Fun ITT we post random book lines/quotes out of context

His thought turned to the Ring, but there was no comfort there, only dread and danger. No sooner had he come in sight of Mount Doom, burning far away, than he was aware of a change in his burden. As it drew near the great furnaces where, in the deeps of time, it had been shaped and forged, the Ring's power grew, and it became more fell, untameable save by some mighty will. As Sam stood there, even though the Ring was not on him but hanging by its chain about his neck, he felt himself enlarged, as if he were robed in a huge distorted shadow of himself, a vast and ominous threat halted upon the walls of Mordor. He felt that he had from now on only two choices: to forbear the Ring, though it would torment him; or to claim it, and challenge the Power that sat in its dark hold beyond the valley of shadows. Already the Ring tempted him, gnawing at his will and reason. Wild fantasies arose in his mind; and he saw Samwise the Strong, Hero of the Age, striding with a flaming sword across the darkened land, and armies flocking to his call as he marched to the overthrow of Barad-dur. And then all the clouds rolled away, and the white sun shone, and at his command the vale of Gorgoroth became a garden of flowers and trees and brought forth fruit. He had only to put on the Ring and claim it for his own, and all this could be.
In that hour of trial it was the love of his master that helped most to hold him firm; but also deep down in him lived still unconquered his plain hobbit-sense: he knew in the core of his heart that he was not large enough to bear such a burden, even if such visions were not a mere cheat to betray him. The one small garden of a free gardener was all his need and due, not a garden swollen to a realm; his own hands to use, not the hands of others to command.
'And anyway all these notions are only a trick,' he said to himself. 'He'd spot me and cow me, before I could so much as shout out. He'd spot me, pretty quick, if I put the Ring on now, in Mordor. Well, all I can say is: things look as hopeless as a frost in spring. Just when being invisible would be really useful, I can't use the Ring! And if ever I get any further, it's going to be nothing but a drag and a burden every step. So what's to be done?'

 

This was not Sith against Jedi. This was not light against dark or good against evil; it had nothing to do with duty or philosophy, religion or morals.
It was Anakin against Obi-Wan.
Personally.
Just the two of them and the damage they had done to each other.

 

"Why are our people going out there?" said Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild.
"Because they are showing a brisk pioneering spirit and seeking wealth and ... additional wealth in a new land," said Lord Vetinari.
"What's in it for the Klatchians?" said Lord Downey.
"Oh, they've gone out there because they are a bunch of unprincipled opportunists always ready to grab something for nothing," said Lord Vetinari.
"A masterly summation, if I may say so, my lord," said Mr Burleigh, who felt he had some ground to make up.
The Patrician looked down again at his notes.
"Oh, I do beg your pardon," he said, "I seem to have read those sentences in the wrong order."

 

Contemplation of death brought only one slight sting of regret, and more than a bit of puzzlement. Until this very moment, he had never realized he’d always expected, for no discernible reason—
That when he died, Anakin would be with him.

 

So, what can I do for you, Fett? Need another carbonite caf table for your Hutt buddies?

 

Now, Tabaqui knew as well as anyone else that there is nothing so unlucky as to compliment children to their faces. It pleased him to see Mother and Father Wolf look uncomfortable.
Tabaqui sat still, rejoicing in the mischief that he had made, and then he said spitefully:
“Shere Khan, the Big One, has shifted his hunting grounds. He will hunt among these hills for the next moon, so he has told me.”
Shere Khan was the tiger who lived near the Waingunga River, twenty miles away.
“He has no right!” Father Wolf began angrily—“By the Law of the Jungle he has no right to change his quarters without due warning. He will frighten every head of game within ten miles, and I—I have to kill for two, these days.”
“His mother did not call him Lungri [the Lame One] for nothing,” said Mother Wolf quietly. “He has been lame in one foot from his birth. That is why he has only killed cattle. Now the villagers of the Waingunga are angry with him, and he has come here to make our villagers angry. They will scour the jungle for him when he is far away, and we and our children must run when the grass is set alight. Indeed, we are very grateful to Shere Khan!”
“Shall I tell him of your gratitude?” said Tabaqui.
“Out!” snapped Father Wolf. “Out and hunt with thy master. Thou hast done harm enough for one night.”
“I go,” said Tabaqui quietly. “Ye can hear Shere Khan below in the thickets. I might have saved myself the message.”
Father Wolf listened, and below in the valley that ran down to a little river he heard the dry, angry, snarly, singsong whine of a tiger who has caught nothing and does not care if all the jungle knows it.
“The fool!” said Father Wolf. “To begin a night’s work with that noise! Does he think that our buck are like his fat Waingunga bullocks?”
“H’sh. It is neither bullock nor buck he hunts to-night,” said Mother Wolf. “It is Man.”

