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Quote by James Tynion IV

“Okay, so you start with a symbol, then you add in ceremony. The idea the wand is the symbol of the cock, which we use to create life. Some fucking caveman shaman starts carrying around a big stick because he's smarter than the other cavemen and he's the one who can tell the what things mean. Now Harry Potter's running around with a little dick in his hand shooting out magic cum, and that image carries all the meaning of all those ten thousand years of history and connections. It's a shortcut that connects you to a larger continuum of symbolism and ritual. Different societies had different beliefs. . . . But in the end, there were still common symbols with shared meanings. Like the Sun, or water . . . or a big fucking juicy cock.”

Quote by James Tynion IV

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James Tynion IV

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“Magic is real. It works. It has impact on the world. The human brain is incredibly powerful, and you can rewire it. You let yourself become a symbol, in a whole fucking history of symbols, knowing that history and all of its meaning, and you open yourself up to a kind of communion . . . Ecstasy of the body becomes ecstasy of the mind, and you see things from all new angles that recategorize the mundane world around you.”

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Book:The Department of Truth, Vol. 3: Free Country
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“And suddenly the motorcyclist felt ignited, that was, in the most subtle spark of need: to live in that alternate, finer side of life that was within reach and waited to be taken. It occurred to him what he wanted. And as that butterfly of chance flew past the biker’s soul, he eyed it and caught the white-winged sign instantly. There, he said to himself, I’ll go. And he attended to that meteoric obligation—that dear, vivacious reality unveiled by leaping humans. The biker wanted to see what a certain future looked like, and excitedly leaned back on his Triumph, released the clutch, and pushing off on the rubber footrests, leaned high up in the air to his right and threw himself off the bike.”

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Book:A Happy Ghost
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“He had tried so hard that day. Andrei looked toward the smoke, searching for a face, and found none. He knew there was no reward for his life. It would continue to be excruciating for him to venture into the world with stakes and yet receive no friendly consolation. No audience. There were only things and him. The state of aloneness was the condition comets came with. Oh, what a hand could do! A friend! A touch on the shoulder! But this loud torment of silence would serve as the rhythm of a much larger song that played in him—the tune of ceaseless risk. The song commences at the first streak of undertaking. And the lyrics of progress are never congratulated. How could others toast to a victory they did not understand? That they could not see?”

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Book:A Happy Ghost
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