He's vain. His vanity's hurt by the world's refusal to accept his remedies and become immediately Enlightened. And what does a vain man do when insulted, Sir?..."He lashes out, Sir," says I. "He seeks to portion blame. He fumes, Sir. He attacks. In the case before us, such is his despotic power, he kills. He kills, Sir. He wars on other nations. Mary's blood, Sir, but this poor sphere of ours suffers more from the single, frustrated egoist than from any natural—or supernatural—misery. Your own Church's history, Sir, illustrates my point well enough, eh? We are too frequently in the power of mad children, who rage and stamp and break Kingdoms as they break toys. They order thousands of deaths a day as if they were spoiled brats kicking at their dolls!
English writer, editor, critic (born 1939)
Michael Moorcock (born 18 December 1939) is a prolific British writer and editor, long known for his SF and fantasy works and now also for literary novels.
From: Wikiquote (CC BY-SA 4.0)
Pen Names:
Bill Barclay
•
William Ewert Barclay
•
Michael Barrington
•
Edward P. Bradbury
•
James Colvin
•
Warwick Colvin, Jr.
•
Philip James
•
Desmond Reid
Birth Name:
Michael John Moorcock
Alternative Names:
Hank Janson
From Wikidata (CC0)
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I stared at the water and saw the clouds reflected in it, saw them break to reveal the moon. It was the same moon I had known as John Daker. The same bland face could be made out staring down in contentment at the antics of the creatures of the planet it circled. How many disasters had that moon witnessed? How many foolish crusades? How many wars and battles and murders?
The Dead God’s Book and the Golden Barge are one and the same. They have no real existence, save in the wishful imagination of mankind. There is, the story says, no Holy Grail which will transform a man overnight from bewildered ignorance to complete knowledge—the answer already is within him, if he cares to train himself to find it. A rather overemphasised fact, throughout history, but one generally ignored all the same.
The soldier shook his head, waxing philosophical. “It’s a madness, sir. We’ve all got it. It could go on until the last human being crawls away from the body of the chap he’s just bashed to bits with a stone. That’s what war is, sir—madness. You don’t think about what you’re doing. You forget, don’t you—you just go on killing and killing.”
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How will the doctor fare?" Corum called. "The one who took me in."
"He will die unless he is clever and denounces you," Jhary told him.
"But he was a man of great intelligence and humanity. A man of science, too—of learning."
"All the more reason for killing him, if their priesthood has its way. Superstition, not learning, is respected here.
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