 

Anakin and Obi-Wan would never fight each other. They couldn’t. They’re a team. They’re the team. And both of them are sure they always will be.

 

Captain Drusan looked up from the datapad. “An Arkanian,” he said flatly.
“I believe so, yes,” Pellaeon said, trying to read the other’s expression. But the mottled hyperspace sky flowing across the bridge viewport at the captain’s back was throwing just enough shadow over his face to make that impossible. “His height and mass are well within the species range. The mask would cover the distinctive white eyes, and it would be child’s play for an Arkanian to gather all those biomarkers—”
“Why Arkanian?” Drusan interrupted. “Why not someone from any of a dozen other species?”
“Because he quoted me a line from something called the Song of Salaban,” Pellaeon said. “It’s an ancient Arkanian legend about a man whose family and village were captured by an enemy force, who then force him to go on a quest of sacrifice to win their release.”
“So Lord Odo studies ancient legends,” Drusan said with a shrug. “Grand Admiral Zaarin has a passion for music. Senior Captain Thrawn is insane over art. I knew a colonel once who collected different versions of sabacc cards. There are eccentrics all across the galaxy.”
“Perhaps, sir,” Pellaeon said. “But there’s more. On the assumption that Odo was, in fact, Arkanian, I checked the ISB’s at-large criminal registry for that species. It turns out that there are five major Arkanian criminals currently unaccounted for. All five are wanted for medical atrocities, and any one of them would have both the ability and the arrogance to fake an order with an eye toward getting aboard the Chimaera.”

 

Production becomes social, but appropriation remains private. The social means of production remain the private property of a few. The general framework of formally recognised free competition remains, and the yoke of a few monopolists on the rest of the population becomes a hundred times heavier, more burdensome and intolerable.

 

Brice heard Ganny mutter what he was sure was a curse, but in a language he didn't know. Ganny knew a lot of languages. Then she added:
"That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn't it?"
Brice frowned. Ganny also used a lot of ancient and stupid old saws.
What was a "dollar?" And why did the number sixty-four thousand mean anything?
He'd asked his uncle Andrew about it, once, after the first time he'd heard Ganny use the expression. Artlett's explanation was that the expression dated from the days—way before the Diaspora—when the human race was still confined to one planet and mired in superstition. Dollars were maleficent spirits notorious for sapping the moral fiber of those foolish enough to traffic with them. The number sixty-four thousand had magical importance since it was eight squared—eight no doubt being a magical number in its own right—
and then multiplied by a thousand, which, given the antediluvian origins of the decimal system, was surely a number freighted with mystic importance.
It was a theory. An attractive one, even. But Brice was skeptical. His uncle Andrew had about as many theories as Ganny had old saws, and plenty of them were just as silly.

 

It is perfectly true that, considered as a whole, the working class spends, and must spend, its income upon necessaries. A general rise in the rate of wages would, therefore, produce a rise in the demand for, and consequently in the market prices of necessaries.

 

On this day, as Colonel Aureliano Buendia faced the firing squad, he remembered that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.

 

General Woundwort was never seen again. But it was certainly true, as Groundsel said, that no one ever found his body, so it may perhaps be that, after all, that extraordinary rabbit really did wander away to live his fierce life somewhere else and to defy the elil as resourcefully as ever. Kehaar, who was once asked if he would look out for him in his flights over the downs, merely replied, "Dat damn rabbit - I no see 'im, I no vant I see 'im." Before many months had passed, no one on Watership knew or particularly cared to know whether he himself or his mate was descended from one or two Efrafan parents or from none at all. Hazel was glad that it should be so.
And yet there endured the legend that somewhere out over the down there lived a great and solitary rabbit, a giant who drove the elil like mice and sometimes went to silflay in the sky. If ever great danger arose, he would come back to fight for those who honored his name. And mother rabbits would tell their kittens that if they did not do as they were told, the General would get them - the General who was first cousin to the Black Rabbit himself. Such was Woundwort's monument: and perhaps it would not have displeased him.

