Am I the only one who knows? I'll bet I am; nobody else really understands Grasshopper but me - they just imagine they do.
Am I the only one who knows? I'll bet I am; nobody else really understands Grasshopper but me - they just imagine they do.
Can anyone alter fate? All of us combined... or one great figure... or someone strategically placed, who happens to be in the right spot. Chance. Accident. And our lives, our world, hanging on it.
Eierkopf. Egghead. Because the big double-domed empty heads break so easily . . . in the street brawls.
It goes on, he thought. The internecine hate. Perhaps the seeds are there, in that. They will eat one another at last, and leave the rest of us here and there in the world, still alive. Still enough of us once more to build and hope and make a few simple plans.
On some other world, possibly it is different. Better. There are clear good and evil alternatives. Not these obscure admixtures, these blends, with no proper tool by which to untangle the components.
They know a million tricks, those novelists. Take Doctor Goebbels; that's how he started out, writing fiction. Appeals to the base lusts that hide in everyone no matter how respectable on the surface. Yes, the novelist knows humanity, how worthless they are, ruled by their testicles, swayed by cowardice, selling out every cause because of their greed - all he's got to do is thump on the drum, and there's his response. And he's laughing, of course, behind his hand at the effect he gets.
Truth, she thought. As terrible as death. But harder to find.
When I was a child, I thought as a child. But now I have put away childish things. ... I must be scientific.
A weird time in which we are alive. We can travel anywhere we want, even to other planets. And for what? To sit day after day, declining in morale and hope.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories