[On death] I like to think about the first law of thermodynamics, that no energy in the universe is created and none is destroyed. That means that every bit of energy inside us, every particle will go on to be a part of something else, maybe live as a dragonfish, a microbe, maybe burn in a supernova 10 billion years from now. And every part of us now was once a part of some other thing … a moon, a storm cloud, a mammoth. A monkey. Thousands and thousands of other beautiful things that were just as terrified to die as we are. We gave them new life … a good one, I hope.
It’s fitting we’re down here together, Fitz. This is where all life began on our planet, anyway…
casthesasswinchester:

Spins and turns, angles and curves. The shape of dreams, half-remembered. Slip the surly bonds of earth and touch the face of perfection - a perfect face, perfect lace. Find a perfect world for the end of Kara Thrace.
End of line.

casthesasswinchester:

Spins and turns, angles and curves. The shape of dreams, half-remembered. Slip the surly bonds of earth and touch the face of perfection - a perfect face, perfect lace. Find a perfect world for the end of Kara Thrace.

End of line.

(Source: sine--qua-non)

And now Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.

‘Fat’ is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her.

I mean, is ‘fat’ really the worst thing a human being can be? Is ‘fat’ worse than ‘vindictive’, ‘jealous’, ‘shallow’, ‘vain’, ‘boring’ or ‘cruel’? Not to me; but then, you might retort, what do I know about the pressure to be skinny? I’m not in the business of being judged on my looks, what with being a writer and earning my living by using my brain…

I went to the British Book Awards that evening. After the award ceremony I bumped into a woman I hadn’t seen for nearly three years. The first thing she said to me? ‘You’ve lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you!’

‘Well,’ I said, slightly nonplussed, ‘the last time you saw me I’d just had a baby.’

What I felt like saying was, ‘I’ve produced my third child and my sixth novel since I last saw you. Aren’t either of those things more important, more interesting, than my size?’ But no – my waist looked smaller! Forget the kid and the book: finally, something to celebrate!

I’ve got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don’t want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I’d rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny – a thousand things, before ‘thin’. And frankly, I’d rather they didn’t give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons.

‘There are all kinds of courage,’ said Dumbledore, smiling. ‘It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom.’
Commodified fantasy takes no risks; it invents nothing, but imitates and trivializes. It proceeds by depriving the old stories of their intellectual and ethical complexity, turning their action to violence, their actors to dolls, and their truth-telling to sentimental platitude. Heroes brandish their swords, lasers, wands, as mechanically as combine harvesters, reaping profits. Profoundly disturbing moral choices are sanitized, made cute, made safe. The passionately conceived ideas of the great story-tellers are copied, stereotyped, reduced to toys, molded in bright-colored plastic, advertised, sold, broken, junked, replaceable, interchangeable.

What the commodifiers of fantasy count on and exploit is the insuperable imagination of of the reader, child or adult, which gives even these dead things life — of a sort, for a while.

Imagination, like all living things, lives now, and it lives with, from, on true change. Like all we do and have, it can be co-opted and degraded; but it survives commercial and didactic exploitation. The land outlasts the empires. The conquerors may leave desert where there was forest and meadow, but the rain will fall, the rivers will run to the sea. The unstable, mutable, untruthful realms of Once-upon-a-time are as much a part of human history and thoughts as the nations in our kaleidoscopic atlases, and some are more enduring.
Freedom is a heavy load, a great and strange burden for the spirit to undertake. It is not easy. It is not a gift given, but a choice made, and the choice may be a hard one. The road goes ever upward towards the light; but the laden traveler may never reach the end of it.
Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.
There are wonders enough out there without our inventing any.