26 jun. 2015

Mis Subrayados: Deathbird stories por Harlan Ellison



“To me God does not yet exist; but there is a creative force constantly struggling to evolve an executive organ of
godlike knowledge and power: that is, to achieve omnipotence and omniscience; and every man and woman born is a fresh attempt to achieve this object....


“The current theory that God already exists in perfection involves the believe that God deliberately created

something lower than Himself when He might just as easily have created something equally perfect. That is a
horrible believe…
---GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
==========

 “When inward life dries up, when feeling decreases and apathy increases, when one cannot affect or
even genuinely touch another person, violence flares up as a daimonic necessity for contact, a mad
drive forcing touch in the most direct way possible.”
--Rollo May, Love and Will
==========

 Worship in the temple of your soul, but know the names of those who control your destiny. For, as the God of Time so aptly put it, “It’s later than you think.”
==========

She pushed away from me, tossing her head so the auburn hair swirled away from her face. Her eyes were dry.
Ghosts can do that. Cry without making tears. Tears are denied us. Other things; I won’t talk of them here.
========== 

I sat down on the curb and thought about the years since I’d died. Years without much music. Light leached out.
Wandering, Nothing to pace me but memories and the unicorn. How sad I was for him; assigned to me till I got my
chance. And now it had come and I’d taken my best go, and failed.

Lizette and I were the two sides of the same coin; devalued and impossible to spend. Legal tender of nations long

since vanished, no longer even names on the cracked papyrus of cartographers’ maps. We had been snatched
away from final rest, had been set adrift to roam for our crimes, and only once between death and eternity would
we receive a chance. This night...this nothing special night...this was our chance.
==========

Oh, how I sorrow for anyone who has never seen the world-famous Saint Louis Cemetery in New Orleans. It is
the perfect graveyard, the complete graveyard, the finest graveyard in the universe. (There is a perfection in some
designs that informs the function totally. There are Danish chairs that could be nothing but chairs, are so totally
and completely chair that if the world as we know it ended, and a billion years from now the New Orleans horsy
cockroaches became the dominant species, and they dug down through the alluvial layers, and found one of
those chairs, even if they themselves did not use chairs, were not constructed physically for the use of chairs, had
never seen a chair, still they would know it for what it had been made to be: a chair. Because it would be the
essence of chairness. And from it, they could reconstruct the human race in replica. That is the kind of graveyard
one means when one refers to the world-famous Saint Louis Cemetery.)
==========

Lizette and I were two sides of the same coin, cast off after death for the opposite extremes of the same crime. She had never loved. I had loved too much. Overindulgence in something as delicate as love is to be found monstrously offensive in the eyes of the God of Love. And some of us--who have never understood the salvation in the Golden Mean--some of us are cast adrift with but one chance. It can happen.
 ==========

 “This is Heaven. But let me explain.” Griffin had not considered an interruption. He was silent and struck dumb.
“Heaven is what you mix all the days of your life, but you call it dreams. You have one chance to buy your Heaven
with all the intents and ethics of your life. That is why everyone considers Heaven such a lovely place. Because it
is dreams, special dreams, in which you exist. What you have to do is live up to them.”
==========

 Perhaps it was because Norman had never suffered from an excess of oily, curly hair that he had been unable to make it
as a gigolo. Or as Norman had phrased it: “I can’t stand patent-leather on my hair or my feet.” So he had taken the easy way out: Norman Mogart had become a pimp.


Er, let’s make the semantics more palatable. (In an era of garbage collectors who are Sanitation Disposal Engineers, truck drivers who are Transportation Facilitation Executives, and janitors who are Housing Maintenance Overseers, a spade is seldom a spade, Black Panthers please note.) Norman Mogart was an Entertainment Liaison Agent.


Pfui. Norman was a pimp.

==========
 
Tears were impossible, yet tears were his heritage. Sorrow was beyond him, yet sorrow was his birthright. Anguish was
denied him; even so, anguish was his stock in trade. For Trente, there was no unhappiness; nor was there joy, concern,discomfort, age, time, feeling.

And this was as the Ethos had planned it.

==========

..there are men whom one hates until a certain moment when one sees, through a chink in their armour, the
writhing of something nailed down and in torment.

