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Quote by Steven Seril

“It's politics. You are angry with politics. I understand that. Truly, I do. As powerful as I am, where I come from I am considered a third-tier being. The lords and the royals—some of whom know nothing of the horrors and hardships of war—reign over me. It angers me to no end, and yet I continue. I follow. I do what I must. I do what I have to. I follow the path laid out in front of me. I do my duty.” “Then how are you any different from the slaves?” “We are all slaves, whether we want to accept it or not. It's finding higher meaning in the process of servitude where we find relief.”

Quote by Steven Seril

Book:The Destroyer of Worlds: An Answer to Every Question
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The Destroyer of Worlds: An Answer to Every Question

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Steven Seril

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Book:Broken Throne
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“What is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it; what cozening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless emperor commands me; that against all natural lovings and longings, I so keep pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time; recklessly making me ready to do what in my own proper, natural heart, I durst not so much as dare? Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or who, that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself; but is as an errand-boy in heaven; nor one single star can revolve, but by some invisible power; how then can this one small heart beat; this one small brain think thoughts; unless God does that beating, does that thinking, does that living, and not I. By heaven, man, we are turned round and round in this world, like yonder windlass, and Fate is the handspike. And all the time, lo! that smiling sky, and this unsounded sea! Look! see yon Albicore! who put it into him to chase and fang that flying-fish? Where do murderers go, man! Who's to doom, when the judge himself is dragged to the bar? But it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and the air smells now, as if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have been making hay somewhere under the slopes of the Andes, Starbuck, and the mowers are sleeping among the new-mown hay. Sleeping? Aye, toil we how we may, we all sleep at last on the field. Sleep? Aye, and rust amid greenness; as last year's scythes flung down, and left in the half-cut swaths--Starbuck!”

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Book:Moby Dick
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