Celtic Quotes

Quotes tagged as "celtic" (showing 1-30 of 34)
H.L. Mencken
“Where is the graveyard of dead gods? What lingering mourner waters their mounds? There was a time when Jupiter was the king of the gods, and any man who doubted his puissance was ipso facto a barbarian and an ignoramus. But where in all the world is there a man who worships Jupiter today? And who of Huitzilopochtli? In one year - and it is no more than five hundred years ago - 50,000 youths and maidens were slain in sacrifice to him. Today, if he is remembered at all, it is only by some vagrant savage in the depths of the Mexican forest. Huitzilopochtli, like many other gods, had no human father; his mother was a virtuous widow; he was born of an apparently innocent flirtation that she carried out with the sun.

When he frowned, his father, the sun, stood still. When he roared with rage, earthquakes engulfed whole cities. When he thirsted he was watered with 10,000 gallons of human blood. But today Huitzilopochtli is as magnificently forgotten as Allen G. Thurman. Once the peer of Allah, Buddha and Wotan, he is now the peer of Richmond P. Hobson, Alton B. Parker, Adelina Patti, General Weyler and Tom Sharkey.

Speaking of Huitzilopochtli recalls his brother Tezcatlipoca. Tezcatlipoca was almost as powerful; he consumed 25,000 virgins a year.

Lead me to his tomb: I would weep, and hang a couronne des perles. But who knows where it is? Or where the grave of Quetzalcoatl is? Or Xiuhtecuhtli? Or Centeotl, that sweet one? Or Tlazolteotl, the goddess of love? Of Mictlan? Or Xipe? Or all the host of Tzitzimitl? Where are their bones? Where is the willow on which they hung their harps? In what forlorn and unheard-of Hell do they await their resurrection morn? Who enjoys their residuary estates? Or that of Dis, whom Caesar found to be the chief god of the Celts? Of that of Tarves, the bull? Or that of Moccos, the pig? Or that of Epona, the mare? Or that of Mullo, the celestial jackass? There was a time when the Irish revered all these gods, but today even the drunkest Irishman laughs at them.

But they have company in oblivion: the Hell of dead gods is as crowded
as the Presbyterian Hell for babies. Damona is there, and Esus, and
Drunemeton, and Silvana, and Dervones, and Adsullata, and Deva, and
Bellisima, and Uxellimus, and Borvo, and Grannos, and Mogons. All mighty gods in their day, worshipped by millions, full of demands and impositions, able to bind and loose - all gods of the first class. Men labored for generations to build vast temples to them - temples with stones as large as hay-wagons.

The business of interpreting their whims occupied thousands of priests,
bishops, archbishops. To doubt them was to die, usually at the stake.
Armies took to the field to defend them against infidels; villages were burned, women and children butchered, cattle were driven off. Yet in the end they all withered and died, and today there is none so poor to do them reverence.

What has become of Sutekh, once the high god of the whole Nile Valley? What has become of:
Resheph
Anath
Ashtoreth
El
Nergal
Nebo
Ninib
Melek
Ahijah
Isis
Ptah
Anubis
Baal
Astarte
Hadad
Addu
Shalem
Dagon
Sharaab
Yau
Amon-Re
Osiris
Sebek
Molech?

All there were gods of the highest eminence. Many of them are mentioned with fear and trembling in the Old Testament. They ranked, five or six thousand years ago, with Yahweh Himself; the worst of them stood far higher than Thor. Yet they have all gone down the chute, and with them the following:
Bilé
Ler
Arianrhod
Morrigu
Govannon
Gunfled
Sokk-mimi
Nemetona
Dagda
Robigus
Pluto
Ops
Meditrina
Vesta

You may think I spoof. That I invent the names. I do not. Ask the rector to lend you any good treatise on comparative religion: You will find them all listed. They were gods of the highest standing and dignity-gods of civilized peoples-worshiped and believed in by millions. All were omnipotent, omniscient and immortal.

