set with him
That wonders at His majesty: his praise
Wells from no trembler’s misery: his hymn
Swells the exultant day’s.
His psalm wings upward, and reflected down
Even in Hell makes music and renown.
Aleister Crowley, The Temple of The Holy Ghost, The Mountain Christ
There is a land in which no tree groweth, and where the warbling of the birds is as a forgotten dream. There is a land of dust and desolation, where no river floweth, and where no cloud riseth from the plains to shade men’s eyes from the sand and the scorching sun. Many are they who stray therein, for all live upon the threshold of misery who inhabit the House of joy.
Aleister Crowley, The Temple of Solomon the King, Book I, The Slave
Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, nor customary suits of solemn black, nor windy suspiration of forced breath; no, nor the fruitful river in the eye, nor the dejected haviour of the visage together with all forms, moods, shows of grief, that can denote me truly. These indeed seem, for they are actions that a man might play; but I have that within which passeth show; these but the trappings and the suits of woe.
Aleister Crowley, Outside the Bank’s Routine
“I’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation that will cover the basics of what I wish to discuss with you,” Lucifer begins, opening up the ThinkPad. “Stop,” Billy says. “PowerPoint?” “It’s my preferred medium,” says Lucifer. “No,” Billy says. “Just no. You want to talk? We can talk. But I’m hungover, I’m annoyed, I’m still kind of losing my shit, I’m not watching a freaking PowerPoint presentation.” “PowerPoint is actually quite unfairly maligned,” Lucifer says.
Jeremy P Bushnell, The Weirdness: A Novel [Amazon, Bookshop, Publisher, Local Library]
“No, we’re going to provide them with a valuable life lesson.” “Don’t trust strangers?” I suggested.
Robert Kroese, The Chicolini Incident: A Rex Nihilo Adventure
