100 books
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1,710 voters
Per
https://www.goodreads.com/pphuck
progress:
(page 280 of 318)
"“What is the point of anything?” unhelpfully returned the witch. “Flesh is dust, life unreal, an illusion, a play we are at.”" — Jan 03, 2026 01:45AM
"“What is the point of anything?” unhelpfully returned the witch. “Flesh is dust, life unreal, an illusion, a play we are at.”" — Jan 03, 2026 01:45AM
Per
is currently reading
progress:
(page 65 of 1278)
"I am also indebted to the divine and ceremonial mysteries of magic . . . of those ancient Isiac priests of the Egyptians, the ancient Chaldean prophets of the Babylonians, and divine wise Hebrew kabbalists. I am also [indebted to] the Orphics, Pythagoreans, and Platonists, profound Greek philosophers, Indian Brahmans, Ethiopian Gymnosophists, and our undefiled religious theologians." — Oct 31, 2022 09:14AM
"I am also indebted to the divine and ceremonial mysteries of magic . . . of those ancient Isiac priests of the Egyptians, the ancient Chaldean prophets of the Babylonians, and divine wise Hebrew kabbalists. I am also [indebted to] the Orphics, Pythagoreans, and Platonists, profound Greek philosophers, Indian Brahmans, Ethiopian Gymnosophists, and our undefiled religious theologians." — Oct 31, 2022 09:14AM
In the end, maybe all we are is where we are—a place and a time and the people around us.”
“Our species may yet end its strange eventful history as just the last, the cleverest of the great apes. The great ape that was clever—but not clever enough. It could escape from most things but not from its own mental confusion.”
―
―
“[...]But wouldn't you like to be free to be happy in some other way? In your own way, for example; not in everybody else's way.”
― Brave New World
― Brave New World
“The world,’ he said, ‘grows hourly more and more sceptical of all that lies beyond its own narrow radius; and our men of science foster the fatal tendency. They condemn as fable all that resists experiment. They reject as false all that cannot be brought to the test of the laboratory or the dissecting-room. Against what superstition have they waged so long and obstinate a war, as against the belief of apparitions? And yet what superstition has maintained its hold upon the minds of men so long and so firmly? Show me any fact in physics, in history, in archaeology, which is supported by testimony so wide and so various. Attested by all races of men, in all ages, and in all climates, by the soberest sages of antiquity, by the rudest savage of today, by the Christian, the Pagan, the Pantheist, the Materialist, this phenomenon is treated as a nursery tale by the philosophers of our century. Circumstantial evidence weighs with them as a feather in the balance. The comparison of causes with effects, however valuable in physical science, is put aside as worthless and unreliable. The evidence of competent witnesses, however conclusive in a court of justice, counts for nothing. He who pauses before he pronounces is condemned as a trifler. He who believes, is a dreamer or a fool.”
― The Phantom Coach: Collected Ghost Stories
― The Phantom Coach: Collected Ghost Stories
“Social media gives legions of idiots the right to speak when they once only spoke at a bar after a glass of wine, without harming the community ... but now they have the same right to speak as a Nobel Prize winner. It's the invasion of the idiots”
―
―
“I asked him for it.
For the blood, for the rust,
for the sin.
I didn’t want the pearls other girls talked about,
or the fine marble of palaces,
or even the roses in the mouth of servants.
I wanted pomegranates—
I wanted darkness,
I wanted him.
So I grabbed my king and ran away
to a land of death,
where I reigned and people whispered
that I’d been dragged.
I’ll tell you I’ve changed. I’ll tell you,
the red on my lips isn’t wine.
I hope you’ve heard of horns,
but that isn’t half of it. Out of an entire kingdom
he kneels only to me,
calls me Queen, calls me Mercy.
Mama, Mama, I hope you get this.
Know the bed is warm and our hearts are cold,
know never have I been better
than when I am here.
Do not send flowers,
we’ll throw them in the river.
‘Flowers are for the dead’, ‘least that’s what
the mortals say.
I’ll come back when he bores me,
but Mama,
not today.”
―
For the blood, for the rust,
for the sin.
I didn’t want the pearls other girls talked about,
or the fine marble of palaces,
or even the roses in the mouth of servants.
I wanted pomegranates—
I wanted darkness,
I wanted him.
So I grabbed my king and ran away
to a land of death,
where I reigned and people whispered
that I’d been dragged.
I’ll tell you I’ve changed. I’ll tell you,
the red on my lips isn’t wine.
I hope you’ve heard of horns,
but that isn’t half of it. Out of an entire kingdom
he kneels only to me,
calls me Queen, calls me Mercy.
Mama, Mama, I hope you get this.
Know the bed is warm and our hearts are cold,
know never have I been better
than when I am here.
Do not send flowers,
we’ll throw them in the river.
‘Flowers are for the dead’, ‘least that’s what
the mortals say.
I’ll come back when he bores me,
but Mama,
not today.”
―
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