In London, Heresiopolis was always the draw. Some midnight-of-all or other was predicted every few days or… — China Miéville
In London, Heresiopolis was always the draw. Some midnight-of-all or other was predicted every few days or nights. Most came to nothing, leaving relevant prophets cringing with a unique embarrassment as the sun rose. It was a very particular shame, that of now ex-worshipers avoiding each other’s eyes in the unexpected aftermath of “final” acts—crimes, admissions, debaucheries and abandon.
Believers tried to talk the universe into giving their version a go.
p. 353Source: Wikiquote · CC BY-SA 4.0
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So long as it fated, fate didn’t care what it fated.
p. 496
He had remembered Vardy’s melancholy, the rage in him, and what Collingswood had once said. She was right. Vardy’s tragedy was that his faith had been defeated by the evidence, and he could not stop missing that faith. He was not a creationist, not any longer, not for years. And that was unbearable to him. He could only wish that his erstwhile wrongness had been right.
p. 497
This was the remnant of honour, nostalgic for spurious legendary times.
p. 421