==========

No God is sane. How could it be? To be a Man is so much less taxing, and most men are mad. Consider the
God. How much more deranged the Gods must be, merely to exist. There can be no doubt: consider the Universe
and the patterns without reason upon which it is run. God is mad. The God of Music is mad. The Timegod
is punctual, but he is mad. And the Machine God is mad. He has made the bomb and the pill and the missile and
the acid and the electric chair and the laser and the embalming fluid and the thalidomide baby in his own image.
For the lunatic Gods there are minuscule pleasures. The beloved of the Gods are the best, the most highly treasured, the most zealously guarded. God is brutal, God is mad, God is vengeful. But all Gods revere innocence. The Iamb, the child, the song. To steal these is to steal from the mad Gods.... But all Gods revere innocence. The Iamb, the child, the song. To steal these is to steal from the mad Gods....

==========

“You know, you’re really ghoulish. I think you’re enjoying this in some sick way.”

“What other way is there to enjoy it?”

==========

There was so much to talk about. So now they sat in the street cafe and he could not talk to her. He could not
even look at her. He could not explain that he was a man trapped within himself. He knew she was aware of it, but
like all women she needed him to come only far enough outside himself to let her share his fear. Just far enough
that he could not make it. She needed him to verbalize it, to ask for it--if not help then--companionship through his
country of mental terrors. But he could not give her what she wanted. He could not give her himself.
==========

He knew what he had to answer to please her, to win her, but he said, “I don’t know what that means.”

==========

He wanted to tell her his need was not a temporary thing, not a matter of good times only, of transitory bodies

reaching and never quite finding one another. He wanted to tell her that he had lost all belief in his world, a world
that seemed incapable of bringing to him any richness, any meaning, any vitality. But his words--if they came at
all--he knew would come with ill-restrained fury, with anger and sharpness, insulting her, forcing her to walk away
as she now walked away.
==========

They were an ancient people, with a heritage of enslavement, and so for them anguish had less meaning than the thinnest whisper of crimson cloud high above a desert planet of the farthest star in the sky. But they knew the

uses to which anguish could be put, and for them there was no evil in doing so: for a people with a heritage of
enslavement, evil is a concept of those who forged the shackles, not those who wore them. In the name of
freedom, no monstrousness is too great.
==========

The War God grows fatter each year, gorged on blood. The Love God fornicates with himself, weakening his

genes, rebirthing as a thalidomide monstrosity. Paingod does his work and doles out his anguish, paying no
attention to the cries of those crushed beneath his millstones. But the Machine God...
==========

Was Adam being a gentleman when he placed blame on Eve? Who was Quisling? Discuss “narking” as a character flaw.

==========

17 jun. 2015

Mis Subrayados





I Shall Wear Midnight, por Sir Terry Pratchett.

‘It was the drink what done it!’ Petty burst out. ‘It was done in drink, miss!’ ‘But you drank the drink, and then you drank another drink, and another drink,’ she said. ‘You drank the drink all day at the fair and you only came back because the drink wanted to go to bed.’ Tiffany could feel only coldness in her heart.
==========

He reached down for them beside the door, but you could read Mr Petty like a very small book, one with fingermarks on all the pages and a piece of bacon as a bookmark.
==========

‘Well, I still feel mightily proud when I see you rushing all over the place on that broomstick of yours,’ said her father. ‘That’s magic, isn’t it?’ Everyone wants magic to exist, Tiffany thought to herself, and what can you say? No, there isn’t? Or: Yes, there is, but it’s not what you think? Everyone wants to believe that we can change the world by snapping our fingers. ‘The dwarfs make them,’ she said. ‘I don’t have a clue how they work. Staying on them, that’s the trick.’
==========

She groaned inwardly. What good are you, Mr Petty? What good have you been? You can’t even hang yourself properly. What good will you ever do? Wouldn’t I be doing the world and you a favour by letting you finish what you began? That was the thing about thoughts. They thought themselves, and then dropped into your head in the hope that you would think so too. You had to slap them down, thoughts like that; they would take a witch over if she let them. And then it would all break down, and nothing would be left but the cackling.
==========

‘It sort of creeps up. It’s in the wind, as if it goes from person to person. Poison goes where poison’s welcome. And there’s always an excuse, isn’t there, to throw a stone at the old lady who looks funny. It’s always easier to blame somebody. And once you’ve called someone a witch, then you’d be amazed how many things you can blame her for.’
==========

