Sublime

This was the stare of a creature who understood she was confronting death itself, and still chose to spit in its face.

There is no seed of a god which has perished, neither has he who belongs to him. You will not perish, who belongs to him.

In his heart he knew that he would never be able to endure torn-out fingernails or electrocution or suffocating indefinitely in a congested cell or being forced to walk over rotting corpses. Probably he would just die after his first session. He closed his eyes, oddly reassured by this. He, at least, would leave behind a corpse with no last will or

Dear Babushka, I didn’t die this time either. It’s not the time I told you about in my last letter. I continue not to die.

makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.