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“Loki'd!”
― Tom Hiddleston

“Where is the graveyard of dead gods? What lingering mourner waters their mounds? There was a time when Jupiter was the king of the gods, and any man who doubted his puissance was ipso facto a barbarian and an ignoramus. But where in all the world is there a man who worships Jupiter today? And who of Huitzilopochtli? In one year - and it is no more than five hundred years ago - 50,000 youths and maidens were slain in sacrifice to him. Today, if he is remembered at all, it is only by some vagrant savage in the depths of the Mexican forest. Huitzilopochtli, like many other gods, had no human father; his mother was a virtuous widow; he was born of an apparently innocent flirtation that she carried out with the sun.

When he frowned, his father, the sun, stood still. When he roared with rage, earthquakes engulfed whole cities. When he thirsted he was watered with 10,000 gallons of human blood. But today Huitzilopochtli is as magnificently forgotten as Allen G. Thurman. Once the peer of Allah, Buddha and Wotan, he is now the peer of Richmond P. Hobson, Alton B. Parker, Adelina Patti, General Weyler and Tom Sharkey.

Speaking of Huitzilopochtli recalls his brother Tezcatlipoca. Tezcatlipoca was almost as powerful; he consumed 25,000 virgins a year.

Lead me to his tomb: I would weep, and hang a couronne des perles. But who knows where it is? Or where the grave of Quetzalcoatl is? Or Xiuhtecuhtli? Or Centeotl, that sweet one? Or Tlazolteotl, the goddess of love? Of Mictlan? Or Xipe? Or all the host of Tzitzimitl? Where are their bones? Where is the willow on which they hung their harps? In what forlorn and unheard-of Hell do they await their resurrection morn? Who enjoys their residuary estates? Or that of Dis, whom Caesar found to be the chief god of the Celts? Of that of Tarves, the bull? Or that of Moccos, the pig? Or that of Epona, the mare? Or that of Mullo, the celestial jackass? There was a time when the Irish revered all these gods, but today even the drunkest Irishman laughs at them.

But they have company in oblivion: the Hell of dead gods is as crowded
as the Presbyterian Hell for babies. Damona is there, and Esus, and
Drunemeton, and Silvana, and Dervones, and Adsullata, and Deva, and
Bellisima, and Uxellimus, and Borvo, and Grannos, and Mogons. All mighty gods in their day, worshipped by millions, full of demands and impositions, able to bind and loose - all gods of the first class. Men labored for generations to build vast temples to them - temples with stones as large as hay-wagons.

The business of interpreting their whims occupied thousands of priests,
bishops, archbishops. To doubt them was to die, usually at the stake.
Armies took to the field to defend them against infidels; villages were burned, women and children butchered, cattle were driven off. Yet in the end they all withered and died, and today there is none so poor to do them reverence.

What has become of Sutekh, once the high god of the whole Nile Valley? What has become of:
Resheph
Anath
Ashtoreth
El
Nergal
Nebo
Ninib
Melek
Ahijah
Isis
Ptah
Anubis
Baal
Astarte
Hadad
Addu
Shalem
Dagon
Sharaab
Yau
Amon-Re
Osiris
Sebek
Molech?

All there were gods of the highest eminence. Many of them are mentioned with fear and trembling in the Old Testament. They ranked, five or six thousand years ago, with Yahweh Himself; the worst of them stood far higher than Thor. Yet they have all gone down the chute, and with them the following:
µþ¾±±ôé
Ler
Arianrhod
Morrigu
Govannon
Gunfled
Sokk-mimi
Nemetona
Dagda
Robigus
Pluto
Ops
Meditrina
Vesta

You may think I spoof. That I invent the names. I do not. Ask the rector to lend you any good treatise on comparative religion: You will find them all listed. They were gods of the highest standing and dignity-gods of civilized peoples-worshiped and believed in by millions. All were omnipotent, omniscient and immortal.

