Lukasz

“Math is poetry, kid,” she growled. “Math is sex in the head. All that work of making your mind stroke the
numbers? It’s a natural series of touches you already know by instinct. Once you get over your inhibitions, you
can sit in class or lie in bed and practice formulae and sums, caress the equation till you find the climax of an
elegant solution.”
― Raymond St. Elmo, In Theory, it Works

“Marissa Theodora took out her journal, put it on her lap so Mr. Alva would not see. She penciled thoughts as they came. ‘Picture the classroom plunged into dark,’ she wrote. A touchable darkness, like the fur of a black cat. A thick fog of ink. You can move through it; just not quickly. Can’t shout through it; only talk in low soft tones.’ She frowned. Why ‘plunged into dark’? Why not ‘opened’? Darkness was already everywhere. Under the floor, between the walls. Up in space and below the earth. Everyone’s pockets were full of Dark. Our heads? Stuffed with the stuff. Close your eyelids and roll your eyes inward, and gaze into the cavern of your skull. Behold: your secret vault of Dark. Marissa considered writing that. Decided not. It sounded gloomy, even creepy.”
― Raymond St. Elmo, In Theory, it Works

“Everyone goes on, " he repeated, with a taint of bitter mockery. "Oh, yes. They go on. With crippled spirits and broken ideals, they do go on. And with the passage of years they forget what crippled and broke them. They accept it grandly as they grow older, as if crippling and breaking were gifts from a king. Then those same hopeful spirits and large ideals in younger souls are viewed as stupid, and petty… and things to be crippled and broken, because everyone does go on." He looked into the woman's eyes. "Tell me. What is the point of life, if truth is not worth standing up for? If justice is a hollow shell? If beauty and grace are burnt to ashes, and evil rejoices in the flames? Shall I weep on that day, and lose my mind, or join the rejoicing and lose my soul? Shall I sit in my room? Should I go for a long walk, but where might I go so as not to smell the smoke? Should I just go on, Mrs. Nettles, like everyone else?”
― Robert R. McCammon, Speaks the Nightbird

“Any soul who’d
go to their own burial is in need of a therapeutic kick to the angsty ectoplasm of their pity-party ass.” Cora
considered a funeral from the deceased’s point of view. The tears, the mourning, the sweetly dishonest words of
praise making the best of a life and its ending. While you the guest-of-honor stood by, unable to partake in
comfort and farewell, only giving embraces not felt, whispering words not heard. God, it’d be torment to surpass
the flames of hell.”
― Raymond St. Elmo, To Awaken in Elysium