#Grandes Boucheries
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rabbitcruiser · 2 months ago
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Louis XIV of France marched into Strasbourg unopposed on 30 September 1681 and proclaimed its annexation.
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mazzypilled · 2 years ago
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bachiles · 2 years ago
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Things to Love About New York City
I could sing the praises of our visit to New York City and I will, trust me, I will. Today I thought I would share a bit about our hotel and all of the delicious food we tasted on our delayed anniversary trip. First off, our family arranged all of our fun and it was perfect. From the hotel, to the anniversary dinner to the Broadway show
it was all perfect and so appreciated. Chris thinks we

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aphroditeinthesea · 4 months ago
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HEY! Can you do a Connor stoll x fem Aphrodite reader dating hcsđŸ™đŸ»
“ time slows down (whenever ur around) ”
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connor stoll x daughter of aphrodite 🐍
⚠ one swear word
a/n kinda short sorry
⋅˚₊‧ ౚৎ ‧₊˚ ⋅
- he definitely lets you do his makeup
- like you don’t even have to try and convince him
- you just ask him, expecting to have to give all your reasoning of why he should let you do it
- but then he’s just like “okay”
- and he looks gorgeous
- prettiest boy in the hermes cabin
- and he always has his nails donr
- it starts with you just testing how colors look and basically using him as your doll
- until he starts asking you to do his nails
- HIS NAILS BEING PAINTED AS YOUR FAVORITE COLOR
- đŸ«¶đŸ˜­đŸ«ąđŸ™đŸ˜­đŸ„č
- you also help him up his fashion game
- mans is dressing snazzy
- (in my head he’s matt sturniolo)
- (travis is chris)
- (could be interchangeable actually i can’t decide)
- anyways so when u guys first start dating, he knows like the reputation aphrodite girls have of being high maintenance
- so he sets up this plan of taking you out to dinner in the city
- and he sneaks you out
- and he takes you to this fancy little restaurant
- (ik camp half blood is in long island? i think??)
- (idk how far nyc is from there)
- it’s this french restaurant
- for specifics, i just decided it was actually this restaurant called la grande boucherie that’s in nyc
- oui oui đŸ‘šđŸ»â€đŸł
- sorry i’m not french and have never been to nyc
- but it looks really expensive
- and you know what?
- he pays for both of you đŸ«¶đŸ«¶đŸ€§đŸ„č
- jk
- he gives a fake card and dips
- and according to the reservations, yall were mr and mrs john kennedy
- but it’s the thought that counts
- and the arrest warrant
- but when you get back to camp, you guys totally are holding hands and he walks you back to your cabin
- and you give him a little smooch
- then he’s just stands there for a minute after you walk in
- he’s just like “what just happened where am i what’s my name”
- travis walks by and literally smacks his head and is just like “knock out of it”
- but this boy is whipped
- would literally roll out a red carpet for you if he could
- he’s adorable
- speaking of french, you always call him french nicknames
- mon amour, mon coeur, mon bébé
- and whenever you do, he literally just gets this like lovesick look on his face
- he tried to find a cute french name for you
- but that stopped when he tried to say “ma biche” but didn’t know how to pronounce it and you thought he called you a bitch
- he stuck to english after that
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pine-farr · 7 months ago
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Douglas Emhoff and Chris Pine attend the CAA Kickoff Party for The White House Correspondents' Dinner Weekend at La Grande Boucherie on April 26, 2024 in Washington, DC.
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pinesource · 7 months ago
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Chris Pine attends the CAA Kickoff Party for The White House Correspondents' Dinner Weekend at La Grande Boucherie on April 26, 2024 in Washington, DC.
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eemcintyre · 2 years ago
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Surprise Me (Tom Cruise)
I've been pondering on this absolute unit for a while. Please appreciate the amount of time, energy, and NYC restaurant research I had to do, lol
TW- none
Summary- One of your friends, after a poor track record of setting you up on blind dates, gets one more chance and makes the most of it. You meet the date for dinner at an elegant NYC restaurant to discover that your friend has set you up with Tom Cruise.
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Y/N was one of those people who had told herself, her whole life, that she would never go on a blind date. No matter how many months or years went by of being single, she had refused to stoop to what she perceived to be such a desperate level. Moreover, she was not actively looking for a relationship, as she was generally happy on her own, living a full life of work, hobbies, travel, and friendship.
However, one lapse- one lonely, alcohol-induced, self-pitying night of self-disclosure with a friend later, and that friend, Nikki, had become obsessed with setting her up. Nikki had arranged a number of dates for her with a number of men, who despite Nikki’s good intentions, mostly turned out to be questionable at best, and occasionally were potential serial killers at worst. Tonight was Nikki’s last chance- she promised that this time would be different and would make up for all of the other terrible evenings and to just trust her. Promises, promises.
Y/N exited the taxi that had taken her to La Grande Boucherie, the restaurant that she and her date had agreed on for the evening. It was an open-air French establishment situated in an alley between two avenues. From across the street where the taxi had dropped her off, she could see fairy lights wrapped around several small trees inside the restaurant, twinkling in the descending dusk.
All she knew about her date, from their text conversations spanning the last few days and the description of Nikki, was that his name was Tom, he was handsome with dark hair, fun and energetic, and that he worked in the filmmaking business. As Y/N lived in New York, it was not at all unusual to run into people in the film industry rather frequently- even she herself had worked in costume design, and currently production design. Although, he and Nikki were both a bit vague when she asked what exactly it was that he did. She figured that meant he was probably one of those “aspiring actors” who really make their living doing guided NYC tours or waiting tables and had a bit part in a B movie once.  
Y/N had never been to La Grande Boucherie before, and it looked a little more high-end than she had anticipated. Elaborate fixtures of spherical lights hung from the vaulted ceiling, and large tropical plants provided a small canopy by one of the walls. Although “Tom” had mentioned that the place was on the elegant side, she almost wondered if she was underdressed, in a simple, mid-length, classic black dress. But she figured the date wouldn’t last a particularly long time anyway.
If tonight’s a disaster, this is the last time you set me up and I swear I’ll key your car in revenge, she texted her friend a final time before slipping her phone into her purse and crossing the busy street. She wondered why she was feeling a bit nervous when she had been on so many unsuccessful dates and her expectations had become so low. No matter how hard she tried to suppress it, it appeared that a miniscule part of her remained hopeful about finding someone. And at this point, she really had no idea what to expect, as this was a much nicer place than where her previous dates had invited her. Though, of course, men with money had just as much potential to be terrible dates as those without, she was terribly curious, and equally intimidated. What had her friend gotten her into this time?
Upon reaching the front of the restaurant, she briefly scanned her reflection in the window, adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder and shrugging. She also took a moment to evaluate the atmosphere of the restaurant up close. Soft jazz music glided through the entryway, and the building smelled of a combination of rich, sizzling French meats and soups, and the luxury perfumes and colognes of the affluent people who dined there. She was not necessarily worried about the dinner being expensive- she made enough money to be able to splurge on something nice from time to time- but doubted that the overall night’s experience would be worth it, no matter how good the meal was.