And all are dead.”
― H.L. Mencken, A Mencken Chrestomathy

“He is tolerated by the gods, perhaps because his stratagems and plans save them as often as they get them into trouble.

Loki makes the world more interesting but less safe. He is the father of monsters, the author of woes, the sly god.”
― Neil Gaiman, Norse Mythology

“Be your friend’s
true friend.
Return gift for gift.
Repay laughter
with laughter again
but betrayal with treachery.”
― ±áá±¹²¹³¾Ã¡±ô

“It is probable, as Anthony Faulkes suggests, that the pagan religion was never systematically understood by those who practiced it. Different areas of Scandinavia worshipped different gods at different times in the pre-Christian era; the localized nature of cults and rituals produced neither dogma nor sacred texts, as far as we know. Rather pre-Christian religion was 'a disorganized body of conflicting traditions that was probably never reduced in heathen times to a consistent orthodoxy such as Snorri attempts to present'.”
― Carolyne Larrington, The Poetic Edda: Stories of the Norse Gods and Heroes

“I push my eye farther into the crack, smushing my cheek. The door rattles.
Her arm freezes. The needle stops. Instantly, her shadow fills the room, a mountain on the wall.
“L±ð¾±»å²¹³ó?â€�
I hold my breath. No hiding in the wood-box this time. Before I even have time to pull my eye away, the door opens. My mother's face, like the moon in the dark hallway. She squints and takes a step toward me. “Lei-lee?�
I want to tell her I’ve had a nightmare about the Sisters, that I can’t sleep with all this whispering and worrying from her—and what are you sewing in the dark, Mamma? I try to move my lips, but I have no mouth. My tongue is gone; my nose is gone. I don’t have a face anymore.
It has happened again.
I am lying on my back, flatter than bread. My mother’s bare feet slap against my skin, across my belly, my chest. She digs her heel in, at my throat that isn’t there. I can see her head turning toward her bedroom. Snores crawl under the closed door. The door to my room is open, but she can’t see my bed from where she stands, can’t see that my bed is empty. She nods to herself: everything as it should be. Her foot grinds into my chin. The door to the sewing room closes behind her.
I struggle to sit up. I wiggle my hips and jiggle my legs. It is no use. I am stuck, pressed flat into the grain of wood under me.
But it’s not under me. It is me.
I have become the floor.
I know it’s true, even as I tell myself I am dreaming, that I am still in bed under the covers. My blood whirls inside the wood knots, spinning and rushing, sucking me down and down. The nicks of boot prints stomp and kick at my bones, like a bruise. I feel the clunk of one board to the next, like bumps of a wheel over stone. And then I am all of it, every knot, grain, and sliver, running down the hall, whooshing like a river, ever so fast, over the edge and down a waterfall, rushing from room to room. I pour myself under and over and through, feeling objects brush against me as I pass by. Bookshelves, bedposts, Pappa’s slippers, a fallen dressing gown, the stubby ends of an old chair. A mouse hiding inside a hole in the wall. Mor’s needle bobbing up and down.
How is this possible?
I am so wide, I can see both Mor and Far at the same time, even though they are in different rooms, one wide awake, the other fast asleep. I feel my father’s breath easily, sinking through the bed into me, while Mor’s breath fights against me, against the floor. In and out, each breath swimming away, away, at the speed of her needle, up up up in out in out outoutout—let me out, get me out, I want out.
That’s what Mamma is thinking, and I hear it, loud and clear. I strain my ears against the wood to get back into my own body. Nothing happens. I try again, but this time push hard with my arms that aren’t there. Nothing at all. I stop and sink, letting go, giving myself into the floor.
Seven, soon to be eight� it’s time, time’s up, time to go.
The needle is singing, as sure as stitches on a seam. I am inside the thread, inside her head. Mamma is ticking—onetwothreefourfivesix�
Seven. Seven what? And why is it time to go?
Don’t leave me, Mamma. I beg her feet, her knees, her hips, her chest, her heart, my begging spreading like a big squid into the very skin of her.
It’s then that I feel it.
Something is happening to Mamma. Something neither Pappa nor I have noticed.
She is becoming dust.
She is drier than the wood I have become.