‘It wasn’t just stones,’ said Mrs Proust. ‘You hear people talk about witches being burned, but I don’t reckon many real witches ever did get burned unless they were tricked in some way; I think it was mostly poor old women. Witches are mostly too soggy, and it was probably a wicked waste of good timber. But it’s very easy to push an old lady down to the ground and take one of the doors off the barn and put it on top of her like a sandwich and pile stones on it until she can’t breathe any more. And that makes all the badness go away. Except that it doesn’t. Because there are other things going on, and other old ladies. And when they run out, there are always old men. Always strangers. There’s always the outsider. And then, perhaps, one day, there’s always you. That’s when the madness stops. When there’s no one left to be mad.
==========

‘No, my dear, we’re in the police cells. And, though nobody’s saying it, we’re locked in here for our protection. You see, everyone else is locked out, and although they sometimes act dumb, policemen can’t help being clever. They know that people need witches; they need the unofficial people who understand the difference between right and wrong, and when right is wrong and when wrong is right. The world needs the people who work around the edges. They need the people who can deal with the little bumps and inconveniences. And little problems. After all, we are almost all human. Almost all of the time. And almost every full moon Captain Angua comes to me to make up a prescription for her hardpad.’
==========

Despite himself, Wee Mad Arthur was grinning. ‘Have you boys got no shame?’ Rob Anybody matched him grin for grin. ‘I couldnae say,’ he replied, ‘but if we have, it probably belonged tae somebody else.’
==========

‘Those men, mark you, are not your average murderer – oh no, they killed people for a hobby, or for a god or for something to do, or because it wasn’t a very nice day. They did worse things than just murder, but murder was how it always ended. I see you haven’t touched your beef …? Oh well, if you’re quite sure …’ Mrs Proust paused with rather a large piece of heavily pickled lean beef on her knife and went on: ‘Funny thing, though, these cruel men used to look after their canaries, and cried when they died. The warders used to say it was all a sham; they said it gave them the creeps, but I’m not sure. When I was young, I used to run errands for the warders and I would look at those great heavy doors and I would listen to the little birds, and I would wonder what it is that makes the difference between a good man and a man so bad that no hangman in the city – not even my dad, who could have a man out of his cell and stone-cold dead in seven and a quarter seconds – would dare to put a rope round his neck in case he escaped from the fires of evil and came back with a vengeance.’
==========

I have a secret weapon: I have the trust and confidence of a young lady who is soon going to be his wife. No man can be safe in those circumstances.
==========

we do right, we don’t do nice.
==========

There was the general clanging and distant yelling that you always got when things were going bad in a prison: a prison, by definition, being a lot of people all crammed together and every fear and hatred and worry and dread and rumour all sitting on top of one another, choking for space.
==========

It was a good day for a funeral, Tiffany thought, looking out of the narrow castle window. It shouldn’t rain on a funeral. It made people too gloomy. She tried not to be gloomy at funerals. People lived, and died, and were remembered. It happened in the same way that winter followed summer. It was not a wrong thing. There were tears, of course, but they were for those who were left; those who had gone on did not need them.
==========

‘Mrs Petty went back? After everything that happened? What does she see in him?’

Mr Aching gave a shrug. ‘He is her husband.’

‘But everyone knows he beats her up!’

Her father looked a bit embarrassed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose to some women any husband is better than none.’

Tiffany opened her mouth to reply, looked into her father’s eyes and saw the truth of what he had said. She had seen some of them up in the mountains, worn out by too many children and not enough money. Of course, if they knew Nanny Ogg, something could be done about the children at least, but you still found the families who sometimes, in order to put food on the table, had to sell the chairs. And there was never anything you could do about it.
==========

How did I ever forget it! How did I dare to forget it? I told myself I would remember it for ever, but time goes on and the world fills up with things to remember, things to do, calls on your time, calls on your memory. And you forget the things that were important, the real things.’
==========

‘Simple?’ said the Toad, who seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘Well, as a lawyer I can tell you that something that looks very simple indeed can be incredibly complicated, especially if I’m being paid by the hour. The sun is simple. A sword is simple. A storm is simple. Behind everything simple is a huge tail of complicated.’
==========