Her gaze roved over the occupants of each table, but none of them appeared to be the mysterious “Tom,” either not fitting the description or already accompanied by other guests. Luckily, “Tom” had texted her a table number to look for. Approaching the hostess’ podium, Y/N inquired “Hi. Can you point me in the direction of Table 16?”
The hostess answered with a knowing smile that puzzled Y/N. “Good evening. Of course. It’s the one in the far-right corner by that display of pink flowers.”
“Thank you,” Y/N murmured, spotting the table and the back of the head of the man sitting in one of the chairs.
“Enjoy your night, ma’am.”
“You too.”
Y/N crept slowly across the tiled restaurant floor to Table 16, frustrated with herself at how on-edge she was. Feeling like she was being observed by everyone she passed, she almost tripped on a chair leg. Rounding the last corner and reaching her destination, she braced herself to greet “Tom” and finally see what he looked like.
Sitting at the table was a man in a simple black suit and white dress shirt with the first two buttons undone. He had short, dark brown hair, a few strands brushing his forehead, with green eyes that stood out against his pale skin, and a distinctive mole on his left cheek. Y/N froze, momentarily forgetting everything about what she was going to say, where she was, what she was doing there, and how to talk.
From his seat at the table, Tom Cruise grinned and said “Hello.”
“Oh gosh
 wait- oh my gosh, you’re
”
“I am,” he grinned wider and shrugged. He was about to say more, when Y/N continued:
“I am so sorry, I- I must be at the wrong table. They told me Table 16 and pointed me this way-” she gestured frantically, feeling her face grow hot.
“Well, you found it,” Tom confirmed, gesturing to the small sign on the tabletop. “This is Table 16.”
“Oh, um, well, he must have texted me the wrong number
 I am so, so sorry, this is embarrassing. I was supposed to meet someone here, and
”
“Wait, hold on- is your name Y/N?” Tom inquired, cocking his head to the side.
“
Yes, it is,” she answered slowly, feeling lightheaded.
“Do you know Nikki?” He leaned toward her from his chair. The look on her face was her answer. “I think we’re supposed to go on a date tonight,” he stated matter-of-factly, beckoning to the chair across from him. “Sit down.”
“Oh, there’s got to be a mistake here somewhere
” Y/N said, her stomach performing feats of acrobatics as she stood rooted to her spot.
“You won’t even give me a chance?” he teased, fixing her with puppy-dog eyes. “I thought we got along pretty well over text.”
“No- I mean, it’s not that, I just
” Y/N brought her hands to her head in embarrassment as she stammered, finally managing to move and take a step back from the table. “I’ll be right back; I just need to- I just need to use the restroom- I’ll just be a minute.”
“You will come back, right?” he joked, although his eyes betrayed genuine concern that she was about to make an escape.
“Yes, I’ll be back.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” She spun around and took several rapid steps in the opposite direction of the table before she heard him call out “It’s the other way.”
~
“Wow. I can’t believe you; I mean, what the fu-” Y/N hissed into her phone, holed up in one of the women’s bathroom stalls of La Grande Boucherie.
“-What?” Nikki’s voice sounded from the phone speaker innocently.
“You know exactly what you did-”
“-Are you actually calling me right now to complain about being set up with Tom Cruise? I told you that I was coming in clutch for you this time.”
“What the hell are you trying to do to me?? I am not prepared for this!” She snapped, detecting the footsteps of whoever else had also been in the bathroom as they exited rapidly.
“What do you mean? I’m sure you’re wearing something nice, you always do, and I know you know how to eat
”
“YOU SAID HE WORKED IN THE FILMMAKING BUSINESS, NOT THAT HE’S THE MOST FAMOUS ACTOR IN THE WORLD.”
“Okay, okay, calm down
”
“Why didn’t you tell me??” Y/N groaned, emerging from the stall to examine her hair, makeup, and outfit, which seemed to have gone from “possibly slightly underdressed” to totally inadequate.
“You know you never would have gone if I’d told you. You would have either thought I was trying to prank you or you would have had the aneurysm that you’re having right now.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Y/N snapped defeatedly.
“Act like yourself? Do what you would normally do?” Nikki replied, exasperated. “He was interested in you just off of my description and you guys’ texting.”
A pink tint rose to Y/N’s face. “He was? You’re not just telling me that?”
“Hey, I’m a little crafty, but I’m not evil.”
“
What did he say?”
“He thought it was cool that you’ve done production design and costume work, he liked that you’re kind of outdoorsy
 he was interested, okay? Get out there and talk to him instead of talking to me!”
“We are going to have a serious talk about this
” Y/N muttered, straightening the wrinkles in her outfit and heading for the door.
“You can tell me all about it tomorrow. Trust me, I’ll want to know every detail.” Nikki paused. “And you said I’d never set you up with anyone good.” Y/N could hear the triumphant smirk in Nikki’s voice and hung up, rolling her eyes.
“Be calm. He’s just a person. He’s just a guy,” she said to herself as she neared Table 16 once again, relieved to see that Tom still sat there.
“I told you I would come back,” she managed a smile, moving to slide into the other empty chair, when Tom rose from his place to pull it out for her.
“I’m glad you did,” he added, smiling back and looking equally relieved as they finally faced each other at the table. “I ordered us an appetizer and some drinks while you were gone. I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so hopefully it’s all okay
”
“Oh, I’m not picky.” Silence fell briefly, and before it could become too awkward, Y/N decided to address what was certainly weighing heavily on both of them. “So, you and I got off on the wrong foot and I want to apologize. I was just totally caught off-guard
”
“Nikki didn’t tell you?”
“No- well, she knew I never would have gone if I’d known-”
“Do you really hate me that much?” he chuckled. “I mean, I know not all of my movies have been great
”
“Not at all, it’s not that, I just would have been too scared.” Y/N dropped her gaze to her hands, twisted tightly together in her lap.
“Well, it’s normal to be nervous, but come on, I’m not so scary now, am I?” He leaned forward with his elbows on the table, smirking.
Y/N gathered the courage to meet his gaze. “No,” she admitted, with a grin. “I just feel out of place here, in this restaurant, in this whole situation.”
“I think you fit right in,” Tom assured her. “Actually, before our conversation went off the rails earlier, I was going to say that you look stunning.”
“T-thank you, you do too,” she stammered, feeling the blush creeping over her face again, cringing at her reply. He laughed, but it was a good-natured laugh, not seeming to be at her expense.
“Thanks. I tried.”
Y/N finally took a sip of the drink that Tom had ordered for her, a sparkling cocktail that tasted of cranberry and lemon. “This is good,” she nodded.
“I made a good choice?”
“Yes, you did, thank you.”
Soon after, the appetizers arrived- a roasted beet and endive salad. As they started to eat, Tom suggested:
“Now, why don’t we just start the night over? Hi, I’m Tom.”
“I’m Y/N,” she replied, and they both laughed between mouthfuls.
“You mentioned that you do behind-the-scenes work for film projects- what are you working on right now?”
