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I hate the quoting system here in GR!!!!

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message 1: by The Crimson Fucker (last edited Oct 27, 2008 10:37AM) (new)

The Crimson Fucker (tcf123) | -3 comments I just spent a several minutes of my sad, sad, life transcribing this shit! and now when I try to add it as a quote is too long… when I try to add it as writing they tell me that if I don’t have the copy rights they going to delete the damn thing!!! fuck you otis!!! Fuck you!!!! I’m putting this shit on good reads even if is the last thing I do!!! So here suck on this a quote from Steven Erikson’s Toll the Hounds:

Grips Falaunt had once been a man of vast ambitions. Lord of the single greatest landholding anywhere on the continent, a patriarch of orchards, pastures, groves and field of corn stretching to every horizon. Why the Dwelling Plan was unclaimed, was it not? And so he could claim it, unopposed, unobstructed by prohibitions.

Forty-one years later he woke one morning stunned by a revelation. The Dwelling Plain was unclaimed because it was… useless. Lifeless. Pointless. He had spent most of his life trying to conquer something that was not only unconquerable, but capable of using its very indifference to annihilate every challenger.

He’d lost his first wife. His children had listened to his promises of glorious inheritance and then had simply wandered off, each one terminally unimpressed. He’d lost his second wife. He’d lost three partners and seven investors. He’d lost his capital, his collateral and the shirt on his back – this last indignity courtesy of a crow that had been hanging around the clothes line in a most suspicious manner.

There comes a time when a man must truncate his ambitions, cut them right down, not to what was possible, but to what was manageable. And, as one grew older and more worn down, manageable became a notion blurring with minimal, as in how could a man exist with minimum effort? How little was good enough?

He now lived in a shack on the very edge of the Dwelling Plain, offering a suitable view to the south wastes where all his dreams spun in lazy dust-devils through hill and dale and whatnot. And, in the company of a two-legged dog so useless he need to hand-feed it the rats it was supposed to kill and eat, he tended three rows of root crops, each row barely twenty paces in length. One row suffered a blight of purple fungus; another was infested with grub-worm; and the one between those two had a bit of both.

On this gruesome night with its incessant thunder and invisible lightning and ghost wind, Grips Falaunt Sat rocking on his creaking chair on his back porch, a jug of cactus spit on his lap, a ward of rustleaf bulging one cheek and a wad of durhang the other. He had his free hand under his tunic, as would any man keeping his on company with only a two-legged dog looking on – but the mutt wasn’t playing him any attention anyway, which, all things considered, was a rare relief these nights when beast mostly just stared at him with oddly hungry eyes. No, old Scamper had his eyes on something to the south, out there in the dark plain.

Grisp hitched the jug up on the back of a forearm and tilted in a mouthful of the thick, pungent liquor. Old Gadrobi women in the hills still chewed the spiny blades after hardening the inside of their mouths by eating fire, and spat out the pulp in bowls of water sweetened with virgin’s piss. The mixture was then fermented in sacks of sewn-up sheep intestines buried under dung heaps. And there, in the subtle cascade of flavors that, if he squeezed shut his watering eyes, he could actually taste, one could find the bouquets marking every damn stage in the brewing process. Leading to an explosive, highly volatile cough followed by desperate gasping and then-

But Scamper there had sharpened up, as much as a two-legged dog could, anyway. Ears perking, seeming to dilate- but no, that was the spit talking- and the nape hairs snapping upright in fierce bristle, and there was his ratty, knobby tail, desperately snaking down and under the uneven haunches- and gods below, Scamper was whimpering and crawling, piddling as he went, straight for under the porch – look at the damned thing go! With only two legs, too!

Must be some storm out there-

And, Looking up, Grips saw strange baleful fires floating closer, in sets of two, lifting, weaving, lowering, then back up again. How many sets? He couldn’t count. He could have, once, long ago, Right up to twenty, but the bad thing about cactus spit was all the parts of the brain it stamped dead underfoot. Seemed that counting and figuring was among them.

Fireballs! Racing straight for him!

Grips Screamed. Or, rather, tried to. Instead, two wads were sucked in quick succession to the back of his throat, and all at once he couldn’t breathe, and could only stare as a horde of giant dogs attacked in thundering charge, straight across his three weepy rows, leaving a churned, uprooted, trampled mess. Two of the beasts made for him, jaws opening. Grips had rocked on the two black legs of the chair with that sudden, shortlived gasp, and now all at once he lost his balance, pitching directly backward, legs in the air, even as two sets of enormous jaws snapped shut in the place where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.

His shack erupted behind him, grey shards of wood and dented kitchenware exploding in all directions.

The thumping impact when he hit the porch sent both wads out from his mouth on a column of expelled air from his stunned lungs. The weight of the jug, two fingers till hooked through the lone ear, pulled him sideways and out of the toppled chair on to his stomach, and he lifted his head and saw that his shack was simply gone, and there were the beasts, fast dwindling as they charged towards the city

Groaning, he lowered his head, settling his forehead on to the slatted boards, and could see through the crack to the crawlspace below, only to find Scamper’s two beady eyes staring back up at him in malevolent accusation.

‘Fair ‘nough, ‘he whispered. ‘Time’s come, Scamper old boy, for us to pack up ‘n’ leave. New pastures, hey? A World before us, Just watin’ wi’ open arms, just-‘

The nearest gate of the city exploded then, the shock wave rolling back to flatten Grips once more on the floorboards. He heard the porch groan and sag under him and had one generous thought for poor Scamper – who was scrambling as fast as two legs could take him – before the porch collapses under him.







message 2: by [deleted user] (new)

You could post it as writing, I guess. Even though it's not your own--as long as you cite it.

You gotta admit that that was a pretty big quote. But what are they talking about with the copyright? How come everybody can be quoted except Steve Erikson?

How are you feeling, today?


The Crimson Fucker (tcf123) | -3 comments Montambo, ya I know… but it’s fuck up!!! I wanted to quote that so badly is such a great story!!!! This poor dude, lost everything and finally gave up! his just sitting there jerking off and getting wasted! He wasn’t hurting nobody!!! Is so unfair, he just wanted to look as his wasteland and have some fun and yet so bad shit happens to him, =( is so unfair!!! And poor Scamper! (I usually don’t feel sorry for dogs. But this one is a special case) with his 2 legs all fuck up! dude… there are many, many fuck up stories in this book, but this is the one that hurts me the most!.

KD, dude is only 2 and half pages out of 829….



message 5: by Daniel (new)

Daniel Hey Tolstoy I got about this far before I quit reading: "Grips Falaunt had once been a man of vast ambitions."

The key is brevity.


The Crimson Fucker (tcf123) | -3 comments Dude, but there is no two-legged dog, no infested crops, no virgin’s piss, no masturbation on any of that…


message 7: by Daniel (new)

Daniel One of my favorite quotes:

"...an animal loses not only its life but also its third dimension."
Roger M. Knutson, in "Flattened Fauna:
A Field Guide to Common Animals of
Roads, Streets,and Highways"



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