Ye know full well that the meaning of life is to find your gift. To find your gift is happiness. Never tae find it is misery
==========

Mrs Petty sat on the one chair that had all four legs and babbled about how her husband was really a good man provided his dinner was on time and Amber wasn’t naughty. Tiffany had grown used to that sort of desperate conversation when she was ‘going round the houses’ up in the mountains. They were generated by fear – fear of what would happen to the speaker when they were left alone again.
==========
There’s always something, she thought, and then there’s another something on top of the something, and then there is no end to the somethings. No wonder witches were given broomsticks. Feet just couldn’t do it by themselves.
==========

This is going to be interesting, because he doesn’t like kings of any sort; one of his ancestors chopped off the head of the last king we had.’

‘That’s dreadful! Did he deserve it?’

Mrs Proust hesitated for a moment, and then said, ‘Well, if it’s true about what they found in his private dungeon, then the answer is “yes” in great big letters. They put the commander’s ancestor on trial anyway, because chopping heads off kings always causes a certain amount of comment, apparently. When the man stood in the dock, all he said was, “Had the beast a hundred heads I would not have rested until I had slain every last one.” Which was taken as a guilty plea. He was hanged, and then much later they put up a statue to him, which tells you more about people than you might wish to know. His nickname was Old Stoneface, and as you can see, it runs in the family.’
==========

‘Boy meets girl, one of the greatest engines of narrative causality in the multiverse, or as some people might put it, “It had to happen.”
==========

And there are those who would rather be behind evil than in front of it.
==========

Do you know what the time is?’

‘Yes,’ said Eskarina. ‘It is a way of describing one of the notional dimensions of four-dimensional space. But for your purposes, it’s about ten forty-five.’
=========

What was it that Granny Weatherwax had said once? ‘Evil begins when you begin to treat people as things.’ And right now it would happen if you thought there was a thing called a father, and a thing called a mother, and a thing called a daughter, and a thing called a cottage, and told yourself that if you put them all together you had a thing called a happy family.
==========

And then there would always be the problem of seating. Most of the guests would be aristocrats, and it was vitally important that no one had to sit next to somebody who was related to someone who had killed one of their ancestors at some time in the past. Given that the past is a very big place, and taking into account the fact that everybody’s ancestors were generally trying to kill everybody else’s ancestors, for land, money or something to do, it needed very careful trigonometry to avoid another massacre taking place before people had finished their soup.
==========

She heard him mutter, ‘Can you take away this grief?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she replied quietly. ‘Everyone asks me. And I would not do so even if I knew how. It belongs to you. Only time and tears take away grief; that is what they are for.’
==========

And that dreadful old baggage had just bundled off to harry him while he was saying goodbye to his father in the coolness of the crypt, trying to find a way of saying the words that there had never been time for, trying to make up for too much silence, trying to bring back yesterday and nail it firmly to now.

Everyone did that. Tiffany had come back from quite a few deathbeds, and some were very nearly merry, where some decent old soul was peacefully putting down the weight of their years. Or they could be tragic, when Death had needed to bend down to harvest his due; or, well, ordinary – sad but expected, one light blinking off in a sky full of stars. And she had wondered, as she made tea, and comforted people, and listened to the tearful stories about the good old days from people who always had words left over that they thought should have been spoken. And she had decided that they weren’t there to be said in the past, but remembered in the here and now.
==========

Too many books in one place, who knew what they could do? Miss Tick had told her one day: ‘Knowledge is power, power is energy, energy is matter, matter is mass, and mass changes time and space.’
==========

And you know what? Books live. The pages remember! Have you heard about the library at the Unseen University? They have books in there that have to be chained down, or kept in darkness or even under water!
==========

When she is happy, that makes me happy. And generally speaking, I am not very good at happy.
==========

When it came to affairs of the heart – or indeed, of any other parts – you couldn’t fool Nanny Ogg.

==========

‘Human being first, witch second; hard to remember, easy to do.’

==========

It was amazing to see that all people needed to make them happy was food and drink and other people.
==========

‘Do you believe in luck?’ said the Duchess.

