#Hugo The Frugal

[papillondusublime]

Je lui dis : La rose du jardin, comme tu sais, dure peu ; et la saison des roses est bien vite écoulée. Quand l’Automne, abrégeant les jours qu’elle dévore, Éteint leurs soirs de flamme et glace leur aurore, Quand Novembre de brume inonde le ciel bleu, Que le bois tourbillonne et qu’il neige des feuilles, Ô ma muse ! en mon âme alors tu te recueilles, Comme un enfant transi qui s’approche du feu. Devant le sombre hiver de Paris qui bourdonne, Ton soleil d’orient s’éclipse, et t’abandonne, Ton beau rêve d’Asie avorte, et tu ne vois Sous tes yeux que la rue au bruit accoutumée, Brouillard à ta fenêtre, et longs flots de fumée Qui baignent en fuyant l’angle noirci des toits. Alors s’en vont en foule et sultans et sultanes, Pyramides, palmiers, galères capitanes, Et le tigre vorace et le chameau frugal, Djinns au vol furieux, danses des bayadères, L’Arabe qui se penche au cou des dromadaires, Et la fauve girafe au galop inégal ! Alors, éléphants blancs chargés de femmes brunes, Cités aux dômes d’or où les mois sont des lunes, Imans de Mahomet, mages, prêtres de Bel, Tout fuit, tout disparaît : – plus de minaret maure, Plus de sérail fleuri, plus d’ardente Gomorrhe Qui jette un reflet rouge au front noir de Babel ! C’est Paris, c’est l’hiver. – A ta chanson confuse Odalisques, émirs, pachas, tout se refuse. Dans ce vaste Paris le klephte est à l’étroit ; Le Nil déborderait ; les roses du Bengale Frissonnent dans ces champs où se tait la cigale ; A ce soleil brumeux les Péris auraient froid. Pleurant ton Orient, alors, muse ingénue, Tu viens à moi, honteuse, et seule, et presque nue. – N’as-tu pas, me dis-tu, dans ton coeur jeune encor Quelque chose à chanter, ami ? car je m’ennuie A voir ta blanche vitre où ruisselle la pluie, Moi qui dans mes vitraux avais un soleil d’or !

Puis, tu prends mes deux mains dans tes mains diaphanes ; Et nous nous asseyons, et, loin des yeux profanes, Entre mes souvenirs je t’offre les plus doux, Mon jeune âge, et ses jeux, et l’école mutine, Et les serments sans fin de la vierge enfantine, Aujourd’hui mère heureuse aux bras d’un autre époux.

Je te raconte aussi comment, aux Feuillantines, Jadis tintaient pour moi les cloches argentines ; Comment, jeune et sauvage, errait ma liberté, Et qu’à dix ans, parfois, resté seul à la brune, Rêveur, mes yeux cherchaient les deux yeux de la lune, Comme la fleur qui s’ouvre aux tièdes nuits d’été.

Puis tu me vois du pied pressant l’escarpolette Qui d’un vieux marronnier fait crier le squelette, Et vole, de ma mère éternelle terreur ! Puis je te dis les noms de mes amis d’Espagne, Madrid, et son collège où l’ennui t’accompagne, Et nos combats d’enfants pour le grand Empereur !

Puis encor mon bon père, ou quelque jeune fille Morte à quinze ans, à l’âge où l’oeil s’allume et brille. Mais surtout tu te plais aux premières amours, Frais papillons dont l’aile, en fuyant rajeunie, Sous le doigt qui la fixe est si vite ternie, Essaim doré qui n’a qu’un jour dans tous nos jours.

-poésie: "Novembre", Victor Hugo -image: "The Meeting with Autumn", Vladimir Volegov

[xtruss]

A Newly Discovered Letter By Thomas Jefferson Shows ‘A Regular Guy With Financial Burdens’

The Note, Valued at $40,000, is For Sale in Honor of Fourth of July, Also the 198th Anniversary of the President’s Death

— US News | Richard Luscombe | Thursday 4 July 2024

Like Many Plantation Owners of the Period, The Former President Struggled to Balance the Books, and Left a Debt of $107,000 (More Than $1m Today). Photograph: The Raab Collection

He came from one of America’s wealthiest landowning families, and was ranked the fourth richest US president in a recent study. But Thomas Jefferson, the nation’s third president, harbored a secret during his time in the White House: he was almost constantly in penury, and struggled to pay his food bills, servants and other household expenses.

The revelation comes in a previously unpublished letter that Jefferson, who was president from 1801 to 1809, wrote to a friend who acted as his financial agent in October 1802.

The document, valued at $40,000, is for sale by Pennsylvania dealer the Raab Collection to commemorate the Fourth of July holiday, also the 198th anniversary of Jefferson’s death.

That Jefferson, a founder and primary author of the Declaration of Independence, died broke is not new. Like many plantation owners of the period, he struggled to balance the books, and left a debt of $107,000 (more than $1m today) that led heirs to sell his possessions, including slaves and his beloved Monticello estate in Virginia.