“Oh, just a local documentary thing. Street art and its origins, styles, and cultural significance. Terribly exciting, I know.”
“Of course it is. But you’d rather be doing something else?”
“Like everyone else around here, I have higher aspirations. I know everyone has to work their way up- you know that better than anyone- but I also know that not everyone who puts the work in ends up making it, and it usually just comes down to chance and luck- being in the right place at the right time or knowing the right people. I’m just afraid that my miracle is never gonna happen, y’know?”
“Well, I really believe that if it’s what you’re meant to do, as long as you stay dedicated and a step ahead of everyone else, it’ll happen. We’re just not all on the same timetable. It happened early on for me, but for a lot of other people, they didn’t ‘make it’ until they were in their thirties, forties, hell, fifties
” He took a taste of his own drink- a non-alcoholic cocktail.
“I hope I don’t have to wait that long,” she said, half joking and half serious. “But what projects are you involved in at the moment?”
He obliged to the change in topic. “I have a lot going on with this action-movie satire piece. It’s one of those ones that’s been stuck in development hell for a few years, so there’s just a lot of negotiating back and forth; it gets tedious after a while, but I think we’re finally getting things nailed down. It’s looking like it’ll be a lot of fun once we get past the initial stages.”
During the course of this conversation, they realized that they should begin perusing the menu and decide on their main courses. As she examined the options, Y/N reminded herself that she could afford to spend a bit extra once in a while, yet the prices still managed to stun her. It must have been visible on her face, because Tom said “Order whatever looks good. I’m buying tonight.”
As Y/N opened her mouth to strongly protest, he held up his hand. “Nikki said you’d complain, but you can’t change my mind. It’s been a while since I’ve gone out, I want us to have a good time, and besides, it’s the way I was raised.” He shrugged, folding his hands in front of him on the tabletop. “Don’t worry, I don’t expect anything, and I know you’re capable of paying if I let you, I just want to. Okay?”
~  
When the server appeared with their entrees, the dusk had long since turned to nighttime darkness, allowing the fairy lights and orb ceiling fixtures to bathe all of the restaurant’s occupants in a warm glow. Y/N had ended up deciding on a mushroom ravioli dish, while Tom ordered a filet, and they shared a portion of seafood that he insisted she try. She was surprised to admit that she was feeling remarkably more at-ease.
“I am obsessed with this place,” he said offhandedly, having made it about halfway through his steak.
“I can see why,” Y/N giggled. “So, tell me: what is it you like to do when you’re not sword-fighting people or scaling the sides of buildings?”
Tom laughed, using one hand to smooth his hair back. “On those rare occasions, I like to do things like rock-climb, fly
”
She coughed on her food. “Fly? Oh yeah, that’s right.”
“Or cook, watch sports... I can have fun with both feet on the ground too. I’m down for just about anything.” He cocked an eyebrow. “What do you get into when you’re not designing the aesthetics of local documentaries?”
“Well, I enjoy a good hike or some skating, and I can be a bit arts and crafts-y when I want to. I do some drawing and painting when I’m between big work projects.”
She was amazed at how attentively he listened, and how he didn’t do it just to respond, but to ask questions as well. She was used to enduring her date’s life story without getting more than a few words in edgewise. She reminded herself that his entire job was to be a convincing actor, and so to not become too optimistic or believing of how he appeared. But damn, if it wasn’t difficult the longer they maintained eye contact and sat so closely and laughed with each other amidst the dim, cozy lighting and the soft jazz piano. Maybe she wouldn’t totally eviscerate Nikki after all.
~
After making it to the end of dinner, standing on the street outside, they prepared to part ways.
“You can ride along with me and my driver can drop you off,” he proposed.
“No, that’s extremely sweet of you, but you’ve done more than enough,” Y/N insisted. “You can’t change my mind.” Her eyes gleamed mischievously at him as she referenced their conversation near the beginning of the evening.
“Well, Y/N,” Tom sighed, “I’ve got to admit that tonight was the best time I’ve had in a while. You didn’t think it turned out so bad, right?”
“Not bad at all,” she replied, clutching her coat in both hands as a soft breeze passed.
“Good enough to do it again sometime? Soon?” he asked, eying her expectantly as the two of them shifted awkwardly back and forth on the pavement.
“Oh, I suppose,” she teased, though her expression was beaming. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a while too.”
A limousine pulled up to the curb next to them. She deduced that it was Tom’s aforementioned ride, but he was determined to stay until she flagged down a taxi, uncomfortable with the idea of leaving her on the street alone at night.
“You’ll have to think about what you’d like to do next. Maybe we could go flying,” he joked, as she eventually caught a passing cab driver’s attention.
“Maybe,” she chuckled as she approached the taxi. Tom opened the door for her, and before she slid inside, he placed a hand on her shoulder and murmured “Have a good night. Be safe.”
“Goodbye, Tom,” she slid into the backseat of the cab, smiling at him and then to herself as the cab started on its path to her home. Basking in the feeling of his touch on her shoulder and the slight giddiness that the earlier cocktail afforded, she lost herself in contemplation of the evening’s events, wondering where they might lead.
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lafcadiosadventures · 1 year ago
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tell us how you really feel about it, Diderot:
"If our priests were not stupid bigots; if this abominable Christianity had not been established by murder and blood; if the joys of paradise were not reduced to an irrelevant beatific vision of I don’t know what, that we can’t comprehend or understand; if our Hell offered something other than fiery pits, hideous and gothic demons, howls and teeth grinding; if our paintings could be something else besides atrocious scenes, a scorched man, a hanged man, a roasted man, a grilled man, a disgusting carnage; if all of our male and female saints were not wrapped in veils up to their nose, if our ideas of prudishness and modesty had not proscribed the display of arms, inner thighs, breasts, shoulders, any type of nudity, if the spirit of mortification had not withered these nipples,rendered the inner thighs flaccid, arms rendered scrawny, the back muscles torn; if our artists were not chained and our poets constrained by the dreadful words of Sacrilege and Profanation; if the Virgin Mary had been the mother of Pleasure, or rather, the mother of God, if her beautiful eyes, her beautiful breasts, her beautiful buttocks had been what had attracted the Holy Spirit towards her, and had had that written on the Book of his history; if the angel Gabriel had been glorified by the beauty of his shoulders; if Madeleine had had a sort of gallant adventure with Christ; if during the Wedding at Cana, Christ, between two glasses of wine, in a somewhat non-conformist manner,threw glances at both the breasts of a prostitute and Saint John’s buttocks, uncertain if he’d stay faithful or not to the apostle with the chin in bloom with its first beard: you would see what our painters, our poets, our sculptors could accomplish; in what tone would we speak of their charms, which would play such a great and marvelous role in the history of our religion and our God; and how would we stare at the beauty to which we owe our birth, the incarnation of the Saviour, and the grace of our redemption."
