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Quote by Robin Dalmar

“The group must have fled after being discovered, and the rest after taking the brunt end of Anya’s fireball. Matthias reminded himself never to get on her bad side.”

Quote by Robin Dalmar

Book:Cove of Storms
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Cove of Storms

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Robin Dalmar

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“Crazy Horse was dead. He was brave and good and wise. He never wanted anything but to save his people, and he fought the Wasichus only when they came to kill us in our own country. He was only thirty years old. They could not kill him in battle. They had to lie to him and kill him that way. I cried all night, and so did my father.”

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Book:Black Elk Speaks: Being the Life Story of a Holy Man of the Oglala Sioux
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“We hope that as Christians we mature and grow and become more and more like Christ. But the church and its wisdom assumes we will fail even after our baptism. The church presumes that life is long and zeal fades not just for some of us but for all. So it has included with it's life a season in which all of us recapture our love for God and his kingdom and cast off those things that so easily entangle us.”

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Book:Lent: The Season of Repentance and Renewal
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“Art is the conscious making of numinous phenomena. Many objects are just objects - inert, merely utilitarian. Many events are inconsequential, too banal to add anything to our experience of life. This is unfortunate, as one cannot grow except by having one’s spirit greatly stirred; and the spirit cannot be greatly stirred by spiritless things. Much of our very life is dead. For primitive man, this was not so. He made his own possessions, and shaped and decorated them with the aim of making them not merely useful, but powerful. He tried to infuse his weapons with the nature of the tiger, his cooking pots with the life of growing things; and he succeeded. Appearance, material, history, context, rarity - perhaps rarity most of all - combine to create, magically, the quality of soul. But we modern demiurges are prolific copyists; we give few things souls of their own. Locomotives, with their close resemblance to beasts, may be the great exception; but in nearly all else with which today’s poor humans are filling the world, I see a quelling of the numinous, an ashening of the fire of life. We are making an inert world; we are building a cemetery. And on the tombs, to remind us of life, we lay wreaths of poetry and bouquets of painting. You expressed this very condition, when you said that art beautifies life. No longer integral, the numinous has become optional, a luxury - one of which you, my dear friend, are fond, however unconsciously. You adorn yourself with the same instincts as the primitive who puts a frightening mask of clay and feathers on his head, and you comport yourself in an uncommonly calculated way - as do I. We thus make numinous phenomena of ourselves. No mean trick - to make oneself a rarity, in this overpopulated age.”

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Book:The Etched City
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