“But from the hoop’s bewitching round,
Her very shoe has power to wound.”

“The very idea of making shoes by hand boggled her mind.”

“I say that we are wound
With mercy round and round
As if with air.”

“Round-heads and Wooden-shoes are standing jokes.”

“There's a cat that's a stray that's been coming around my house for the last couple of years. … I noticed upon petting her for the very first time that beneath her fur, almost beneath my hand, was ripples and ripples of wounds — amazing — wounds upon wounds and scars upon scars — old, of course, but she had been through it a lot! Anyway, I named her "Has Wounds But Still Lives" … Well a few days ago, she came by, and dry food that I'd put out there was falling from her mouth. And upon closer inspection, it was because this side of her face was practically gone! … And it looked to me as if she could survive it, but it was grisly, it really was — and it brought you to tears, and made you nervous and afraid, and all kinds of things.”

“The wounded want power, nothing else; they think it will keep them from being hurt again.”

“Of Law there can be no less acknowledged than that her seat is the bosom of God, her voice the harmony of the world. All things in heaven and earth do her homage,—the very least as feeling her care, and the greatest as not exempted from her power.”

“We've got two very despondent gentlemen, we've got Claire, she will get her 500 rounds of bullshit out and stick it in her AK47 and deafen us all in here.”

“So a lioness that has newly whelped, beset by Numidian hunters in her cruel den, stands upright over her young, gnashing her teeth in grim and piteous wise, her mind in doubt; she could disrupt the groups and break their weapons with her bite, but love for her offspring binds her cruel heart and from the midst of her fury she looks round at her cubs.”
Ut lea, quam saeuo fetam pressere cubili venantes Numidae, natos erecta superstat, mente sub incerta torvum ac miserabile frendens; illa quidem turbare globos et frangere morsu tela queat, sed prolis amor crudelia vincit pectora, et a media catulos circumspicit ira.

“Here the wild will woke within her lighting up her flying dreams,
Round and round the planets whirling break in woods and flowers and streams,
And the winds are shaken from them as the leaves from off the rose,
And the feet of earth go dancing in the way that beauty goes,
And the souls of earth are kindled by the incense of her breath
As her light alternate lures them through the gates of birth and death.”