#liberty quotes

[disaster-magician]

Imagine this takes place at the end of step 2 so they're close enough to joke around with each other lol

(Fake screenshots! These are fan made based on incorrect quotes and not in the game)

[philosophybits]

Life is given to me only once, and never will be again — I don't want to sit waiting for universal happiness. I want to live myself; otherwise it's better not to live at all.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

"Pandora, Worrying About What She Is Doing, Finds a Way into the Valley through the Scrub Oak," from Always Coming Home by Ursula K. Le Guin

Look how messy this wilderness is. Look at this scrub oak, chaparro, the chaparral was named for it and consists of it mixed up with a lot of other things, but look at this shrub of it right here now. The tallest limb or stem is about four feet tall, but most of the stems are only a foot or two. One of them looks as if it had been cut off with a tool, a clean slice across, but who? what for? This shrub isn’t good for anything and this ridge isn’t on the way to anywhere. A lot of smaller branch-ends look broken or bitten off. Maybe deer browse the leafbuds. The little grey branches and twigs grow every which way, many dead and lichened, crossing each other, choking each other out. Digger-pine needles, spiders’ threads, dead bay leaves are stuck in the branches. It’s a mess. It’s littered. It has no overall shape. Most of the stems come up from one area, but not all; there’s no center and no symmetry. A lot of sticks sticking up out of the ground a little ways with leaves on some of them—that describes it fairly well. The leaves themselves show some order, they seem to obey some laws, poorly. They are all different sizes from about a quarter of an inch to an inch long, but each is enough like the others that one could generalise an ideal scrub-oak leaf: a dusty, medium dark-green color, with a slight convex curve to the leaf, which pillows up a bit between the veins that run slanting outward from the central vein; and the edge is irregularly serrated, with a little spine at each apex. These leaves grow irregularly spaced on alternate sides of their twig up to the top, where they crowd into a bunch, a sloppy rosette. Under the litter of dead leaves, its own and others’, and moss and rocks and mold and junk, the shrub must have a more or less shrub-shaped complex of roots, going fairly deep, probably deeper than it stands aboveground, because wet as it is here now in February, it will be bone dry on this ridge in summer.

There are no acorns left from last fall, if this shrub is old enough to have borne them. It probably is. It could be two years old or twenty or who knows? It is an oak, but a scrub oak, a low oak, a no-account oak, and there are at least a hundred very much like it in sight from this rock I am sitting on, and there are hundreds and thousands and hundreds of thousands more on this ridge and the next ridge, but numbers are wrong. They are in error. You don’t count scrub oaks. When you can count them, something has gone wrong. You can count how many in a hundred square yards and multiply, if you’re a botanist, and so make a good estimate, a fair guess, but you cannot count the scrub oaks on this ridge, let alone the ceanothus, buckbrush, or wild lilac, which I have not mentioned, and the other variously messy and humble components of the chaparral. The chaparral is like atoms and the components of atoms: it evades. It is innumerable. It is not accidentally but essentially messy. This shrub is not beautiful, nor even if I were ten feet high on hashish would it be mystical, nor is it nauseating; if a philosopher found it so, that would be his problem, but nothing to do with the scrub oak. This thing is nothing to do with us. This thing is wilderness. The civilized human mind’s relation to it is imprecise, fortuitous, and full of risk. There are no shortcuts. All the analogies run one direction, our direction. There is a hideous little tumor in one branch. The new leaves, this year’s growth, are so large and symmetrical compared with the older leaves that I took them at first for part of another plant, a toyon growing in with the dwarf oak, but a summer’s dry heat no doubt will shrink them down and warp them. Analogies are easy; the live oak, the humble evergreen, can certainly be made into a sermon, just as it can be made into firewood. Read or burnt. Sermo, I read; I read scrub oak. But I don’t, and it isn’t here to be read, or burnt. It is casting a shadow across the page of this notebook in the weak sunshine of three-thirty of a February afternoon in Northern California. When I close the book and go, the shadow will not be on the page, though I have drawn a line around it; only the pencil line will be on the page. The shadow will be then on the dead-leaf-thick messy ground or on the mossy rock my ass is on now, and the shadow will move lawfully and with great majesty as the earth turns.

The mind can imagine that shadow of a few leaves falling in the wilderness; the mind is a wonderful thing. But what about all the shadows of all the other leaves on all the other branches on all the other scrub oaks on all the other ridges of all the wilderness? If you could imagine those for even a moment, what good would it do? Infinite good.

-- Ursula K. Le Guin, Always Coming Home (273-5)

[justprettywordsmydear]

britpop and blair

[incorrect-hs-quotes]

GG: HORRIBLE awful wasp that wants to KILL ME that was in my bedroom.

TT: How did you do that.

GG: Very fearfully.

TT: What kind of god are you to capture a wasp in an orb.

GG: No clue.

GT: You look like a pokemon trainer with their mega beedrill.

TG: BORB (BEE ORB)

GT: Technically wasp orb (worb)!!

GG: I am terribly curious of the pasting strategy on this pic. The dedication of lasso-ing the orb out of the photo only to put it on top of the white square is admirable.

TG: i fuckig forgot 2 make it transparent SMARTASS!!!

[palatinewolfsblog]

"Justice too long delayed is justice denied."

Martin Luther King.

[pretty-kitten-paw]

It's ok it's ok I'm just thinking about when she held her wax removal knife against my throat and said

"Now this really wouldn't be safe to do with a real knife but since it's wooden I can just press and press and oh look at you"

As my eyes rolled into my head

[chinzhilla]

—Tan, We Are episode 9

BON’S 1K + BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION

for/inspired by @firstkant, fka marcpoon 🩵

[nobeerreviews]

Art is never decoration, embellishment; instead, it is work of enlightenment. Art, in other words, is a technique for acquiring liberty.

-- Bruce Lee

(Roma)

[formulanni]

GRAZIE RAGAZZI GRAZIE FORZA! FORZA FERRARI!

Tags: @st-leclerc @rubywingsracing

[wutheringheightsmp4]

[screamingfromuz]

Good job to all the people that said they will not vote to Harris because she is "a Genocide supporter".

Congratulations! You just got a fucking criminal with intention to found a dictatorship elected!

[philosophybits]

There are many truths of which the full meaning cannot be realized until personal experience has brought it home.

John Stuart Mill, On Liberty

[silanb]

Jean: You’re such a fucking headache Harry, do you even know how high maintenance you are?

Harry: I am not high maintenance! Kim tell him!

Kim, concussed: Huh?… I like maintenance.

[drawfee-quot3s]

they should gijinka the beetles, parentheses, the band

- karina

[sictransitgloriamvndi]

The Dark Enslaving Empire

The dark enslaving empire Is built on massacres and money On puppet police and politicians On virtue-signalled violence On inversion and infection On blackmail and bombs On petroleum and predation On gaslighting and greed The dark enslaving empire Is ruled by the demon they call development By the usury they call growth By the fabrication they call history By the theft they call law By the imposture they call authority By the occupation they call government By the dictatorship they call democracy The dark enslaving empire Is stained with deceit beyond belief With hypocrisy beyond imagination With criminality beyond all limits With cruelty beyond understanding With the screaming deaths of children With the rituals of its terror With the evil oozing from its smile The dark enslaving empire Is mortally afraid of our freedom from fear Of our angry authenticity Of our truth-telling Of the courage of our convictions Of our loving and our laughter Of the spirit of our soaring Of the resonance of our revolt - Paul Cudenec