And all are dead.”
H.L. Mencken, A Mencken Chrestomathy

W.B. Yeats
“The Celt, and his cromlechs, and his pillar-stones, these will not change much – indeed, it is doubtful if anybody at all changes at any time. In spite of hosts of deniers, and asserters, and wise-men, and professors, the majority still are adverse to sitting down to dine thirteen at a table, or being helped to salt, or walking under a ladder, of seeing a single magpie flirting his chequered tale. There are, of course, children of light who have set their faces against all this, although even a newspaperman, if you entice him into a cemetery at midnight, will believe in phantoms, for everyone is a visionary, if you scratch him deep enough. But the Celt, unlike any other, is a visionary without scratching.”
William Butler Yeats

Shannon MacLeod
“Funny how I keep forgetting you’re insane.” - Colleen O’Brien”
Shannon MacLeod, Rogue on the Rollaway

John O'Donohue
“The life and passion of a person leave an imprint on the ether of a place. Love does not remain within the heart, it flows out to build secret tabernacles in a landscape.”
John O'Donohue, Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom

Cornelia Amiri
“Trees are silent guards, they are the listeners and they hold knowledge mankind has long forgotten.” - The Wolf and The Druidess”
Cornelia Amiri, The Wolf and the Druidess

Shannon MacLeod
“Identify yourself,” Colleen demanded. “I’ve got a bat and I will beat the living shit out of you if you so much as blink. I’ve got a black belt,” she lied frantically, “and…and…a gun. A big one.” - Colleen O’Brien”
Shannon MacLeod, Rogue on the Rollaway

Thomas Jerome Baker
“What is deemed as “his-story” is often determined by those who survived to write it. In other words, history is written by the victors...Now, with the help of the Roman historian Tacitus, I shall tell you Queen Boudicca’s story, her-story……”
Thomas Jerome Baker, Boudicca: Her Story

W.B. Yeats
“If we could love and hate with as good heart as the faeries do, we might grow to be long-lived like them. But until that day their untiring joys and sorrows must ever be one-half of their fascination. Love with them never grows weary, nor can the circles of the stars tire out their dancing feet.”
W. B. Yeats

Dani Harper
“As she peeked through the curtains with the phone in her hand, waiting for the police dispatcher to pick up, she realized there was one thing she did know about the naked stranger in her yard. He had, without a doubt, the finest butt on the planet.”
Dani Harper, Storm Warrior

Shannon MacLeod
“His deep voice drifted to her through the crowd of women. “…my lady when she returns. Och, there ye are, Blossom,” Faolán grinned, standing up and taking her hand so she could ease back into the restaurant booth. “These lasses were just asking if I was a stripper. I told them I doona think so,” he said, his face clouded with uncertainty. “I’m not, am I?”
The inquisitive lasses in question flushed scarlet and scattered to the four corners of the room at the murderous look on Colleen’s face. “No, you’re not, but I guess I can see how they’d think that,” she muttered darkly. “What you are is a freaking estrogen magnet.”
Shannon MacLeod, Rogue on the Rollaway

“Sometimes those whose blood runs thick with Celtic heritage are brilliant, poetic, charismatic. Gifted but complicated. Some brilliant lights burn out far too soon.”
Eileen Anglin

Shannon MacLeod
“Food shouldn’t be that shade of green, lass.” – Faolán MacIntyre”
Shannon MacLeod, Rogue on the Rollaway

“Git'er Done

They beat their swords upon their shields
To no beast or man would they yield”
Muse, Enigmatic Evolution

Ann Gimpel
“Duncan's temper kindled, but it didn't dampen the lust seeping along his nerve endings. He could flatten this persnickety witch, or better yet, weave a love spell and bind her to him. Maybe he'd do just that and have done with things. He clasped his hands behind his back to quash the temptation to summon magic.”
Ann Gimpel, Witch’s Bounty

