“ Do you see this lantern?” cried Syme in a terrible voice. “Do you see the cross carved on it, and the flame inside? You did not make it. You did not light it. Better men than you, men who could believe and obey, twisted the entrails of iron and preserved the legend of fire. There is not a street you walk on, there is not a thread you wear, that was not made as this lantern was, by denying your philosophy of dirt and rats. You can make nothing. You can only destroy. You will destroy mankind; you will destroy the world. Let that suffice you. Yet this one old Christian lantern you shall not destroy. It shall go where your empire of apes will never have the wit to find it.
The Man Who Was Thursday
VIRUS
You've seen this reel before. You know how it ends. But it gets better every time.
VIRUS feed.
VIRUS mobile.
VIRUS is a truck out on the four-way, a mile or more away.
But it's the light in your VIRUS that keeps me warm.
VIRUS has all the fresh flavor of just-brewed drip coffee. Your husband will say, Christ, Sally, I used to think your coffee was only so-so. But now, wow! Safe when taken as directed.
VIRUS is a machine for making choices.
VIRUS: the spring in your step.
VIRUS promises a soft manageability, and it delivers.
VIRUS is the end to that.
VIRUS is your quiet smile as you run into an old friend on the street.
VIRUS welcomes you with a firm handshake of carbon monoxide.
VIRUS.
VIRUS is a welcome cup of coffee on a hot morning.
VIRUS is a windswept vista through your polycarbonate riot shield.
VIRUS is the social.
VIRUS holds you in its long petro- chemical arms.
VIRUS reconfigures cities. For breakfast.
VIRUS.