 

Socialism in China was defeated, but it has not died. It is important to note that nearly four decades after Deng reversed the transition from socialism to capitalism, the Chinese people who lived through both periods had their fundamental differences laid out before them.

 

"And who might you be?" asked the door-keeper.
"I am Lug Samildanach, son of Cian and Ethne and grandson of Balar of the Fomiori, and I wish to join the army of Nuada of the Silver Arm," replied the young man proudly.
"What skill can you offer in the service of Nuada of the Silver Arm?" asked the door-keep. "Only those who are skilled may enter."
"I am a blacksmith," replied Lug.
"Then you may not enter," said the door-keeper. "We already have a blacksmith named Colum Cualleinech."
"But I am also a wheelwright," the young man responded.
"Still you may not enter, for we have a wheelwright called Luchta Mac Luachada," answered the door-keeper.
"I am also a harper and a champion," said Lug.
"Still you may not enter, for we have a harper called Abcan mac Bicelmois and a champion called Ogma Mac Elathan."
"I am also a hero," persevered Lug.
"Still you may not enter, for we have a hero called Bresal."
"I am a soldier and a fighter," Lug went on.
"Still you may not enter. In Dagda is our fighter. We have no need of you," replied the door-keeper.
"I am a magician and a sorcerer," continued Lug.
"Still you may not enter, we have magicians and sorcerers," answered the door-keeper.
"I am a doctor and a poet."
"Still you may not enter, we have a doctor and a poet in Tara already."
"And do you have one man in Tara who can do all these things?" asked Lug.
"I will ask the king," replied the door-keeper and he went into the hall and told Nuada about the young man who wished to enter.
"This is indeed a clever man," Nuada said. "Take all the chessboards of Tara out to him and we shall see if he is as wise as he claims."
The chessboards were brought out and Lug played a hundred games of chess and won them all.
"Let him enter," commanded Nuada of the Silver Arm. "For never has so wise, strong, and brave a man come to my court."
And so Lug joined the band of soldiers and heroes who were to fight against the Fomiori.

 

“There are three things that all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”

 

So after that dirty and disgusting bit of cheating-

 

"JORDAN!"

 

He got off! He got off! He got off!

 

SCENE: Apollo jogs backward along the beachfront, shooting arrows from his golden bow. He’s followed by campers dressed in combat gear, jogging in military formation.

APOLLO: I don’t know but I’ve been told!
CAMPERS: We don’t know but we’ve been told!
APOLLO: The sun god’s got a bow of gold!
CAMPERS: The sun god’s got a bow of gold!
APOLLO: He’s the best shot in the land!
CAMPERS: He’s the best shot in the land!
APOLLO: Augh! [Apollo trips and lands on his backside] I’ve fallen in the sand!
CAMPERS [jogging circles around him]: Augh! He’s fallen in the sand!
APOLLO: I meant to do that, so don’t laugh!
CAMPERS: He meant to do that, so don’t laugh!
APOLLO [tries to get up but falls back again]: Ow! I hurt my godly calf!
CAMPERS: Ow! He hurt his godly calf!
APOLLO [glowering and starting to glow]: If you want to live another day…
CAMPERS: If we want to live another day…
APOLLO [radiating brighter]: STOP REPEATING WHAT I SAY!
CAMPERS: STOP—um…

—Military cadence written, chanted, and abruptly ended by Apollo

 

Lenin called imperialism "moribund capitalism." Why? Because imperialism carries the contradictions of capitalism to their last bounds, to the extreme limit, beyond which revolution begins. Of these contradictions, there are three which must be regarded as the most important.

