Violence settle issues

“Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent” – Issac Asimov. I think about that one a lot whenever I’m angry. I tell myself that I may be angry, but I will not let myself be incompetent.

chiguayante
“Anyone who clings to the historically untrue and thoroughly immoral doctrine that violence never settles anything I would advise to conjure up the ghosts of Napoleon Bonaparte and the Duke of Wellington and let them debate it. The ghost of Hitler could referee and the jury might well be the Dodo, the Great Auk, and the Passenger Pigeon. Violence, naked force, has settled more issues in history than has any other factor, and the contrary opinion is wishful thinking at its worst. Breeds that forget this basic truth have always paid for it with their lives and their freedoms.”

Lt. Col. Jean V. Dubois (via Robert Heinlein, Starship Troopers)

Link to power concedes nothing

Mothers

A short story in three short paragraphs. Beautiful. I got this from reddit thread sharing book quotes. Nothing else there felt as wonderful as this passage.

Carsten Jensen, “We, The Drowned”

“We said goodbye to our mothers. They’d been around all our lives, but we’d never properly seen them. They’d been bent over washing tubs or cooking pots, their faces red and swollen from heat and steam, holding everything together while our fathers were away at sea, and nodding off every night on the kitchen chair, with a darning needle in hand. It was their endurance and exhaustion we knew, rather than them. And we never asked them for anything because we didn’t want to bother them.

That was how we showed our love: with silence.

Their eyes were always red. In the morning, when they woke us up, it was from stove smoke. And in the evening, when they said good night to us, still dressed, it was from exhaustion. And sometimes it was from crying over someone who would never come home again. Ask us about the color of a mother’s eyes, and we’d reply, “They’re not brown. They aren’t green. They’re neither blue nor gray. They’re red.” That’s what we’d say.
And now they’ve come down alongside the wharf to say goodbye. But between us, there’s silence. Their eyes pierce us.
“Come back,” their stare pleads. “Don’t leave us.”
But we won’t be coming back. We want out. We want to get away. Our mother sticks a knife in our heart when we say goodbye on the wharf. And we stick a knife in hers when we go. And that’s how we’re connected: through the hurt we inflict on one another.”