The Gods, The Dead and their children
“Hold on.” She didn’t touch the vial. “Tell me what’s going on before I
hurl my spirit into the abyss with you. Which god are we visiting now?”
“Not the gods,” he said. “The dead.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Altan? Did you find him?”
“No.” A shadow of discomfort flitted across Chaghan’s face. “He’s not—
I’ve never—no. But she is a Speerly. Most spirits dissolve into nothing
when they pass. That’s why it’s hard to commune with the dead; they’ve
already disappeared from the realm of conscious things. But your kind
linger. They’re bound by resentment and a god that feeds on it, which
means often they can’t let go. They’re hungry ghosts.”
Rin licked the tip of her index finger and poked it into the vial, swiveling
it around until soft, downy powder coated her skin up to the first joint. “Are
we speaking to Tearza?”
“No.” Chaghan took the vial back and did the same. “Someone more
recent. I don’t believe you’ve met.”
She glanced up. “Who?”
“Hanelai,” Chaghan said bluntly.
Without hesitation Rin put her powder-covered finger in her mouth and
sucked.
Immediately the Ketreyid campsite blurred and dissolved like paints
swirled in water. Rin closed her eyes. She felt her spirit flying up, fleeing
her heavy body, that clumsy sack of bones and organs and flesh, soaring
toward the heavens like a bird freed from its cage.
“We’ll wait here,” Chaghan said. They floated together in a dark expanse
—a plane not quite pitch-black, but rather shrouded in hazy twilight. “When
I found out you were marching to Tianshan, I went searching. I needed to
understand the risks. I know there’s no one alive who could push you off
the path you’ve chosen.” He nodded toward a red ball of light in the void, a
distant star that grew larger as it approached. “But she might.”
The star became a pillar of flame
Hangi tür kitapları seviyorsun?
🔎 Polisiye
💕 Romantik
🚀 Bilim Kurgu
🏰 Fantastik
📖 Klasik
🧠 Kişisel Gelişim
🏛️ Tarih
😱 Gerilim
“LATTE MACCHIATO
Caffe Latte'den farkı cam bardakta servis edilmesi, daha fazla hacim olmasından ötürü (200-220 ml.) sütün fazla oluşu ve görsellikle açıklanacak üç kat (Süt-Kahve-Süt Köpüğü) şeklidir. En alt kısımda şuruplar ile dördüncü kat ve yeni tatlar yaratılabilir. Genellikle 14-15 gr. kahve(Double Shot) kullanılır.”
Every fireman, sooner or later, hits this. They only need understanding, to know how the wheels run. Need to know the history of our profession. They don’t feed it to rookies like they used to. Damn shame. (...) Only fire chiefs remember it now. (...) I'll let you in on it. (...)
When did it all start, you ask, this job of ours, how did it come about, where, when? Well, I'd say it really got started around about a thing called the Civil War. The fact is we didn’t get along well until photography came into its own. Then — motion pictures in the early Twentieth Century. Radio. Television. Things began to have mass. (...) And because they had mass, they became simpler. (...) Once, books appealed to a few people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books leveled down to a sort of paste pudding norm, do you follow me? (...)
Books cut shorter. Condensations. Digests. Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending. (...) Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last as a ten or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for reference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of Hamlet (...) was a one-page digest in a book that claimed: now at last you can read all the classics; keep up with your neighbors. Do you see? Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there’s your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more. (...)
Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click, Pic, Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What,
Mekân, tarihi yaşamak ve yaşatmak için önemli. Ne dediğimi anlatabilmek için tek bir örnek vereyim.Firenze'ye (İtalya) gidin.Her an karşınıza Dante Alighieri çıkacak gibi olur. Onlar bu kenti "Dubaileştirmeyi" bilmezler mi?
İtalya'da tarihî İspanyol Merdivenleri'nin altına McDonald's açıldı diye neredeyse şehirde isyan çıkacaktı!
Takma kafana hoca! Şimdi Starbucks'da "double shot espresso" içerken Kâbe'yi seyrediyorsunuz, derseniz, ben ne yaparım!
Sayfa 134 - Muzaffer Ozak
Old gangsters never die, except for the few that fall asleep in cinemas at midnight. Lay there sprawling in the footlights for the usherette or the ice cream girl to find. And if I die, God knows I might, don’t let me die in black and white, don’t make me share a haunted screen with every other ghost boy who stood trembling in the foyer drinking wine, then coughed and shot his cuffs and checked the time and stepped outside and got cut down by dead policemen, faces strobing in the panic-light, their long dark cars parked out the back, their halos black against the night, and John Dillinger’s name in finest bullet silver etched upon their hearts, a cold tattoo upon their skin, right next to where the badge is pinned. I could die carefully, at dusk.
‘Cause buddy I once owned a pair of diamond collar studs and as I live and breathe I swear that that’s no lie, and men with such good taste as me deserve to cash their chips more elegant than those without a shirt upon their back or shine upon their dancing shoes. Like playing poker, being dealt the ace of flames you stand, and whispering once your mother’s name pitch headlong dead across the roulette table, bullet holes pinned like armistice poppies in neat rows across your back. Or drowning. Do you know so many hoods and hitmen got sent down to tread the riverbed for all eternity and now they look like statues in some cold submerged art gallery and I would gladly kiss the hand of any man who would bind my wrists and send me down to be in such good company. Dutch Shultz, Capone, why, men like that had hellstars in their eyes and when they walked in groups of more than three, they must have looked like grounded constellations torn down from a B-film sky.
Old gangsters never die.
Say, wouldn’t it be nice to fall asleep
