Tell Him, We Are Not Devils But

There Are Some Who Live By Every Rule And Cling Tightly To Their Rectitude Because They Fear Being Swept Away By A Tempest Of Passion, And There Are Others Who Cling To The Rules Because They Fear That There Is No Passion There At All, And That If They Let Go They Would Simply Remain Where They Are, Foolish And Unmoved; And They Could Bear That Least Of All. Living A Life Of Iron Control Lets Them Pretend To Themselves That Only By The Mightiest Effort Of Will Can They Hold Great Passions At Bay.

The State Of Mind Which I Put Myself When I Tell A Story Is One In Which Superstition Flourishes Very Easily. And I Welcome That Because It Helps Me.

Half A Dozen Brats Turned With Expressions Of Derision, And Lyra Threw Her Cigarette Down, Recognizing The Cue For A Fight. Everyone's Daemon Instantly Became Warlike: Each Child Was Accompanied By Fangs, Or Claws, Or Bristling Fur, And Pantalaimon, Contemptuous Of The Limited Imaginations Of These Gyptian Daemons, Became A Dragon The Size Of A Deer Hound.

Long Before Writing, People Were Telling Each Other Stories And The Audiobook Goes All The Way Back To That Tradition.

There's Some That Came Here Never Believing They Were Dead. They Insisted All The Way That They Were Alive, It Was A Mistake, Someone Would Have To Pay; Made No Difference. There's Others Who Longed To Be Dead When They Were Alive, Poor Souls; Lives Full Of Pain Or Misery; Killed Themselves For A Chance Of A Blessed Rest, And Found That Nothing Had Changed Except For The Worse, And This Time There Was No Escape; You Can't Make Yourself Alive Again.