Denis Diderot, Essay on Painting, written in 1765, but published posthumously around the year 1790’s
frech original under the cut
« (
) si nos prĂȘtres n’étaient pas de stupides bigots ; si cet abominable christianisme ne s’était pas Ă©tabli par le meurtre et par le sang ; si les joies de notre paradis ne se rĂ©duisaient pas Ă  une impertinente vision bĂ©atifique de je ne sais quoi, qu’on ne comprend ni n’entend ; si notre enfer offrait autre chose que des gouffres de feux, des dĂ©mons hideux et gothiques, des hurlements et des grincements de dents ; si nos tableaux pouvaient ĂȘtre autre chose que des scĂšnes d’atrocitĂ©, un Ă©corchĂ©, un pendu, un rĂŽti, un grillĂ©, une dĂ©goĂ»tante boucherie ; si tous nos saints et nos saintes n’étaient pas voilĂ©s jusqu’au bout du nez, si nos idĂ©es de pudeur et de modestie n’avaient proscrit la vue des bras, des cuisses, des tĂ©tons, des Ă©paules, toute nuditĂ© ; si l’esprit de mortification n’avait flĂ©tri ces tĂ©tons, amolli ces cuisses, dĂ©charnĂ© ces bras, dĂ©chirĂ© ces Ă©paules ; si nos artistes n’étaient pas enchaĂźnĂ©s et nos poĂštes contenus par les mots effrayants de sacrilĂšge et de profanation ; si la vierge Marie avait Ă©tĂ© la mĂšre du plaisir, ou bien, mĂšre de Dieu, si c’eĂ»t Ă©tĂ© ses beaux yeux, ses beaux tĂ©tons, ses belles fesses, qui eussent attirĂ© l’Esprit-Saint sur elle, et que cela fĂ»t Ă©crit dans le livre de son histoire ; si l’ange Gabriel y Ă©tait vantĂ© par ses belles Ă©paules ; si la Madeleine avait eu quelque aventure galante avec le Christ ; si, aux noces de Cana, le Christ entre deux vins, un peu non-conformiste, eĂ»t parcouru la gorge d’une des filles de noce et les fesses de saint Jean, incertain s’il resterait fidĂšle ou non Ă  l’apĂŽtre au menton ombragĂ© d’un duvet lĂ©ger : vous verriez ce qu’il en serait de nos peintres, de nos poĂštes et de nos statuaires ; de quel ton nous parlerions de ces charmes, qui joueraient un si grand et si merveilleux rĂŽle dans l’histoire de notre religion et de notre Dieu ; et de quel Ɠil nous regarderions la beautĂ© Ă  laquelle nous devrions la naissance, l’incarnation du Sauveur, et la grĂące de notre rĂ©demption. »
Denis Diderot, Essai sur la peinture, Ă©crit en 1765, mais de publication posthume environ les annĂ©es 1790’s
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crimson-veil-rpg · 5 months ago
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ORGANISATIONS JOUABLES
Les idĂ©aux rassemblent crĂ©atures surnaturelles comme ĂȘtres humains, rassurent et offrent une cause commune. Qui choisirez-vous de suivre dans la nuit ? Vous ne trouverez ici qu'un aperçu, chaque organisation fera l'objet d'une annexe plus dĂ©taillĂ©e sur le forum, cette liste est non exhaustive et pourrait ĂȘtre amenĂ©e Ă  Ă©voluer et grandir au fil du jeu.
(tw : meurtres, sang, violence, consommation de sang ou de chair, manipulation, secte, chasse, drogue, alcools)
NB : à savoir que les organisations seront dirigées par des PNJs, et donc non jouables.
š:·. .·:š š:·. ☟ .·:š š:·. .·:š š:·. .·:š š:·. ☟ .·:š š:·. .·:š
GREAT BRITAIN NIGHT WALKERS
Type : Organisation secrĂšte gouvernementale   Domaine : Chasse de crĂ©atures hostiles, protection des ĂȘtres humains et du secret surnaturel Membres : exclusivement humains Signe distinctif : Un matricule autour du cou, une face avec des informations codĂ©es et un nombre Ă  quatre chiffres, l'autre un croissant de lune Quartier GĂ©nĂ©ral : L'Howard Castle pour le QG principal, des QG secondaires dans tout le Royaume-Uni.
HumanitĂ© bienveillante embrigadĂ©e au sein d’un ordre ancestral qui prĂŽne la protection humaine et le secret du monde surnaturel. Chasseurs de bĂȘtes hostiles et police du mystique afin de garantir l'harmonie et le bon fonctionnement du systĂšme. Les Walkers sont inĂ©vitablement embourbĂ©s dans une lignĂ©e familiale belliqueuse, on ne le devient pas sans possĂ©der un proche du mĂȘme sang, suivant un enseignement rigoureux. Leur rĂŽle est Ă©galement de faire disparaĂźtre les preuves de l’existence des crĂ©atures qui se tapissent aux ombres, prioritĂ© absolue.
---------------------------
SPECTRAL HOWLERS
Type : Gang, mafia. Domaine : Combats clandestins, trafic de drogues et d’alcools. Membres : CrĂ©atures, principalement harpies et lycanthropes. Signe distinctif : Tatouage d'un S et d'un H entrelacĂ©s sur un Ă©clair. Quartier GĂ©nĂ©ral : Sous-terrains cachĂ©s en ville.
Gang crasseux croupissant dans les sous-sols, ce sont les chiens qu’on y lĂąche clandestinement, poussant les bĂȘtes Ă  s’entretuer pour faire sensation. Voir la violence apaise la violence selon eux. Mains sales, ils n’en sont guĂšre restĂ©s aux combats, demeurent magouilleurs pour les larcins en tous genres, mĂȘlant conception et trafic d’alcools et de drogues assez puissantes pour les diverses espĂšces surnaturelles en mal d’euphorie.
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THE KILLING MOON CLUB
Type : Organisation secrĂšte, secte. Domaine : Pouvoir aux crĂ©atures et endoctrinement d’ĂȘtres humains. Membres : CrĂ©atures et humain·es captif·ves Signe distinctif : Une chevaliĂšre gravĂ©e d'un sphinx tĂȘte de mort. Quartier GĂ©nĂ©ral : Les sous-sols privatisĂ©s du Grand Hotel.
Culte factice Ă  la gloire d’une divinitĂ© abstraite, The Killing Moon Club cache seulement les ambitions d’un groupe de crĂ©atures surnaturelles, avide d’un jour assoir leur pouvoir ouvertement. RĂ©putĂ© dans toute l’Angleterre, les dirigeants du club font partie de l'Ă©lite surnaturelle. Ici, on tue, et les soirĂ©es mondaines sont de vĂ©ritables boucheries. On y vient pour chercher une Ăąme Ă  arracher, s'assurer d'un service de nettoyage irrĂ©prochable. Secte aux allures de club huppĂ©, les humains y perçoivent salvation et pensent faire face Ă  des ĂȘtres divins. Hypnose et captivitĂ© entraine la dĂ©pendance, tandis que les bĂȘtes y voient buffet Ă  volontĂ©.