‘I believe in not having to believe in luck,’ said Tiffany. ‘But, your grace, I can tell you in truth that at such times the universe gets a little closer to us. They are strange times, times of beginnings and endings. Dangerous and powerful. And we feel it even if we don’t know what it is. These times are not necessarily good, and not necessarily bad. In fact, what they are depends on what we are.’
==========

‘If you have let pride get the better of you, then you have already lost, but if you grab pride by the scruff of the neck and ride it like a stallion, then you may have already won.
==========

And what are my weapons? she thought. And the answer came to her instantly: pride. Oh, you hear them say it’s a sin; you hear them say it goes before a fall. And that can’t be true. The blacksmith prides himself on a good weld; the carter is proud that his horses are well turned out, gleaming like fresh chestnuts in the sunshine; the shepherd prides himself on keeping the wolf from the flock; the cook prides herself on her cakes. We pride ourselves on making a good history of our lives, a good story to be told.

And I also have fear – the fear that I will let others down – and because I fear, I will overcome that fear. I will not disgrace those who have trained me.

And I have trust, even though I am not sure what it is I am trusting.
==========

but people aren’t just people, they are people surrounded by circumstances.
==========

Weddings can be rather similar to funerals in that, apart from the main players, when it’s all over, people are never quite sure what they should be doing next, which is why they see if there is any wine left

12 jun. 2015

Mis Subrayados


Wintersmith, por Sir Terry Pratchett


Don’t chase faith, ’cos you’ll never catch it.” She added, almost as an aside, “But, perhaps, you can live faithfully.”
==========
 

 That’s Third Thoughts for you. When a huge rock is going to land on your head, they’re the thoughts that think: Is that an igneous rock, such as granite, or is it sandstone?
==========

Some people think that “coven” is a word for a group of witches, and it’s true that’s what the dictionary says. But the real word for a group of witches is an “argument.”
==========

At the moment three small fireballs circled the fire. Annagramma had made them. You could slay enemies with them, she’d said. They made the others uneasy. It was wizard magic, showy and dangerous. Witches preferred to cut enemies dead with a look. There was no sense in killing your enemy. How would she know you’d won?
==========

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” said Tiffany, a bit hurt. “Not exactly silly.” “Then it’s all obvious,” said Petulia. “He’s a boy.” “What?” “A boy. You know what they are?” said Petulia. “Blush, grunt, mumble, wibble? They’re pretty much all the same.”
==========

Witches are very keen on pickles, as a rule, but the food they like best is free food. Yes, that’s the diet for your working witch: lots of food that someone else is paying for, and so much of it that there is enough to shove in your pockets for later.
==========

“I was always too busy to pay attention to young men,” said Miss Treason. “They were always for later and then later was too late. Pay attention to your young man.”
==========

“Oh, my silly people. Anything they don’t understand is magic. They think I can see into their hearts, but no witch can do that. Not without surgery, at least. No magic is needed to read their little minds, though. I’ve known them since they were babes. I remember when their grandparents were babes! They think they’re so grown-up! But they’re still no better than babies in the sandpit, squabbling over mud pies. I see their lies and excuses and fears. They never grow up, not really. They never look up and open their eyes. They stay children their whole lives.”
==========

At one point Dr. Bustle turned up, with his reedy, self-satisfied voice, and gave her a lecture on the Lesser Elements and how, indeed, humans were made up of nearly all of them but also contained a lot of narrativium, the basic element of stories, which you could detect only by watching the way all the others behaved….
==========

She got out the box of paints and some precious paper and tried to paint what she was seeing, and there was a kind of magic there, too. It was all about light and dark. If you could get down on paper the shadow and the shine, the shape that any creature left in the world, then you could get the thing itself.
==========

“Oh, you mean like Orpheo rescuing Euniphon from the Underworld?” said Roland. Rob Anybody just stared. “It’s a myth from Ephebe,” Roland went on. “It’s supposed to be a love story, but it’s really a metaphor for the annual return of summer. There’s a lot of versions of that story.” They still stared. Feegles have very worrying stares. They’re even worse than chickens in that respect.* “A metaphor is a kind o’ lie to help people understand what’s true,” said Billy Bigchin, but this didn’t help much.
==========