- Becoming Leidah

Quoted by copying text from the epub version using BlueFire e-reader.”
― Michelle Grierson, Becoming Leidah

“Hel's kingdom seems to have been reserved for the common dead, especially those who were not slain by handheld weapons. Valhöll, however, welcomed the valiant. Originally located beneath the earth, the Hall of Warriors fallen in battle" was transported close to Asgard, the abode of the gods, and according to the Sayings of Grimnir, it occupied the fifth heavenly dwelling place, the World of Joy (Gladsheimr) There, every day, Odin chose the warriors who died in combat and shared them with Frigg (Freyja). It was believed that Valhöll had the Unique Warriors (Einherjar), the elite. It is easy to understand why the Germans dreaded to die bedridden; if they were at risk of this, they asked those close to them to mark their bodies with spears. In the Saga of Ynglingar (chapter 9) Snorri Sturluson says that the god Odin, seen here from a euhemeristic perspective, proceeded in this way, but it is surprising to see Njörd, a god of the third function, demanding to be marked with this martial sign.”
― Claude Lecouteux, The Return of the Dead: Ghosts, Ancestors, and the Transparent Veil of the Pagan Mind

“We are better informed about Valholl than we are about Hel, undoubtedly because people preferred to envision heaven rather than hell. Valholl was a large, easily recognized hall. The rafters of the building were made of spears, it was covered with shields, and coats of mail were strewn across the benches. A wolf was hanging west of the doors, an eagle soared above the building, and the goat Heidrun, from whose udder flowed mead, could be spotted atop the roof. Odin did not live there. He resided in the Hall of the Slain (Valaskjalf) or the Sunken Halls (Sokkvabekk),* where he drank with Saga, a hypostasis of the goddess Frigg.”
― Claude Lecouteux, The Return of the Dead: Ghosts, Ancestors, and the Transparent Veil of the Pagan Mind

“I think Scandinavian Paganism, to us here, is more interesting than any other. It is, for one thing, the latest; it continued in these regions of Europe till the eleventh century; 800 years ago the Norwegians were still worshippers of Odin. It is interesting also as the creed of our fathers; the men whose blood still runs in our veins, whom doubtless we still resemble in so many ways.”
― Thomas Carlyle

“An evil, hungry sword. This was going to be…interesting.”
― Lisa Kessler, Pirate's Promise

“Yea, and thy deeds shall thou know, and great shall thy gladness be;
As a picture all of gold thy life-days shalt thou see,
And know that thou too wert a God to abide through the hurry and haste;
A God in the golden hall, a God on the rain-swept waste,
A God in the battle triumphant, a God on the heap of the slain:
And thine hope shall arise and blossom, and thy love shall be quickened again:
And then shalt thou see before thee the face of all earthly ill;
Thou shalt drink of the cup of awakening that thine hand hath holpen to fill;
By the side of the sons of Odin shalt thou fashion a tale to be told
In the hall of the happy Baldur: nor there shall the tale grow old
Of the days before the changing, e'en those that over us pass.
So harden thine heart, O brother, and set thy brow as the brass!”
― William Morris, The Saga of the Volsungs

“The gods do not help you forget things. That is what alcohol is for, and why it is so much more important than faith.”
― Gregory Amato

“Wolves are such a powerful example of sticking power. They teach us to see things through, approaching life, our projects, our relationships and growth with determination and passion. However, the wolf sees clearly and makes informed decisions. They know when a kill is not worth making, they know when it is better to say 'not this time'. They ask you to cleverly access and weigh up, listening and considering the perspectives of your mind, body and soul. They encourage you to ask 'does this really contribute to my soul's path, my heart's joy or the benefit of humanity?'" Rachel S Roberts, WOLF. An inpsirational Guide to embodying your inner Wolf.”
― Rachel S. Roberts, Wolf: Untamed. Courageous. Empowered. An Inspirational Guide to Embodying Your Inner Wolf