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THE BLEAK OUTBREAK
Type : Organisation secrÚte, gang.   Domaine : Chasse et anéantissement des créatures, trafique de ressources surnaturelles. Membres : exclusivement humains. Signe distinctif : des clefs croisées tatouées sous la plante du pied droit. Quartier Général : les sous-sols du Whitby Museum.
Traqueurs de bĂȘtes qui se sont donnĂ©s pour mission d'Ă©radiquer la pestilence surnaturelle, en collectionner les trophĂ©es ou les revendre Ă  prix d'or. Les crĂ©atures rĂ©vulsent, peu importe leurs espĂšces, ne sont que manifestations du malin descendues sur terre pour mieux laisser rĂ©pandre leur venin, des sbires d'un Lucifer venu punir l'espĂšce humaine sur terre. Alors ils arrachent les crocs vampiriques, les Ă©cailles de sirĂšnes, les crĂąnes de loups, les ailes de harpies ou feuilles de dryades sur leurs carcasses et en font commerce pour mieux financer leurs battues dans les landes.
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DAWNBRINGERS
Type : Ligue, association. Domaine : Protection du secret surnaturel, prÎnent l'harmonie des espÚces, moyen de se nourrir alternatifs. Membres : exclusivement créatures. Signe distinctif : un contrat qu'ils doivent avoir sur eux lors des missions. Quartier Général : Le sous-sol de la Terror Tower, attraction hantée de la ville.
Ligue bienveillante prĂŽnant l'harmonie des espĂšces et la cohabitation terrestre. Le principal moteur est la protection du secret surnaturel et des plus faibles, Ă©vinçant les traces de toutes ombres chimĂ©riques. L'ĂȘtre humain vu comme un alliĂ© plutĂŽt qu'une proie, prĂ©servĂ© tel un compagnon de route. Les bĂȘtes hostiles qui se joignent au groupe doivent montrer patte blanche, prouver leurs valeurs de part des moyens de se nourrir alternatifs.
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christian-dubuis-santini · 7 months ago
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"Pauvres gens et misĂ©rables, peuples insensĂ©s, nations opiniĂątres en votre mal et aveugles en votre bien, vous vous laissez enlever, sous vos propres yeux, le plus beau et le plus clair de votre revenu, piller vos champs, dĂ©vaster vos maisons et les dĂ©pouiller des vieux meubles de vos ancĂȘtres.
Vous vivez de telle sorte que rien n'est plus Ă  vous.
Il semble que vous regarderiez comme un grand bonheur qu'on vous laissùt seulement la moitié de vos biens, de vos familles, de vos vies.
Et tout ce dĂ©gĂąt, ces malheurs, cette ruine enfin, vous viennent, non pas des ennemis, mais bien certes de l'ennemi et de celui-la mĂȘme que vous avez fait ce qu'il est, pour qui vous allez si courageusement Ă  la guerre et pour la vanitĂ© duquel les personnes y bravent Ă  chaque instant la mort.
Ce maĂźtre n'a pourtant que deux yeux, deux mains, un corps et rien de plus que n'a le dernier des habitants du nombre infini de nos villes.
Ce qu'il a de plus que vous, ce sont les moyens que vous lui fournissez pour vous détruire.
D'oĂč tire-t-il ses innombrables argus qui vous Ă©pient, si ce n'est de vos rangs ?
Comment a-t-il tant de mains pour vous frapper, s'il ne les emprunte de vous ?
Les pieds dont il foule vos cités, ne sont-ils pas aussi les vÎtres ?
A-t-il pouvoir sur vous, que par vous-mĂȘmes ?
Comment oserait-il vous courir sus, s'il n’était d'intelligence avec vous ?
Quel mal pourrait-il vous faire si vous n’étiez receleur du larron qu'il vous pille, complice du meurtrier qui vous tue, et traĂźtres de vous-mĂȘmes ?
Vous semez vos champs, pour qu'il les dévaste; vous meublez et remplissiez vos maisons afin qu'il puisse assouvir sa luxure; vous nourrissez vos enfants, pour qu'il en fasse des soldats (trop heureux sont-ils encore), pour qu'il les mÚne à la boucherie, qu'il les rende ministres de ses convoitises, les exécuteurs de ses vengeances.
Vous vous usez à la peine, afin qu'il puisse se mignarder en ses délices et se vautrer dans ses sales plaisirs.
Vous vous affaiblissez afin qu'il soit plus fort, plus dur et qu'il vous tienne la bride plus courte : et de tant d’indignitĂ©s, que les bĂȘtes elles-mĂȘmes ne sentiraient point ou n'endureraient pas, vous pourriez vous en dĂ©livrer, sans mĂȘme tenter de le faire, mais seulement en essayant de le vouloir.
Soyez donc résolus à ne plus le servir et vous serez libres.
Je ne veux pas que vous le heurtiez, ni que vous l’ébranliez, mais seulement ne le soutenez plus, et vous le verrez, comme un grand colosse dont on dĂ©robe la base, tomber de son propre poids et se briser."
Étienne de La BoĂ©tie - Discours de la servitude volontaire (1576)
La psychanalyse nous permet de relire La BoĂ©tie en termes de discours, avec ce discours du MaĂźtre qu’est devenu le Discours Capitaliste, et la place du sujet en tant qu’il est impliquĂ© dans la structure... Si le Discours Capitaliste ne fait pas lien social c’est qu’il se caractĂ©rise du dĂ©ni de l’impossible ("Yes we can!", "Aujourd’hui tout est possible!"...) car se fondant sur cette particularitĂ© unique que le langage y apparaĂźt comme instrument Ă  disposition du sujet (alors que dans les autres discours le sujet est toujours un effet du signifiant)...
Le discours capitaliste nous fait croire que le sujet se sert lui-mĂȘme Ă  travers ce qu’il lui promet tandis qu’il ne fait que concourir Ă  la perpĂ©tuation du discours... Nous nous sentons libres au sein du strict paradigme qu'il nous offre, c'est-Ă -dire dans la mesure oĂč nous servons le MarchĂ©. Nous nous sentons libres prĂ©cisĂ©ment Ă  l'endroit oĂč nous sommes le plus serfs. Rien de plus ingĂ©nieux n'avait jamais Ă©tĂ© inventĂ©...
La plus grande des servitudes est celle qui consiste à nous imaginer totalement désaliénés.
À l'inverse, c'est lorsque que nous abandonnons ce que nous imaginons comme Ă©tant notre libertĂ© pour nous mettre au service d'une cause, c'est-Ă -dire d'un discours structurĂ© autour d'un impossible rĂ©el, que nous sommes paradoxalement libres.
En nous mettant au service de ce type de discours, nous sommes forcĂ©s d'ĂȘtre libres, et en Ă©nonçant: "je sers ce discours" je prĂ©figure du mĂȘme coup un certain type de lien social dĂ©terminĂ©. C'est donc en assumant ma servitude, mon aliĂ©nation que paradoxalement je peux exercer ma libertĂ©.
Le MaĂźtre devient superflu au moment oĂč l'Esclave consent Ă  le servir. Comme lorsque nous sommes amoureux. L'amour est cette force qui nous contraint et qui nous tient. Servir l'Autre ne se fait alors jamais aux dĂ©pens de notre libertĂ©, c’en est la manifestation mĂȘme...