But it wasn’t wise to try to learn witching all by yourself, especially if you had a natural talent. If you got it wrong, you could go from ignorant to cackling in a week….
When you got right down to it, it was all about cackling. No one ever talked about this, though. Witches said things like “You can never be too old, too skinny, or too warty,” but they never mentioned the cackling. Not properly. They watched out for it, though, all the time.
It was all too easy to become a cackler. Most witches lived by themselves (cat optional) and might go for weeks without ever seeing another witch. In those times when people hated witches, they were often accused of talking to their cats. Of course they talked to their cats. After three weeks without an intelligent conversation that wasn’t about cows, you’d talk to the wall. And that was an early sign of cackling.
“Cackling,” to a witch, didn’t just mean nasty laughter. It meant your mind drifting away from its anchor. It meant you losing your grip. It meant loneliness and hard work and responsibility and other people’s problems driving you crazy a little bit at a time, each bit so small that you’d hardly notice it, until you thought that it was normal to stop washing and wear a kettle on your head. It meant you thinking that the fact you knew more than anyone else in your village made you better than them. It meant thinking that right and wrong were negotiable. And, in the end, it meant you “going to the dark,” as the witches said. That was a bad road. At the end of that road were poisoned spinning wheels and gingerbread cottages.
What stopped this was the habit of visiting. Witches visited other witches all the time, sometimes traveling quite a long way for a cup of tea and a bun. Partly this was for gossip, of course, because witches love gossip, especially if it’s more exciting than truthful. But mostly it was to keep an eye on one another.
==========
A witch didn’t do things because they seemed a good idea at the time! That was practically cackling! You had to deal every day with people who were foolish and lazy and untruthful and downright unpleasant, and you could certainly end up thinking that the world would be considerably improved if you gave them a slap. But you didn’t because, as Miss Tick had once explained: a) it would make the world a better place for only a very short time; b) it would then make the world a slightly worse place; and c) you’re not supposed to be as stupid as they are.
 ==========

Witches didn’t need to slap the stupid, not when they had a sharp tongue that was always ready.
==========

“If any ground is Consecrate, this ground is.
If any day is Holy, it is this day.”
==========

And now, she thought, it would be a good idea to go outside into the fresh air. It’s a bit sad and stuffy in here. That’s why I want to go out, because it’s sad and stuffy. It’s not at all because I’m afraid of any imaginary noises. I’m not superstitious. I’m a witch. Witches aren’t superstitious. We are what people are superstitious of. I just don’t want to stay
==========
  
Mrs. Earwig was always polite to Granny, in a formal and chilly way. It made Granny Weatherwax mad, but that was the way of witches. When they really disliked one another, they were as polite as duchesses.
==========

Tiffany nodded. She wasn’t crying, which is not the same as, well, not crying. People walked around not crying all the time and didn’t think about it at all. But now, she did. She thought: I’m not crying….
Mrs. Ogg’s face broke into a huge grin that should have been locked up for the sake of public decency.
==========

Romancin’ is verra important, ye ken. Basically it’s a way the boy can get close to the girl wi’oot her attackin’ him and scratchin’ his eyes oot.”
==========

“That’s justice. No excuses. You made a choice. You get what you chose.”
“Couldn’t I just go and find her and say I’m sorry—?” Tiffany began.
“No. The old gods ain’t big on ‘sorry,’” said Granny, pacing up and down again. “They know it’s just a word.”
==========

Tiffany had never been able to find out much about the librarians. They were a bit like the wandering priests and teachers who went even into the smallest, loneliest villages to deliver those things—prayers, medicine, facts—that people could do without for weeks at a time but sometimes needed a lot of all at once. The librarians would loan you a book for a penny, although they often would take food or good secondhand clothes. If you gave them a book, you got ten free loans.
Sometimes you’d see two or three of their wagons parked in some clearing and could smell the glues they boiled up to repair the oldest books. Some of the books they loaned were so old that the printing had been worn gray by the pressure of people’s eyeballs reading it.
The librarians were mysterious. It was said they could tell what book you needed just by looking at you, and they could take your voice away with a word.
==========


Look, just because a woman’s got no teeth doesn’t mean she’s wise. It might just mean she’s been stupid for a very long time.
==========

But her Third Thoughts were right—not that this made things any better. If you’re going to be angry and miserable, you might as well be so on a full stomach
==========

People wanted the world to be a story, because stories had to sound right and they had to make sense. People wanted the world to make sense
==========

