The newest thing I heard, its not good...

"I have swallowed up girls and boys, women and men, kings and emperors, cities and realms," said the Lion. It didn't say this as if it were boasting, nor as if it were sorry, nor as if it were angry. It just said it.

"I think that liberty becomes a real issue when there is a practical need for liberty. When a person wants to do something and something impedes him, the problem of liberty arises. This aspiration for liberty is always linked to some hindrance, some constraint or some obstacle. This is what's called freedom from: freedom from violence, freedom from a regime that oppresses you, freedom from illness, from poverty, freedom from your body, ultimately (the body as the soul's dungeon, since the body doesn't let the soul unfold). But there is also freedom to; i.e. the problem of liberty emerges when you want to achieve something, to actualise yourself, and you ask yourself whether this is possible."

"My college experience wasn't what I had planned. It bore no resemblence to the pictures in the brochure. But I'm not unhappy. I don't think any of us are. We got what we needed out of it. It's kind of like when you go on vacation. You plan everything out but then one day you make a wrong turn or take a detour and you end up in some crazy place you can't even find on the map, doing something you never thought you'd do. Maybe you feel a little lost while it's happening, but later you realize it was the best part of the whole trip."

The orphan drifted away from its infotrope-driven search many times; old addresses in the library, etched in memory, tugged at the input navigator. Once, viewing a scene of a grimy flesher child holding up an empty wooden bowl, the orphan grew bored and veered back towards more familiar territory. Halfway there, it came across a scene of an adult flesher crouching beside a bewildered lion cub and lifting it into vis arms.

A lioness lay on the ground behind them, motionless and bloody. The flesher stroked the head of the cub. “Poor little Yatima.”

Something in the scene transfixed the orphan. It whispered to the library, “Yatima. Yatima.” It had never heard the word before, but the sound of it resonated deeply.

The lion cub mewed. The flesher crooned, “My poor little orphan.”