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seasoflife · 7 months ago
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La Grande Boucherie
seasoflife
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selidren · 7 months ago
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Printemps 1918 - Champs-les-Sims
2/10
Je ne souhaite pas revenir sur mon expĂ©rience de la guerre. Je me suis tout de mĂȘme ouvert de votre remarque sur les allemands Ă  Albertine, mais nous avons Ă©tĂ© interrompus par Marc-Antoine, l'aĂźnĂ© de mes fils, qui a fait valoir son point de vue d'une façon bien bruyante, arguant que ce sont les hommes de peu qu'on a envoyĂ© sur le front, et que les vrais responsables de la boucherie ne sont que des bourgeois bien abritĂ©s derriĂšre les lignes. Pardonnez mon fils, ce n'est encore qu'un enfant et il s'est mis Ă  lire Marx ces derniers temps. Je n'y connais pas grand chose, mais je me demande si c'est une lecture bien pertinente pour un garçon de douze ans. Albertine ne cesse pourtant de me dire combien Marc-Antoine est intelligent, et si je me fie Ă  mon propre intellect Ă  son Ăąge, cela semble peut-ĂȘtre plus comprĂ©hensible. Quand Ă  vos douleurs, ce n'est pas mon sujet de conversation prĂ©fĂ©rĂ©, mais sachez que j'ai les mĂȘmes dans le bras, et qu'il est des jours et des nuits oĂč elles ne laissent pas en paix.
Je suis cependant catastrophĂ© d'apprendre pour le mariage de votre fille. Ce garnement ne mĂ©rite pas les biens de ses pĂšres et j'ose espĂ©rer que jamais un homme ne traitera mes filles de cette façon. Les scandales m'ennuient. Et pour votre Ă©pouse, ne vous en faites pas, elle finira par saisir l'importance de votre tĂąche et vous laissera en paix avec ses Ă©tats d'Ăąme. Il est malheureux qu'elle n'ait pas les mĂȘmes centres d'intĂ©rĂȘt que vous, comme cela vous auriez au moins pu lui proposer de vous accompagner. Vous pourrez toujours lui dire pour la rassurer qu'elle n'a pas les difficultĂ©s de mon Albertine : mon Ă©pouse dĂ©teste partir loin des enfants, mais notre passion commune pour l'Egypte est si grande que le choix n'est pas aisĂ© pour elle.
Sur ce, je retournes à mes exercices de graphie. Me voici revenu à l'école élémentaire à tracer des séries de majuscules à la plume. J'imagine qu'en désespoir de cause, je pourrai toujours engager un secrétaire bien que l'idée me répugne : jamais il n'aura dans ses écrits le niveau d'exigences auquel je m'astreins.
Votre cousin, Pr. Constantin Le Bris
P.S : Mes condoléances pour le décÚs de votre neveu Thomas. Je ne l'ai pas bien connu, mais mon neveu Alexandre m'a assuré que c'était un jeune homme fort aimable.
P.S 2. Albertine vous fait savoir qu'elle se fera grand plaisir d'Ă©crire Ă  votre Ă©pouse.
Transcription :
Adelphe « Ah Tintin, tu as déjà fini de manger ? »
Constantin « Exact. Je m’y suis mis en avance, je suis toujours d’une horrible maladresse avec mes couverts et je ne voulais pas contrarier Grand-MĂšre. »
Adelphe « Tu aurais pu attendre Madame Legens. Elle aurait au moins réchauffé ton repas. »
Constantin « Je ne suis plus un enfant, Adelphe. J’en ai bien plus qu’assez de dĂ©pendre des autres pour n’importe quelle tĂąche futile. »
Adelphe « Fort bien. En attendant, te voilà à manger froid. »
Constantin « Et toi alors ? Tu ne manges pas avec les autres ? »
Adelphe « J’ai une rĂ©union tĂŽt Ă  la distillerie. Les gars veulent crĂ©er un syndicat, et ils souhaitent une heure de concertation avec la « dĂ©lĂ©gation patronale ». J’imagine que c’est moi. Ah, et je sais allumer le poĂȘle accessoirement. »
Constantin « Bon Ă  savoir. Tu me montreras comment faire Ă  l’occasion. J’ai encore du travail, des lettres en retard, donc je vais monter. A moins que tu veuilles que je te tiennes compagnie. »
Adelphe « Pas besoin. Je vais finir rapidement. Ah et Tintin, tu as encore mal à ton bras ? »
Constantin « Non, pas spécialement. »
Adelphe « Ne me mens pas, je t’ai entendu grogner toute la nuit depuis ma chambre. »
Constantin « Ce n’était rien, vraiment. Tu dors donc si mal ? Encore tes cauchemars ? »
Adelphe « Non, une simple petite insomnie passagÚre. »
Constantin « Menteur, tu as les yeux rouges et des cernes ! »
Adelphe « Bon
 je pense qu’on devrai arrĂȘter de se mentir Tintin. »
Constantin « Tu as raison, nous ne sommes pas assez douĂ©s pour cela et en plus cela ne nous rassure ni l’un ni l’autre. »
Adelphe « Il faut croire qu’on s’est tout les deux bien abĂźmĂ©s ces derniĂšres annĂ©es. »
Constantin « Sans doute
 Ah et j’y pense ! Ne laisse pas Marc-Antoine discuter avec les ouvriers. Je n’ai rien contre le socialisme, contrairement Ă  mon pĂšre, mais il est en train d’en faire une obsession ! »
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aurevoirmonty · 1 year ago
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Il y a plus d’un siĂšcle, le 11 novembre 1918, prenait fin l’une des plus Ă©pouvantables boucheries de l’histoire europĂ©enne qui vit pĂ©rir plus d’un million de Français et qui mutila, dans leurs corps et dans leurs Ăąmes, des millions d’autres. Toute une gĂ©nĂ©ration sacrifiĂ©e.
Écoutons l’un des survivants, Louis-Ferdinand CĂ©line, qui, en tant que marĂ©chal des logis du 12Ăšme rĂ©giment de cuirassiers, fut l’un des premiers blessĂ©s et dĂ©corĂ©s de la Grande Guerre et en ressortit marquĂ© Ă  vie par l’horreur et la vanitĂ© de ce conflit.
Ses Ă©crits ultĂ©rieurs raconteront ce cauchemar en dĂ©nonçant la mĂ©canique infernale qui, vingt ans plus tard, allait Ă  nouveau embraser le Vieux Continent et jeter les uns contre les autres des peuples frĂšres. PamphlĂ©taire ? Provocateur ? Violent ? Certes. Mais toujours d’une actualitĂ© brĂ»lante.
Et Ă  l’heure oĂč les fauteurs de guerre et les fanatiques de tous bords vilipendent les pacifistes, interdisent tout dĂ©bat et cherchent encore Ă  nous embarquer dans des guerres qui ne sont pas les nĂŽtres, le plus bel hommage Ă  rendre aux hĂ©ros de la Grande Guerre, c’est d’écouter ce que ses plus illustres survivants ont voulu nous transmettre.