Shannon MacLeod
“Submitted for your approval--the curious case of Colleen O’Brien and the
gorgeous time traveling Scot who landed in her living room.” – Rod Serling”
Shannon MacLeod, Rogue on the Rollaway

Marcel Proust
“the Celtic belief that the souls of those whom we have lost are held captive in some inferior being, in an animal, in a plant, in some inanimate object and so effectively lost to us until the day (which to many never comes) when we happen to pass by the tree or to obtain possession of the object which forms their prison. Then they start and tremble, they call us by our name, and as soon as we have recognized their voices the spell is broken. We have delivered them: they have overcome death and return to share our life.”
Marcel Proust, Swann's Way

Laurence Overmire
“A society that has no respect, no regard for its bards, its historians, its storytellers, is a society in steep decline, a society that has lost its very soul and may never find its way.”
Laurence Overmire, The Ghost of Rabbie Burns: An American Poet's Journey Through Scotland

Shannon MacLeod
“Och, lass. Yer going to have to not do that.” Faolán exhaled. “Creeping up on a man is a dangerous thing, and I confess I’m jumpier than most. Yer feet are soft as a cat’s.”
“I wasn’t creeping anywhere, I was going to make coffee and this is my house, I’ll creep anywhere I like,” Colleen muttered with a petulant scowl. “But I wasn’t creeping.”
Shannon MacLeod, Rogue on the Rollaway

“The River Swish

Deftly maneuvered through
the dark green abyss ~
The wooden raft seemed
in tune with this ~
Canorous rush of the
river swish....”
Muse, Enigmatic Evolution

Jennifer McKeithen
“A twinge of fear entered Gwenwhyfar’s heart. It was the first she had heard of the sea farms lying in the path of danger. She wondered what had befallen a different Norseman of her acquaintance. Had her poor bodyguard, Finn, perished in one of those raids?”
Jennifer McKeithen, Atlantis On the Shores of Forever

“I am the Wind that blows across the Sea
I am the Wave of the Ocean
I am the Murmur of the Billows
I am the Bull of the Seven Combats
I am the Vulture on the Rock
I am a Ray of the Sun
I am the Fairest of Flowers
I am a Wild Boar in Valour
I am a Salmon in the Pool
I am a Lake on the Plain
I am the Skill of the Craftsman
I am a Word of Science
I am the Spear-point that gives Battle
I am the god who creates in the head of man the Fire of Thought.
Who is it that Enlightens the Assembly upon the mountain, if not I?
Who tells the ages of the moon, if not I?
Who shows the place where the sun goes to rest, if not I?
Who calls the cattle from the House of Tethra?
On whom do the cattle of Tethra smile?
Who is the god that fashions enchantments - the enchantment of battle and the wind of change?
― Amergin”
Amergin

Shannon MacLeod
“Refusing to lean back against him, Colleen sat ramrod straight until they reached the road. “I guess I should say thank you for saving my life,” she muttered then turned and slapped Faolán hard across the face. “And that’s for you having to save it in the first place. And I’m not your woman, you big, arrogant, lying, betraying…faery loving…” She searched for the perfect insult and couldn’t find one, “…Scot.” She gave a very unladylike snort. “Happy now? That fiery enough for you?”
Shannon MacLeod, Rogue on the Rollaway

Jennifer McKeithen
“She ran. Deeper, deeper into the mysterious Broceliande forest...”
Jennifer McKeithen, Atlantis On the Shores of Forever

“Black snowflakes creep down from the sky, advancing slowly, methodically. All the money in the world, which my father seems to have, can’t keep the demons from chasing me ⎯ Aishling Morrighan Delaney, a.k.a. princess of Clan Delaney.

Everything is messed up. I’m wearing the “Happy Birthday” sash across my chest that my best friend, Claire, had always insisted I wear for my special day, but this is not that day. My twentieth birthday was over a month ago, on October 31, the night of Samhain, the Celtic New Year’s Eve.