 

An England, in short, where justices were stout and gouty, peasants bluff and sturdy and content (but ready to turn out for Monmouth at a moment's notice), merchant-fathers close and anxious, daughters sweet and winsome, good wives rosy and capable with bunches of keys and receipts for plum cordials, Puritans smug and sour and sanctimonious, fine ladies beautiful and husky-voiced and slightly wanton, foreigners suave and devious and given to using musky perfume, serving wenches red-haired and roguish-eyed with forty-inch busts, gentleman-adventurers proud and lithe and austere and indistinguishable from Basil Rathbone, and younger sons all eager and clean-limbed and longing for those far horizons beyond which lay fame and fortune and love and high adventure.

That was England, then; long before interfering social historians and such carles had spoiled it by discovering that its sanitation was primitive and its social services non-existent, that London's atmosphere was so poisonous as to be unbreathable by all but the strongest lungs, that King Charles's courtiers probably didn't change their underwear above once a fortnight, that the cities stank fit to wake the dead and the countryside was largely either wilderness or rural slum, that religious bigotry, dental decay, political corruption, fleas, cruelty, poverty, disease, injustice, public hangings, malnutrition, and bear-baiting were rife, and there was hardly an economist or environmentalist or town planner or sociologist or anything progressive worth a damn. (There wasn't even a London School of Economics, which is remarkable when you consider that Locke and Hobbes were loose about the place).

Happily, the stout justices and wenches and gallants and peasants and fine ladies – and even elegant Charles himself, who was nobody's fool – never realised how backward and insanitary and generally awful they might look to the cold and all-too-selective eye of modern research, and if they had, it is doubtful if they would have felt any pang of guilt or shame, happy conscienceless rabble that they were. Indeed, his majesty would most likely have raised a politely sceptical eyebrow, the justices scowled resentfully, and the wenches, gallants, and peasants, being vulgar, gone into hoots of derisive mirth.

So, out of deference and gratitude to them all, and because history is very much what you want it to be, anyway, this story begins in that other, happier England of fancy rooted in truth, where dates and places and the chronology of events and people may shift a little here and there in the mirror of imagination, and yet not be thought false on that account. For it's just a tale, and as Mark Twain pointed out, whether it happened or did not happen, it could have happened. And as all story-tellers know, whether they work with spoken words in crofts, or quills in Abbotsford, or cameras in Hollywood, it should have happened.

 

But from this it follows that whoever wanted to strike at tsarism necessarily raised his hand against imperialism, whoever rose against tsarism had to rise against imperialism as well; for whoever was bent on overthrowing tsarism had to overthrow imperialism too, if he really intended not merely to defeat tsarism, but to make a clean sweep of it. Thus the revolution against tsarism verged on and had to pass into a revolution against imperialism, into a proletarian revolution.

 

‘Why is it here?’ Keill demanded.
‘Not it,’ Talis said with a chuckle, ’she. Glr is a female of her species.’
‘All right,’ Keill said patiently, ’why is she here?’
‘Her ship developed a malfunction,’ Talis replied, ’and she was forced to land on a human world. In time a leading scientist met her and befriended her. And she has stayed, finding humanity a source of considerable interest...’
And amusement, said the voice in Keill’s mind, with soundless laughter behind it.
‘When we began the process of setting up our base,’ Talis went on, ‘Glr came as well.’
‘I find this no easier to believe than anything else you tell me,’ Keill said gruffly. ‘Surely the arrival of such an alien would have been widely reported throughout the Worlds. But I have heard nothing of this ... Glr.’
‘I told you the Ehrlil are long-lived,’ said Talis. ‘Her arrival was reported – but it was some sixty years ago. The scientist who befriended her was my father.’
Keill leaned back against the cushions of his chair, feeling slightly dazed. And the alien’s voice formed in his mind again, still bubbling with laughter.
I am in fact quite young – about four of your centuries. The Ehrlil elders think of me as a wayward, foolish child whose curiosity will get her into trouble.

 

The little glimpse of domestic harmony which had been offered her, gave her no regret, no longing. It was not a condition of life which fitted her, and she could see in it but an appalling and hopeless ennui. She was moved by a kind of commiseration for Madame Ratignolle,—a pity for that colorless existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the region of blind contentment, in which no moment of anguish ever visited her soul, in which she would never have the taste of life’s delirium.