It was lonely on the hill, and cold. And all you could do was keep going. You could scream, cry, and stamp your feet, but apart from making you feel warmer, it wouldn’t do any good. You could say it was unfair, and that was true, but the universe didn’t care because it didn’t know what “fair” meant. That was the big problem about being a witch. It was up to you. It was always up to you.
==========

 “Typical artist,” said Granny. “He just painted the showy stuff in the front. Too proud to paint an honest potato!” She poked at the page with an accusing finger. “And what about these cherubs? We’re not going to get them too, are we? I don’t like to see little babies flying through the air.”
“They turn up a lot in old paintings,” said Nanny Ogg. “They put them in to show it’s Art and not just naughty pictures of ladies with not many clothes on.”
==========

She pulled the Wintersmith toward her and saw the look of astonishment on his face. She felt light-headed, as though her feet weren’t touching the floor. The world became…simpler. It was a tunnel, leading to the future. There was nothing to see but the Wintersmith’s cold face, nothing to hear but her own breathing, nothing to feel but the warmth of the sun on her hair.
It wasn’t the fiery globe of summer, but it was still much bigger than any bonfire could ever be.
Where this takes me, there I choose to go, she told herself, letting the warmth pour into her. I choose. This I choose to do. And I’m going to have to stand on tiptoe, she added.
Thunder on my right hand. Lightning in my left hand.
Fire above me….
“Please,” she said, “take the winter away. Go back to your mountains. Please.”
Frost in front of me….
“No. I am Winter. I cannot be anything else.”
“Then you cannot be human,” said Tiffany. “The last three lines are: ‘Strength enough to build a home, Time enough to hold a child, Love enough to break a heart.’”
Balance…and it came quickly, out of nowhere, lifting her up inside.
The center of the seesaw does not move. It feels neither upness nor downness. It is balanced.
Balance…and his lips were like blue ice. She’d cry, later, for the Wintersmith who wanted to be human.
========== 

And, as always happens, and happens far too soon, the strange and wonderful becomes a memory and a memory becomes a dream. Tomorrow it’s gone.
==========

9 jun. 2015

Mis Subrayados



Carpe Jugulum, por Terry Pratchett.

When you’ve been around for a while, miss, you’ll see that some people’s bodies and heads don’t always work together.”
==========

“My granny used to say if you’re too sharp you’ll cut yourself,”
==========

after you cut their head off. I believe that in Glitz you have to fill their mouth with salt, hammer a carrot into both ears, and then cut off their head.”
“I can see that must’ve been fun finding that out.”
==========

She was not, herself, hugely in favor of motherhood in general. Obviously it was necessary, but it wasn’t exactly difficult. Even cats managed it. But women acted as if they’d been given a medal that entitled them to boss people around. It was as if, just because they’d got the label which said “mother,” everyone else got a tiny part of the label that said “child”…
==========

Ah…one mind, split in half. There were more Agneses in the world than Agnes dreamed of, Granny told herself. All the girl had done was give a thing a name, and once you gave a thing a name you gave it a life…
==========

Agnes loathed him. Perdita merely hated him, which is the opposite pole to love and just as attractive.
==========

It unfolded its legs. It was, he realized, a woman, or at least a female, blue like the other pixies but at least a foot high and so fat that it was almost spherical. It looked exactly like the little figurines back in the days of ice and mammoths, when what men really looked for in a woman was quantity.
==========

“Oh, mythology,” said Granny. “Mythology’s just the folktales of people who won ’cos they had bigger swords
==========

There is a very interesting debate raging at the moment about the nature of sin, for example.” “And what do they think? Against it, are they?” “It’s not as simple as that. It’s not a black and white issue. There are so many shades of gray.” “Nope.” “Pardon?” “There’s no grays, only white that’s got grubby. I’m surprised you don’t know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.” “It’s a lot more complicated than that—” “No. It ain’t. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they’re getting worried that they won’t like the truth. People as things, that’s where it starts.” “Oh, I’m sure there are worse crimes—” “But they starts with thinking about people as things…”
==========

“You strong in your faith, then?” she said, as if she couldn’t leave things alone. Oats sighed. “I try to be.” “But you read a lot of books, I’m thinking. Hard to have faith, ain’t it, when you read too many books.”
==========