Vincent Vauclin
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myveryownfanfiction · 2 years ago
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18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI
warnings: swearing
AN: it’s my birthday and the last few years have been shit because everyone’s started to forget it, so I’m making sure someone remembers it. Even if they are fictional.
A cold bed woke me up. The sunlight streaming in through the window made sure that I was awake. Groaning, I got up and slipped on the hoodie at the end of the bed. When I bent down to put on my slippers, the length of the hoodie sleeves told me it was Ottos. Smiling to myself, I put on my slippers and shuffled to the bathroom to do my thing. Finally emerging and rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I headed into the kitchen. The first thing I noticed was a note written on the dry erase board hanging on the fridge.
‘Went out for breakfast. If not crepes from La Grande Boucherie, hotcakes from McDonalds. Be back soon. Love you. Happy birthday!’ Smiling to myself, I wandered back to the bedroom to grab my phone. As I turned it on, I headed back to the kitchen and started the coffee. A ping indicated my phone was on.
Norman đŸ§Ș: happy birthday
Harry 🎓: happy b-day 🎉
Peter đŸ•žïž: happy birthday (Y/N)! 🎂
Laughing, I responded to each text as they came in. MJ, Gwen, Eddie and May all texted before Otto sent me a text.
Otto 🐙: got the crepes. Headed back now. Coffee ready? Me: coffee is done. Thank u for this. ❀
Otto 🐙: Don’t thank me yet sweetheart. There’s more up my sleeve. See u when I get home ❀❀
I turned on the television while I waited for Otto to come home with our breakfast. I sat at the island and sipped my coffee. The coverage was mainly Spider-Man and the Sandman which got boring fast. When you knew Spider-man, the news often seemed to pale in comparison. I looked up as the door opened and Otto appeared, bag in hand.
“Good morning!” He smiled at me and went to work getting our breakfast served. “They didn’t get their shipment of fresh fruit this morning. So I just got you the chocolate one.” His eyes flickered to the television before settling on me again. “Wonder why.” I laughed and took the plate he offered.
“Doesn’t matter.” I waved a hand and dug in. Otto chuckled as he joined me at the island. “Peter told me about this already. Want to watch something else?” He nodded and changed the channel. We ate in silence before Otto leaned over and kissed me.
“Happy birthday.” He whispered and I smiled at him. I cupped his cheeks and leaned my head against his.
“Otto you didn’t have to do all this.” I said. “My birthday is no big deal.” He put his hands over mine and smiled at me.
“It wasn’t before you met me. Now it is.” He kissed me again and got up. “And I know for a fact Norman might have something up his sleeve for later.” I laughed as I pulled out my phone to see a message from the man in question about going to the mansion later in the day. “Party?”
“Party.” Otto nodded as he pulled out a bag of presents. “Otto you shouldn’t have!” He laughed and waved me off.
“I have something else for later too don’t worry.” He kissed my cheek and handed me the first one. “Happy birthday darling.”
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helshades · 1 year ago
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Ce qui me fascine, au fond, dans le dĂ©ni du dĂ©lire antijudaĂŻque conjoints des extrĂȘmes-droites complotistes tant christo-franco-natiochauvines qu'islamistes repris quasiment tel quel par la Gauche bĂ©ni-oui-oui amĂ©ricanisĂ©e de ces derniĂšres annĂ©es, c'est moins le cynisme Ă©lectoraliste Ă©vident chez certains que la sincĂ©ritĂ© toute aussi Ă©vidente chez d'autres.
Il y a une espĂšce de voile magique sur les yeux d'une partie du gauchisme post-moderne qui glapit son « antisionisme » Ă  tout bout de champ en essentialisant tellement ce fameux sionisme qu'il ne fait aucun doute qu'il s'agit de juiverie et pas de positionnement politique. Je repense souvent au titre du plus cĂ©lĂšbre brĂ»lot de la papesse de l'indigĂ©nisme francophone, ce Les Blancs, les Juifs et nous fiĂ©vreux de bĂȘtise satisfaite oĂč l'on entend tinter la machine Ă  sous entre chaque ligne — parce que le racisme anti-tout-sauf-arabe-et-musulman rapporte, depuis une paire d'annĂ©es, quand mĂȘme.
Bref, j'ai l'impression que pour les petits blancs qui composent le gros de l'Ă©lectorat Ă©lĂ©fiste, le Juif est une sorte d'Überweißer qui bĂ©nĂ©ficie de tous les privilĂšges censĂ©ment accordĂ©s Ă  la naissance de toute personne de la race et qui de surcroĂźt jouit de ce don suprĂȘme du statut de victime ultime et Ă©ternelle en raison de son histoire rĂ©cente comme objet du pire massacre de l'HumanitĂ©. Il ne faut pas perdre de vue la logique post-moderne de l'identitarisme qui hiĂ©rarchise les groupes humains en fonction du nombre de cases Ă  cocher dans le bingo intersectionnel. Le Juif est une figure intensĂ©ment problĂ©matique parce qu'il est Ă  la fois « blanc » (dans la tĂȘte de ses ennemis, ethno-nationalistes europĂ©ens notoirement exceptĂ©s) et victime de racisme systĂ©mique Ă  travers l'histoire mondiale. Or, il s'opĂšre une vĂ©ritable jalousie de la victimitĂ©, un ressentiment marquĂ© pour qui appartiendrait Ă  un groupe aux souffrances indĂ©niables, ou tout au moins qui requiĂšrent un plus grand effort pour les minimiser voire les nier.
Il y a un refus gĂ©nĂ©ralisĂ© Ă  gauche en Occident Ă  l'heure prĂ©sente de reconnaĂźtre la part de racisme fĂ©roce qui sous-tend le grand mouvement international de « soutien Ă  la Palestine » — en prĂŽnant l'annihilation pure et simple d'IsraĂ«l et gĂ©nĂ©ralement de tous les juifs — alors mĂȘme que des drapeaux de l'État islamique ont endeuillĂ© les mĂȘmes cortĂšges londoniens d'oĂč l'on a chassĂ© des militants gays, et que la foule massĂ©e Ă  Sidney scandait « Gas the Jews! ». Une chose que l'on m'a rĂ©pĂ©tĂ©e toute mon enfance me revient aussi en tĂȘte ces derniers temps : comme on fait son lit, on se couche. Les anglophones ont une expression similaire Ă  propos des gens avec lesquels on choisit d'aller se coucher.
