Sigourney Sundays

Kaz - The Tragedy of Satan

I Didn't Think Erik Larson Could Do This

Click to Embiggen!

Jesus Christ!

Metal Gear Solid V - The Phantom Pain

Aw yesssss. The torture of scantily clad women, child soldiers, water boarding, cruel imprisonment, murder, unanaesthetized surgery, cowboys in Afghanistan, hiding behind horses, sneaking around, 'real-time weather', the simultaneous glamorization and criticism of violence and war, and a guy named Skull Face. What the fuck else do you want? Like, really? What? Nothing. There is nothing else.

David Luban - Liberalism, Torture, and the Ticking Bomb

"But the pressure of liberalism will compel them to think about it in a highly stylized and artificial way, what I will call the 'liberal ideology of torture.' The liberal ideology insists that the sole purpose of torture must be intelligence gathering to prevent a catastrophe; that torture is necessary to prevent the catastrophe; that torturing is the exception, not the rule, so that it has nothing to do with state tyranny; that those who inflict the torture are motivated solely by looming catastrophe, with no tincture of cruelty; that torture in such circumstances is, in fact, little more than self-defense; and that, because of the associations of torture with the horrors of yesteryear, perhaps one should not even call harsh interrogation 'torture.'
 And the liberal ideology will crystalize all of these ideas in a single, mesmerizing example: the ticking time bomb."(source)

Fabiola - Part Two

That night she kept thinking about the lamp. Her mother would keep her from filling it with oil when it extinguished itself, but that had not stopped her from looking. She wondered what it meant, those naked bodies and her leg raised above his head. That luxurious couch. What connected them? Why was she looking back? She'd heard her brother with the slave girls. His quiet moans and their whimpers. Would that be her one day? Once she'd been married? Blood rushed to her cheeks against her will. Returned from dinner, she lay in bed remembering the furtive touch of the young man. Her racing heart and a feeling she did not understand prevented her from sleeping. She did not want to sleep. Not when she could let her mind drift with him. Sleeping would bring this dream world, this glow, to an end.

Awaking the next morning she chided herself for her immodesty. Her mother's words repeated themselves to her. She remembered the importance of her honour. And she remembered her duties as a daughter. Today she was to visit the market. So long as she was accompanied by two male servants she was permitted to go alone. This was yet another rare concession on the part of her parents. She did not really need to go. The servants were more than capable of selecting the fabrics they would use to assemble her brother's new clothing. But Fabiola wanted the market, just as she wanted the dinner. She wanted to walk along the waterfront, watching the ships as they unloaded foods, bodies, and materials into the city; she wanted to take in the scent of people cooking; judge the beggars on their appearance and skill; overhear commerce, gossip, and mundane talk. It excited her and made her feel that perhaps she could, walking behind her husband, one day belong on high priest's road, a citizen rather than a visitor.