In opposition to these high-sounding titles, Gregory called himself simply “the servant of the servants of God.” This became one of the standing titles of the popes, although it sounds like irony when linked with later astounding claims.
Pagan converts brought with them into the church their superstitions and behavior.
This is evident in many instances, starting with Clovis himself. Jesus was for him a tribal war-god. The Franks especially admired St. Peter, whose noblest exploit in their eyes was his eagerness to wield his sword to protect the Lord Jesus and to slice off the ear of the high priest’s servant. This admiration for militant religion is also reflected in St. George, a military saint who became the patron of England, and St. James, the patron saint of Christian Spain in the struggle against Islam.
Hangi tür kitapları seviyorsun?
🔎 Polisiye
💕 Romantik
🚀 Bilim Kurgu
🏰 Fantastik
📖 Klasik
🧠 Kişisel Gelişim
🏛️ Tarih
😱 Gerilim
Why not be your own servant?
But how to be a servant?
When there is something to be done,
employ your body.
It is hard, yet simpler
than using someone else,
and being obliged.
Sayfa 55 - [Neden kendi hizmetçin olmayasın? Ama nasıl hizmetçi olunur? Yapılacak bir şey olduğunda, kendi bedenini kullan. Zordur, yine de daha basittir başkasını kullanmaktan, ve minnettar kalmaktan.]·Kitabı okudu
Indupedita suis fatalibus omnia vinclis.
Her şey, kırılmaz zincirleriyle bağlı kaderin.
Bazı ayrılıklar, seviyeler ve dereceler vardır; ama her şeyde aynı doğanın yüzü görülür.
Res quaeque suo ritu procedit, et ommes.
Foedere naturae certo discrimina servant.
Her şey kendine göre gelişir ve hepsi
Sürdürür doğa düzeninin ayrılıklarını.
Lucretius
Sayfa 19 - İnsan ve Ötesi
"Sirius Kreacherdan nefret etmiyordu," dedi Dumbledore. "Dikkat etmeye ya da farkına varmaya değmez bir hizmetkâr gözüyle bakıyordu ona. Kayıtsızlık ve ihmal, düpedüz sevmemekten daha fazla hasar yaratır çoğu kez... bu gece yıktığımız çeşme yalan söylüyordu. Biz büyücüler fazlasıyla uzun süredir yol arkadaşlarımıza kötü davrandık, onları suistimal ettik, şimdi de mükâfatımızı alıyoruz."
To Queen Morgana
Last year, on my birthday, I was sitting at a café in the South of France
by myself, eating blackberry cake I hadn’t ordered and fielding
frantic phone calls from my mother.
A year ago today, I was running for my life from the Fey trying to
murder me. I got kidnapped by my ex-boyfriend, Raphael, and taken across
the English Channel to Avalon Tower. I spent the journey terrified,
bewildered, and totally unprepared for what came next. With no idea I’d
survive training at Avalon Tower, let alone that I’d become the Lady of the
Lake.
A year ago today, I discovered I had hidden magic, that I was half Fey.
And this year?
This year, I’m not alone. This year, I have friends who would bleed for
me, and I’d do the same for them. A family carved out of chaos. A mom
I’ve left behind in Camelot to finally learn how to look after herself.
Today, my birthday takes place on a mossy island of rambling ruins and
ancient Fey magic.
As I polish the crystal glasses, my gaze roams over the castle’s carvings
—the triple spirals above each arched doorway that hum with magic
whenever I pass beneath them. Already, musicians are setting up in the
banquet hall, a drummer, a lyre player with shimmering silver hair, and a
lutist.
Aisling bustles in over the sun-dappled floor of cowslips, violets, and
rue. She sets out a crystal tray of buttered chanterelles with apple slices.
“So, Brados said to me, like he was serious, ‘We control the kingdom now.’
A republic. Can you imagine such a thing? He ran a bloody tavern, pulling
pints of goat piss for mead, now he’s overseeing a bloody kingdom with
some backward farmers? Not that I’m judging the country types, but in my
experience, they don’t know their arses from their elbows. Of course, most
of the Fey who stayed in Brocéliande seem to be happy. My
