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“From her desk, she observed Willy demonstrating his ability to blow snot bubbles out of his slightly runny nose. Emma politely ignored him; Maggie鈥檚 face showed disgust at his grossness; Harley giggled; and competitive Joseph tried his best, with no luck, to make something, anything come out of his nose.”
― Wanted: An Honest Man
― Wanted: An Honest Man
“You can鈥檛 set fires, Anna. Never again. Promise.鈥
[Anna] aimed her defiance at Mary.
鈥淎nd you? What鈥檚 your reason to hate me?鈥
Caroline spoke quietly. 鈥淲e nearly died 鈥 in the fire in those mountains and at the house when Ravi had a gun pointed at us.鈥 Her eyes were full of tears. 鈥淭he fire you set at The Old Hospital could have killed me as well as Janet and Agnes.鈥
Anna muttered into the syrupy dregs of her tea. 鈥淔ire, you鈥檙e firing me?鈥
Mary grimaced. There had been too much fire.”
― The Alchemy Fire Murder
[Anna] aimed her defiance at Mary.
鈥淎nd you? What鈥檚 your reason to hate me?鈥
Caroline spoke quietly. 鈥淲e nearly died 鈥 in the fire in those mountains and at the house when Ravi had a gun pointed at us.鈥 Her eyes were full of tears. 鈥淭he fire you set at The Old Hospital could have killed me as well as Janet and Agnes.鈥
Anna muttered into the syrupy dregs of her tea. 鈥淔ire, you鈥檙e firing me?鈥
Mary grimaced. There had been too much fire.”
― The Alchemy Fire Murder
“It is easiest to tell what transubstantiation is by saying this: little children should be taught about it as early as possible. Not, of course, using the word 'transubstantiation', because it is not a little child's word. But the thing can be taught, and it is best taught at mass at the consecration, the one part where a small child should be got to fix its attention on what is going on.”
― Faith in a Hard Ground: Essays on Religion, Philosophy and Ethics
― Faith in a Hard Ground: Essays on Religion, Philosophy and Ethics
“Let鈥檚 get to know each other. My name鈥檚 William, William More, but you can call me Willy. I鈥檓 an engineer-chemist who graduated from MIT. So . . . but you鈥檙e all alike to me . . . of course, you would be . . . you鈥檙e robots. And all your names are that sort of, um . . . codes, technical numbers . . . I need some marker where I can pick you out. Well, well, to you I鈥檒l call . . .,鈥 and Willy pondered for a moment, 鈥淕umball, yes, Gumball! Do you mind?鈥 鈥淣o, sir, actually no,鈥 CSE-TR-03 said, agreeing with its new given name. 鈥淎h, that鈥檚 wonderful. And then you鈥檙e Darwin,鈥 Willy said, accosting the second robot. 鈥淟ook what a nice name鈥擠arwin! What do you say, eh?鈥 鈥淲hat can I say, sir? I like it,鈥 CSE-TR-02 agreed too. 鈥淵es, a human name with a past . . . You and Gumball . . . are from the same family, the Methanesons!鈥 鈥淚t turns out thus, sir,鈥 Darwin confirmed its family belonging. 鈥淎nd you鈥檙e like Larry. You鈥檙e Larry. Do you know that?鈥 More addressed the next robot in line. 鈥淵es, sir, just now I learned that,鈥 the third robot said, accepted its name as well.”
― Homo Cosmicus 2: Titan: A Science Fiction Novel
― Homo Cosmicus 2: Titan: A Science Fiction Novel
“I soon saw, however, that Creed's obsession with death was typical of most of the children. This came out in their play.
"Let's play funeral" was a favorite game at recess. To me, it seemed bizarre and mawkish play. All that saved it was the spontaneous creativity of the children and the fact that, unerringly, they caught the incongruities and absurdities of their elders.
One child would be elected to be "dead" and would lay himself out on the ground, eyes closed, hands dutifully crossed across his chest. Another would be chosen to be the "preacher," all the rest, "mourners." I remember one day when Sam Houston Holcomb was the "corpse" and Creed Allen, always the class clown of the group, was elected "preacher." Creed, already at ten an accomplished mimic, was turning in an outstanding performance. I stood watching, half-hidden in the shado of the doorway.
Creed (bellowing in stentorian tones): "You-all had better stop your meanness and I'll tell you for why. Praise the Lord! If you'uns don't stop being so defend ornery, you ain't never goin' gift to see Brother Holcomb on them streets paved with rubies and such-like, to give him the time of day, 'cause you'uns are goin' to be laid out on the coolin' board and then roasted in hellfire."
The "congregation" shivered with delight, as if they were hearing a deliciously scary ghost story. The corpse opened one eye to see how his mourners were taking this blast; he sighed contentedly at their palpitations; wriggled right leg where a fly was tickling; adjusted grubby hands more comfortably across chest.
Creed then grasped his right ear with his right hand and spat. Only there wasn't enough to make the stream impressive. So preacher paused, working his mouth vigorously, trying to collect more spit. Another pucker and heave. Ah! Better!
Sermon now resumed: "Friends and neighbors, we air lookin' on Brother Holcombe's face for the last time." (Impressive pause.). "Praise the Lord! We ain't never goin' see him again in this life." (Impressive pause.). "Praise the Lord!"
Small preacher was now really getting warmed up. He remembered something he must have heard at the last real funeral. Hearty spit first, more pulling of ear: "You air enjoyin' life now, folks. Me, I used to git pleasured and enjoy life too. But now that I've got religion, I don't enjoy life no more." At this point I retreated behind the door lest I betray my presence by laughing aloud.”
― Christy
"Let's play funeral" was a favorite game at recess. To me, it seemed bizarre and mawkish play. All that saved it was the spontaneous creativity of the children and the fact that, unerringly, they caught the incongruities and absurdities of their elders.
One child would be elected to be "dead" and would lay himself out on the ground, eyes closed, hands dutifully crossed across his chest. Another would be chosen to be the "preacher," all the rest, "mourners." I remember one day when Sam Houston Holcomb was the "corpse" and Creed Allen, always the class clown of the group, was elected "preacher." Creed, already at ten an accomplished mimic, was turning in an outstanding performance. I stood watching, half-hidden in the shado of the doorway.
Creed (bellowing in stentorian tones): "You-all had better stop your meanness and I'll tell you for why. Praise the Lord! If you'uns don't stop being so defend ornery, you ain't never goin' gift to see Brother Holcomb on them streets paved with rubies and such-like, to give him the time of day, 'cause you'uns are goin' to be laid out on the coolin' board and then roasted in hellfire."
The "congregation" shivered with delight, as if they were hearing a deliciously scary ghost story. The corpse opened one eye to see how his mourners were taking this blast; he sighed contentedly at their palpitations; wriggled right leg where a fly was tickling; adjusted grubby hands more comfortably across chest.
Creed then grasped his right ear with his right hand and spat. Only there wasn't enough to make the stream impressive. So preacher paused, working his mouth vigorously, trying to collect more spit. Another pucker and heave. Ah! Better!
Sermon now resumed: "Friends and neighbors, we air lookin' on Brother Holcombe's face for the last time." (Impressive pause.). "Praise the Lord! We ain't never goin' see him again in this life." (Impressive pause.). "Praise the Lord!"
Small preacher was now really getting warmed up. He remembered something he must have heard at the last real funeral. Hearty spit first, more pulling of ear: "You air enjoyin' life now, folks. Me, I used to git pleasured and enjoy life too. But now that I've got religion, I don't enjoy life no more." At this point I retreated behind the door lest I betray my presence by laughing aloud.”
― Christy
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