Christians well know that the much-decorated statue of the Church, as it now stands, is not of pure chiseled marble, but of clay, cemented together by blood and tears and hardened in the fires of hatred and persecution.
The masses don’t shed their blood for the benefit of a few individuals.
The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.
There is no longer a way out of our present situation except by forging a road toward our objective, violently and by force, over a sea of blood and under a horizon blazing with fire.
When media coverage sets up a binary opposition between ‘the accuser’ and ‘the accused,’ there is no longer a victim or even an alleged victim – a flesh and blood person who was harmed by the violent act of another.
Men are as we have always known them, neither better nor worse from the hearts of rogues there springs a latent honesty, from the depths of honest men there emerges a brutish appetite – a thirst for extermination, a desire for blood.
Most blacks will argue that they excel because of hard work, because of intellect, determination, sweat, blood, tears and risk.
I hope you will go out and let stories happen to you, and that you will work them, water them with your blood and tears and you laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.
Romantic ideas about the heart fly in the face of known fact, but that doesn’t matter and never has. People many thousands of years ago knew that the heart is basically a blood pump, but that didn’t keep them from also believing it was the seat of romantic love (and all other strong emotion).
No real blood flows in the veins of the knowing subject constructed by Locke, Hume, and Kant, but rather the diluted extract of reason as a mere activity of thought.