Les IsraĂ©liens ont rassemblĂ© un vaste panel de journalistes Ă©trangers pour leur montrer des images et vidĂ©os issues de camĂ©ras de surveillance qui ont capturĂ© une partie des massacres du 7 octobre. Ils ont quelque peu tardĂ© Ă  le faire ; ils ont choisi de ne pas publier ailleurs ces Ă©lĂ©ments, par respect disent-ils pour les familles. En rĂ©alitĂ©, on sait que des clips iront alimenter en boucle la propagande jihadesque, la tuerie gĂ©ante du 7 octobre ayant donnĂ© lieu Ă  de grandes manifestations de liesse dans le monde. Les journalistes, occidentaux surtout, sont chargĂ©s d'aller rĂ©pĂ©ter dans leurs pays respectifs la rĂ©alitĂ© du pogrom, d'ores et dĂ©jĂ  niĂ©e par plĂ©thore de bonnes Ăąmes qui se persuadent avec application que d'Ă©ventrer des femmes enceintes ou arracher les yeux et couper des doigts Ă  des parents devant leurs enfants, de dĂ©capiter des vieillards Ă  coups de bĂȘche ou de filmer le viol de petits garçons pour en envoyer la vidĂ©o Ă  leurs pĂšres — que tout ceci constitue un acte de rĂ©sistance Ă  l'oppression.
Je ne publierai pas de photos ni de vidĂ©os dĂ©montrant l'horreur d'une boucherie dĂ©libĂ©rĂ©e dirigĂ©e contre les seuls civils. L'image est une arme de guerre. Il ne fait aucun doute que Tsahal ne se prive pas de s'en servir. La seule attitude digne et sage pour la population occidentale si Ă©loignĂ©e de ce conflit devrait ĂȘtre de ne pas prendre parti et de pleurer tous les morts en frĂšres, de quelque cĂŽtĂ© qu'ils mourussent. Je ne pense pas avoir besoin de contempler le cadavre d'un nourrisson Ă©tĂȘtĂ© et vidĂ© comme un poisson, ni le corps tordu d'un pĂšre pleurant prostrĂ© sur le corps de ses enfants, pas plus que des ruines ou des bĂątiments en flammes, pour honnir la guerre et ce qu'elle fait Ă  ceux qui l'ont parfois peut-ĂȘtre appelĂ©e de leurs vƓux par ignorance mais qui ne l'ont jamais dĂ©cidĂ©e.
Je suis rĂ©vulsĂ©e, plus que tout, par le soin mĂ©ticuleux que mettent tant de progressistes autoproclamĂ©s Ă  se coller des ƓillĂšres quand il s'agit d'islam. J'y vois un profond mĂ©pris, en rĂ©alitĂ©, pour l'objet professĂ© de leurs attendrissements : il est lĂ , le plus veule et feutrĂ© des racismes, dans le refus constant de reconnaĂźtre un libre-arbitre et la mĂȘme capacitĂ© au mal chez le musulman que chez un autre. Ces aveugles-lĂ  n'hĂ©siteront d'aucun royaume, et leur lĂąchetĂ© perdra tous ceux qui voient encore quelque chose. Pourquoi faut-il toujours qu'ils ne voient dans l'islam que ce qu'en clament ses plus sinistres chantres ? Pourquoi ne veulent-ils comme porte-parole que les plus extrĂ©mistes idĂ©ologues, qui ne s'embarrassent mĂȘme plus de taqĂźyya pour sĂ©duire ces cuistres masochistes ?
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de-gueules-au-lion-d-or · 11 months ago
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LounĂšs Darbois: Paris ce n’est pas une ville pour “investir”, oĂč n’importe quel putois mondial aurait droit Ă  son “pied-Ă -terre”. Paris c’est la concentration du gĂ©nie pratique français de la construction et de l’art ornemental passĂ©s par de crucifiants essais et erreurs Ă©talĂ©s sur des siĂšcles, trouvant dĂ©but 17Ăšme son type classique fixĂ© dans la pierre calcaire et le toit d’ardoise, pour enfin en obtenir fin 19Ăšme-dĂ©but 20Ăšme siĂšcle, une merveilleuse rĂ©surrection nĂ©o-classique. Paris c’est pour les Français seuls, c’est “pour nous, Ă  nous, chez nous”. Les squatteurs Ă©trangers qui y rĂ©sident n’ont pas Ă©tĂ© une seule fois capable de crĂ©er un seul bĂątiment qui ait le quart de la beautĂ© du plus laid bĂątiment Ă©rigĂ© durant l’ñge d’or 1880-1914. Ce ne sont pas des parisiens ce sont des squatteurs de cavitĂ©s laissĂ©es vacantes par les morts Ă  la guerre et il y a un terme pour les gens qui cherchent ce mode d’habitation: des troglodytes. Et pas plus que de gĂ©nie pratique, quantifiable, mesurable, concret, ils n’ont de sens esthĂ©tique du mode de vie. En vĂȘtement, en gastronomie, en choix de locomotion ils sont lourdingues et nuls. Ils foncent aux grossiers commerces crasseux, aux viandes mal saignĂ©es Ă©talĂ©es sans bardage sous les prĂ©sentoirs sans feuillage, Ă  cĂŽtĂ© de cela comparons ce qu’est une boucherie française traditionnelle, une boulangerie, une cordonnerie bien tenue, avec travail en tablier. Et l’ambiance de frĂ©nĂ©sie gaie des samedi aprĂšs-midi de Paris jusque vers 2010, avec ses familles françaises nombreuses, ses jeunes femmes habillĂ©es, coiffĂ©es, ses darons sans ventre en manteau longs et chaussures cirĂ©es qui passaient en coup de vent acheter la tarte aux poires du dĂ©jeuner, toute cette petite beautĂ© gratuite de la rue, la vraie France organique, parquet et lambris, ascenseur Ă  grillage et escalier Ă  tapis serti de tiges de maintien, tout le savoir-faire d’hommes inconnus d’avant, qui avaient des vrais beaux noms de provinces francophones, pas ces noms trafiquĂ©s de tricheurs importĂ©s, de gougnafiers qui n’ont jamais rien embelli et qui se prĂ©tendent des droits sur nous. C’est le ressentiment? Mais le ressentiment contre une telle exploitation, un tel mensonge, une telle colonisation forcenĂ©e alors que nous n’avions rien fait, cela ne s’appelle pas ressentiment cela s’appelle du sang qui crie justice, un vĂ©hĂ©ment redressement qui renverse la pensĂ©e contre soi-mĂȘme, cela s’appelle la GrĂące, et merde et cent fois merde aux catĂ©gories nietzschĂ©ennes et Ă  leur engrenage mental incapacitant. La vie organique d’abord bordel! Et l’évidence, l’intuition, l’instinct d’abord. Nous disons ce que nous disons pas pour l’avoir “pensĂ©â€ (penser la sociĂ©tĂ©...) mais pour l’avoir expĂ©rimentĂ©, payĂ© sur le terrain depuis 20 ans, depuis 50 ans mĂȘme pour certains, et il faudrait s’inhiber l’évidence par respect d’un philologue allemand d’universitĂ© qui n’a jamais vu venir l’invasion barbare contrairement aux grands Français Art DĂ©co, les CĂ©line, les Morand dĂšs 1925 avec L’Europe galante, dĂšs 1928 avec Magie Noire? Et Lapouge mĂȘme avant. La vraie impulsion rĂ©volutionnaire c’est ça, et tout ce que ça induit.
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