“Ancient Norse texts spoke of three kingdoms of the dead: that of Ran, the sea goddess with the evocative name meaning "theft" or "pillage" about whom we know almost nothing;' that of Hel, goddess of the infernal regions; and that of Odin, Valhöll (Richard Wagner's Valhalla) in other words, "the Paradise of warriors.”
― Claude Lecouteux, The Return of the Dead: Ghosts, Ancestors, and the Transparent Veil of the Pagan Mind

“Valholl contained 540 doors. From each there emerged simultaneously 800 warriors who spent their days fighting one another, but the dead and wounded found their lives and health restored every evening. They then dined together, eating the flesh of the wild boar Saehrimnir, which always grew back, and drinking the mead served them by the Valkyries. This would continue until the Twilight of the Powers (Ragnarok), which Wagner immortalized under the name of Twilight of the Gods. At this time, three cocks would crow in Hel; the wolf Fenris would become free; the earth would convulse; Yggdrasil the World Tree would tremble; the sun and moon would vanish; the stars would go out; the Midgard Serpent would leave the sea; the giants would set sail on Naglfar; Surt, the fire giant, would advance by rain-bow; and, at the sides of the gods, the Unique Warriors would engage in their ultimate battle, a combat that would culminate with the conflagration of the world.”
― Claude Lecouteux, The Return of the Dead: Ghosts, Ancestors, and the Transparent Veil of the Pagan Mind

“The bonds joining man to the universe of course extended to the family, both to ancestors and to children not yet born. The belief in an inextinguishable vital principle ensured that nothing perished in an irreversible fashion, which explains Norse ethics: death was but one stage of a cycle, the return to the immanent or transcendent world and the return to the sacred. "Retirement to the kingdom of the dead," Regis Boyer notes judiciously, "is not actually timeless as much as it is irrelevant to the present time. It is capable of opening at any moment to create a path for returns."ts In this mental universe, which could be difficult to grasp by minds permeated by Roman and Christian culture, "the dead individual is not really dead. He has returned to one of the states of the cycle, but remains active in the form of landvaettr"—that is, tutelary spirit (genius loci). Revenants were no cause for surprise to the Germanic peoples; they fit perfectly within their mind-sets, their place has not been usurped, and we cannot dismiss these stories as "old wives' tales." The roots of the belief are too deep.”
― Claude Lecouteux

“According to an idea that was wide-spread among the Germans and Celts, all wisdom dwelled in the lower world, which is often cited as the source of knowledge and art. This notion goes hand in hand with another idea that maintains that death precedes life. Because death is identical to night and life is identical to day, these peoples counted time in nights rather than days. We can compare this to Scandinavian cosmology: The giant Ymir is the originator of creation. In Nordic mythology, the giants are the keepers of the science of runes, and one of them, Sutting, is the keeper of poetic knowledge. As the world's first inhabitants, they [the giants] knew all its secrets. They thus maintained many close ties with death and the otherworld with, for instance, dwarves and elves.”
― Claude Lecouteux, The Return of the Dead: Ghosts, Ancestors, and the Transparent Veil of the Pagan Mind

“For a Westerner living today, it is hard to imagine that ancient cultures were incapable of even conceiving the notion of nothingness and that this mental category was simply absent from their world. This was the case, however, in the Middle Ages, and most particularly in the Germanic world. There is also something else: the idea of temporality that we have manufactured, of how it is established, of its total cessation, as we all know, is something that exclusively haunts the modern mentality. History, as a science, would not have assumed the astonishing importance it has today without this temporality. The Völuspá, the gem of the Poetic Edda, introduces history into its story of the mythic events of the world with the battle of the Aesir against the Vanir, but Ragnarok, which it describes in apocalyptic terms, is not viewed even for an instant as an ending. To the contrary, it is immediately followed by a universal regeneration that relaunches the destinies of a primordial couple eloquently named Li Life and Liffthrasir Undying or Greedy to Live.”
― Claude Lecouteux, The Return of the Dead: Ghosts, Ancestors, and the Transparent Veil of the Pagan Mind

