
Come help me convince her (or vice versa

u.
Moderator: Orlion
Not taking up that one. I enjoy the Ender books, but I'm fairly sure that Card himself vastly overestimates what he thinks he's achievedOrlion wrote:But I'll never change my mind on Orson Scott Card. *throws down glove*
Hmmmm! So, a grim, dark book with an impressionistic and inconclusive narrative. We may have a bit of a job on our handsThe yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine.
ussusimiel wrote:
P.S. I always think that I'm doing something right when luci breaks cover, even if it's being wrong in an annoying way!![]()
i won't. i've just been busy moving my entire life fromAvatar wrote:Good on you U. It does seem to be becoming an increasingly rare occurrence. Don't fade away LuciMay.
--A
[*'Hail!....Those who are about to die salute you.']"I began to feel slightly uneasy. You know I am not used to such ceremonies, and there was something ominous in the atmosphere. It was just as though I had been let into some conspiracy— I don't know— something not quite right; and I was glad to get out. In the outer room the two women knitted black wool feverishly. People were arriving, and the younger one was walking back and forth introducing them. The old one sat on her chair. Her flat cloth slippers were propped up on a foot-warmer, and a cat reposed on her lap. She wore a starched white affair on her head, had a wart on one cheek, and silver-rimmed spectacles hung on the tip of her nose. She glanced at me above the glasses. The swift and indifferent placidity of that look troubled me. Two youths with foolish and cheery countenances were being piloted over, and she threw at them the same quick glance of unconcerned wisdom. She seemed to know all about them and about me too. An eerie feeling came over me. She seemed uncanny and fateful. Often far away there I thought of these two, guarding the door of Darkness, knitting black wool as for a warm pall, one introducing, introducing continuously to the unknown, the other scrutinizing the cheery and foolish faces with unconcerned old eyes. 'Ave! Old knitter of black wool. Morituri te salutant.'* Not many of those she looked at ever saw her again— not half, by a long way.