#thompson

to whatever extent the Hell’s Angels may or may be latent sadomasochists or repressed homosexuals is to me--after nearly a year in the constant company of outlaw motorcyclists--almost entirely irrelevant. There are literary critics who insist that Ernest Hemingway was a tortured queer and that Mark Twain was haunted to the end of his days by a penchant for interracial buggery. It is a good way to stir up a tempest in the academic quarterlies, but it won’t change a word of what either man wrote, nor alter the impact of their work on the world they were writing about. Perhaps Manolete was a hoof fetishist, or suffered from terrible hemorrhoids as a result of long nights in Spanish horn parlors…but he was a great matador, and it is hard to see how any amount of Freudian theorizing can have the slightest effect on the reality of the thing he did best. ↗

— Hunter S. Thompson

#hunter-thompson #change

Thank you, Adam,” I told him. “Thank you for tearing Tim into small Tim bits. Thank you for forcing me to drink one last cup of fairy bug-juice so I could have use of both of my arms. Thank you for being there, for putting up with me.” By that point I wasn’t laughing anymore. “Thank you for keeping me from being another of Stefan’s sheep—I’ll take pack over that any day. Thank you for making the tough calls, for giving me time.” I stood up and walked to him, leaning against him and pressing my face against his shoulder. “Thank you for loving me.” His arms closed around me, pressing flesh painfully hard against bone. Love hurts like that sometimes. ↗

— Patricia Briggs

#mercy-thompson #love

Graffiti is beautiful; like a brick in the face of a cop. ↗

— Hunter S. Thompson

#graffiti #hunter-s-thompson #hunter-thompson #subversion #beauty

Mine. He was mine, and not even death would take him from me—not if I could help it. ↗

— Patricia Briggs

#death

Pack is for comfort when you hurt, I thought, putting my head back down. And for the first time in a long time, maybe the first time ever, I appreciated being a part of one. ↗

— Patricia Briggs

#comfort #family #mercy-thompson #pack #silver-borne

So then, how can I trust you now?" Nathan asked. His tone was light, but his face was guarded. Now would be an ideal time for that kiss, my brain whispered, but I couldn't take the coward's way out. "Because," I said simply, "I'm in love with you. ↗

— Alicia Thompson

#psych-major-syndrome #love

Since the branch of philosophy on which we are at present engaged differs from the others in not being a subject of merely intellectual interest — I mean we are not concerned to know what goodness essentially is, but how we are to become good men, for this alone gives the study its practical value — we must apply our minds to the solution of the problems of conduct. ↗

— Aristotle

#thompson #men

C’est moi, c’est moi,’tis I,' I told him. It seemed appropriately melodramatic, though I didn’t know if he’d catch the reference. I shouldn’t have worried. Unexpectedly, he laughed. “Trust you to quote Lancelot rather than Guinevere. ↗

— Patricia Briggs

#mercy-thompson #musical-theater-reference #paranormal #sexism #shifter

Bran was the only person I knew who could use words like "blackguard" and make them sound like swear words-but then he could have said "bunny rabbit" in that tone of voice and weaken my spine with the same shiver of fear. ↗

— Patricia Briggs

#mercedes-thompson #werewolf #mercy

Mercy," said my mother thoughtfully, "you never told me your werewolf neighbor was quite that hot. ↗

— Patricia Briggs

#mercy-thompson #mercy