“The saga teems with life and action, with memorable and complex characters from the heroic Gunnar of Hlidarendi, a warrior without equal who dislikes killing, to the
villainous, insinuating Mord Valgardsson, who turns out to be less dastardly than we first expect. Unforgettable events include Skarphedin’s head-splitting axe blow as he glides past his opponent on an icy river bank, or Hildigunn’s provoking of her uncle to seek blood revenge by placing on his shoulders the blood-clotted cloak in which
her husband was slain...

Just as in the Norse poem Völuspá (‘The Seeress’s Prophecy�) the gods met their doom (no mere twilight) at the hands of brute giants and monsters, after which a new and peaceful earth arose, so do the terrible events of Njal’s Saga lead finally and at great cost to a dignified resolution bearing the promise of a better time.

(Robert Cook(”
― Anonymous, Njal's Saga

“My blood is your blood.”
― Lyndsey Lavan, Burning Rose

“With a good woman, if you wish to enjoy her words and her good will, pledge her fairly and be faithful to it: Enjoy the good you are given.”
― The Havamal

“While polytheism, through the worship of many gods, affirms the life and mystery of the world in all its complexity, monotheism declares the world to be a mere artifact, the product of God’s making, and thus about as living and mysterious as a thumbtack. The transition from polytheism to monotheism is the “De-Goddingâ€� of the different aspects of the world. Monotheists therefore progressively cede the complexity of creation to the natural scientist. The entire material world becomes understandable by science on its own terms, and eventually the scientist steps in to take God’s place.”
― Collin Cleary, Summoning the Gods

“A greedy man, if he be not mindful,
eats to his own life's hurt:
oft the belly of the fool will bring him to scorn
when he seeks the circle of the wise.

Herds know the hour of their going home
and turn them again from the grass;
but never is found a foolish man
who knows the measure of his maw.”
― Olive Bray, Havamal: Saying of the High One

“Mimameid wasn’t built to keep people out. It was built to keep people in. It was built to be a fortress, to keep our people safe behind our walls, but The Celts have changed that.”
― Katherine Kempf, The Mimameid Solution

“If you ever need help - if there is ever a time when you need me, come here. Meet me at the clootie well. Nothing can touch us here, meurgerys.”
― Katherine Kempf, The Mimameid Solution

“What she felt was the pull of home.
And it felt so raw, like the landscape of the North Country being pulled free from the receding ice. The frozen layers that protected her heart were melting away. The wild North was calling to her.”
― Katherine Kempf, The Mimameid Solution

“Siobhan called upon an even deeper part of her. She’d seen what Petra hadn’t even known until that moment. That her love was a far more powerful force than her hate. And far more destructive.”
― Katherine Kempf, The Mimameid Solution

“Even War Gods Fear Their Wives...”
― Viking Saying

“A cold terror gripped the men then, a fear that burrowed deep into their guts. The land itself felt malevolent, alive with a dark force that sought to consume them.”
― Toby R. Beeny, The Bjornlinga Saga #1

“Wisdom of the Wolf Pup: Know when you need to ask or receive help and surrender to it. Surrendering or letting go does not make you weak or deem you incapable but rather it is an act of honesty and trust. In many ways, like the pups, we are blind in this world and experience will open our eyes, but it is the alchemical transformation of knowledge into wisdom, via experience, that enables us to see. This takes time, patience, reflection, openness and allowance." Rachel S Roberts, WOLF. An inspirational guide to embodying your Inner Wolf.”
― Rachel S. Roberts, Wolf: Untamed. Courageous. Empowered. An Inspirational Guide to Embodying Your Inner Wolf