This is December 7th, and the Ten Colds Moon is rising. My fate stalks me. Doesn’t look like I’m going to make it to my belated birthday party.

I lean into my horse, Kheelan, as he tears across the bracken and bramble moor, and beyond through the amethyst fields of devil’s bit, for a moment outrunning the faerie’s freak show. The spiky shrubs of the moor bite my legs as we attempt to outrun the Fates and the black snow that comes like a gathering sandstorm, trailing me. This princess thing in Ireland can get a girl killed fast, or maybe it’s just me.

I am the faerie slayer of the seventh order and the 28th generation, the prophesied Gael Siridean, the Searcher. As such, my head is crowned with a supernatural bounty, and the price is high…

The thread of my life frays rapidly, as does the hem of this black velvet medieval-style dress I borrowed from my best friend, Claire. She’s throwing me a themed party this year. If I make it out of this alive tonight, she’s going to kill me for ruining her dress and causing her more worry. Maybe she’ll grant me mercy when she takes in my drenched, haggard appearance with thistle strewn throughout my hair and dark eyeliner no doubt leaving claw marks down my cheeks. I can’t tell her what really happened here tonight. I can’t tell anyone.”
Joy Stephens

Shannon MacLeod
“You turn the lights on and off here and if you can’t sleep and want something to read there are books in the living room…” her voice broke off. “Wait. Can you read?”
His chin took a slight tilt upward. “Aye,” Faolán replied, his voice cool, “in English, Gaelic, Latin, or French. My Welsh is a bit rusty, and I doona remember any of the Greek I was taught except for words not fit for a lady’s ears. I can also count all the way up to…” He looked down and wiggled his large bare toes, “…twenty.”
– Faolán MacIntyre”
Shannon MacLeod, Rogue on the Rollaway

“Cattle and metal treasure were the main forms of wealth in ancient Ireland—metal because it was rare, and cattle because they were useful. Cattle provided milk to drink and to make into cheese, and hide and meat after they were dead. If a king demanded tribute from his subjects, it would probably be in the form of cattle—in fact, a wealthy farmer was called a bóiare, or “lord of cows.” In the famous poem Táin Bó Cuailnge, a major war starts because Queen Mebd discovers that her husband has one more bull than she does. Celtic chieftains spent quite a bit of their energy stealing cattle from one another. They even had a special word for this activity, táin. (Cattle raiding wasn’t just an amusement for the ancient Irish; modern Irish people were stealing one another’s cattle well into the twentieth century.)”
Ryan Hackney, 101 Things You Didn't Know About Irish History: The People, Places, Culture, and Tradition of the Emerald Isle

Rebecca McNutt
“Oh, trust me Sydney Tar Ponds, you aren’t the first Personification to be forgotten by somebody ordinary,” Mearth sighed with a falsely-reassuring smile. Alecto stepped back from her, glaring hatefully. “Sydney Tar Ponds,” Mearth added, “I’ve had so many ordinary people as friends in my life that by now I’ve forgotten all their names. At first it was difficult… very sad… to see them always leaving, dying, disappearing, ignoring, but after a while I realized that they weren’t worth the trouble. I’d rather be in the company of other Personifications. At least they aren’t always dropping dead like houseflies or sailing away to parts unknown. Nil sa saol seo ach ceo, i ni bheimid beo, ach seal beag gearr. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“No,” Alecto told her. “I think you’re insane.”
Rebecca McNutt, Shadowed Skies: The Third Smog City Novel

A. Louise Robertson
“Some of my best friends are books.”
A. Louise Robertson, Chained to Mineola

Jennifer McKeithen
“At least I don't have to go through with my earlier plan.” Instead, it seemed she soon would meet her end. “I will make it such an end!” she vowed”
Jennifer McKeithen, Atlantis On the Tides of Destiny

“Take me deep into the woods, away from the others and make love to me, Killian, for I cannot bear to be parted from you any longer!” she whispered in his ear.”
Leigh Ann Edwards, A Witch's Life

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