“I can easily get another,” he said levelly. “Must be hard, not having your book of words.” “It’s only paper.” “I shall ask the King to see about getting you another book of words.” “I wouldn’t trouble him.” “Terrible thing to have to burn all them words, though.” “The worthwhile ones don’t burn.”
==========

“Right. Right. That’s people for you. Now if I’d seen him, really there, really alive, it’d be in me like a fever. If I thought there was some god who really did care two hoots about people, who watched ’em like a father and cared for ’em like a mother…well, you wouldn’t catch me sayin’ things like ‘there are two sides to every question’ and ‘we must respect other people’s beliefs.’ You wouldn’t find me just being gen’rally nice in the hope that it’d all turn out right in the end, not if that flame was burning in me like an unforgivin’ sword. And I did say burnin’, Mister Oats, ’cos that’s what it’d be. You say that you people don’t burn folk and sacrifice people anymore, but that’s what true faith would mean, y’see? Sacrificin’ your own life, one day at a time, to the flame, declarin’ the truth of it, workin’ for it, breathin’ the soul of it. That’s religion. Anything else is just…is just bein’ nice. And a way of keepin’ in touch with the neighbors.”
==========
Nanny Ogg grinned and tucked the card back on the mantelpiece. She liked the idea of “cordially.” It had a rich, a thick and above all an alcoholic sound.
====

You had to wear black, too. Perdita liked black. Perdita thought black was cool. Agnes thought that black wasn’t a good color for the circumferentially challenged…
====

No. I rather like the idea of her being…useful. And she sees everything in black and white. That’s always a trap for the powerful
====

They thought you could see life through books but you couldn’t, the reason being that the words got in the way.
====

And they shoved a leaflet under it saying ‘Repent!’” Nanny Ogg went on. “Repent? Me? Cheek! I can’t start repenting at my time of life. I’d never get any work done.
====

The smug mask of virtue triumphant could be almost as horrible as the face of wickedness revealed.
====

Supposing there was justice for all, after all? For every unheeded beggar, every harsh word, every neglected duty, every slight…every choice…Because that was the point, wasn’t it? You had to choose. You might be right, you might be wrong, but you had to choose, knowing that the rightness or wrongness might never be clear or even that you were deciding between two sorts of wrong, that there was no right anywhere. And always, always, you did it by yourself. You were the one there, on the edge, watching and listening. Never any tears, never any apology, never any regrets…You saved all that up in a way that could be used when needed.
====

What had she ever earned? The reward for toil had been more toil. If you dug the best ditches, they gave you a bigger shovel.
====

She’d never, ever asked for anything in return. And the trouble with not asking for anything in return was that sometimes you didn’t get it.
====
But the harder you stared into the brightness the harsher it burned into you until, at last, the temptation picked you up and bid you turn around to see how long, rich, strong and dark, streaming away behind you, your shadow had become—
====

There are some people who could turn even the most amiable character into a bully and he seemed to be one of them. There was something…sort of damp about him, the kind of helpless hopelessness that made people angry rather than charitable, the total certainty that if the whole world was a party he’d still find the kitchen.
====

“You really haven’t got any scruples, have you, Nanny,” said Agnes.
“No,” said Nanny, simply. “This is Lancre we’re talkin’ about. If we was men, we’d be talking about layin’ down our lives for the country. As women, we can talk about laying down.”
====
“If only I’d used the right exorcism—” Oats mumbled.
“Wouldn’t have worked,” said Agnes sharply. “I don’t think they’re very religious vampires.”
====

“All right. He’s not a high-up vampire, anyway,” said Nanny dismissively. “He’s not even wearing a very interestin’ waistcoat.”
====

“Teach your children! Don’t trust the cannibal just ’cos he’s usin’ a knife and fork! And remember that vampires don’t go where they’re not invited!”

====
Granny Weatherwax had a primal snore. It had never been tamed. No one had ever had to sleep next to it, to curb its wilder excesses by means of a kick, a prod in the small of the back or a pillow used as a bludgeon. It had had years in a lonely bedroom to perfect theknark, the graaah and the gnoc, gnoc, gnoc unimpeded by the nudges, jabs and occasional attempts at murder that usually moderate the snore impulse over time.
====