The letter shows the degree to which financial problems were constantly on Jefferson’s mind during his time in the Oval Office. The missive to English-born tea merchant John Barnes, Monticello’s accounting manager while Jefferson was in Washington DC, urges him to express frugality with limited resources, intending to stave off making a request for another bank loan secured against his future presidential earnings.

The pair had already exchanged correspondence through the spring and summer of 1802, with Jefferson calculating how to trim household expenses. The newly revealed letter indicates that he was trying to figure out how to stretch the money he did have until the following March.

“This letter is a remarkable historical discovery,” said Nathan Raab, president of the Raab Collection.

“We can see in it Thomas Jefferson not as an unapproachable president, but as a regular guy with financial burdens and worries, just like the rest of us.”

The letter, Raab said, was noted as missing in Princeton University’s definitive chronicle of Thomas Jefferson papers.

“In other words, scholars knew the letter once existed but thought it had been lost,” he said.

“Long in private hands, it escaped the notice of 20th century cataloging projects and thus has not been seen or studied by scholars.”

Raab said he acquired it earlier this year from the family of “an American collector” who bought it in 1929 from Thomas Madigan, a prominent New York collector of historical memorabilia, two years before Madigan’s death.

Previous notable sales by Raab include one of the last letters signed by Abraham Lincoln, which was hidden in a desk drawer for years; and a signed note from Les Misérables author Victor Hugo urging its unnamed recipient to donate generously towards “the poor of your country”.

[thoughtlessarse]

The CO2 emissions of Dutch homes and buildings have decreased significantly since 1990, and the target of 55 percent fewer emissions by 2030 is in sight, outgoing Minister Hugo de Jonge of Public Housing informed parliament on Monday. He stressed that the high energy prices played a significant role in the reduction, and he can’t guarantee that will be permanent, the Volkskrant reports. Last year, CO2 emissions from homes and buildings were 38 percent lower than in 1990, falling from 30 to 18.6 megatons. Nearly half of that decline occurred in the past two years. Between 2021 and 2023, natural gas consumption in homes decreased by a quarter. That is partly due to sustainability measures like better insulation and heat pumps, but more reserved consumption also played a big role. In February 2022, Russia invaded Ukraine and caused energy prices to spike. Since then, many Dutch households have turned the thermostat down a few degrees. The past two winters have also been mild. It is, therefore, “uncertain” whether the decline will continue, De Jonge said. Households remained frugal last year despite lower gas prices, and that is hopeful. But he can’t guarantee that this will remain the case.

continue reading

This fall in CO2 emissions has nothing to do with the government which has done very little to reduce emissions.

[unpossession]

as the author i need 2 state for the record that growing up, willow’s family did not have money - living in london, they barely scraped by and actually lived in a very small, cramped flat until she was about ten years old, when hugo (and his inheritance) moved in. her parents moved into a house, namely so they’d have space for hugo, using money left to them to ensure hugo’s care, and spent money very frugally except for when hugo needed or wanted something. when he turned eighteen he got access to most of the money he inherited from his parents, by which point all the other inheritances from the other family deaths had kicked in for willow’s parents, leaving them with a large sum of money, which was left in willow’s care after their passing.

she’s never lived with money, she doesn’t consider herself as rich growing up, and the money she has now is so overwhelming that she actually gave most of it away to charities, keeping only enough to buy her place in LA (which obviously wasn’t cheap) and living off of the income of her books (and felix’s credit card).

she hates being called rich even though she is now, and is actually really ashamed of the way she lives, although she really wouldn’t know how to do anything else at this point. she doesn’t need to do anything but write to sustain herself, which is The Dream, but she still gets deeply embarrassed when people ask about what she does for work. she doesn’t do anything, in her mind.

[kathybarnes]

Because my husband, Mark, worked as an IT specialist for many years, he is extremely tech savvy. I have sometimes remarked that he likes computers more than people. Therefore, he reads things on his Kindle while I sit with my books, turning pages and marking interesting passages. He is also notoriously frugal. That brings us to the point of this story. Several years ago while perusing Kindle’s list of “free” books, he came upon Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. Aware of the author’s notoriety, he downloaded it in spite of the fact that the novel was more than 1500 pages long. He recently finished it after taking several lengthy hiatuses from the book to read something a little more contemporary. He entertained me with a running commentary while he read it...

[ectoblud]

One day ill post smth w/o watermarks lol

[nikatyler]

Before we move onto the next generation, we have some more birthday gals (and a birthday boy) to pay a visit to.

Briana is a young adult! || Brave | Excitable | Frugal | Neurotic | Photographer's Eye

The other two who aged up are Hugo's kids, Rae and Jaiden. Rae is a teenager and Jaiden is a child now.

[fortvscue]

╰  (  florence pugh. cisfemale. she/her. ) welcome back to hogwarts,  ALICE FORTESCUE ! you’re a SEVENTH year from GRYFFINDOR, right ? i’ve got your school file right here. it says you’re a TWENTY THREE year old PUREBLOOD, is that correct ? this file even has a personality entry, saying you’re ALTRUISTIC & STEADFAST as well as DOMINEERING & WELL-MEANING. is that why you’ve chosen to JOIN THE ORDER ? would you look at that ! it says here other students also describe you as : laughing so hard your stomach aches, the warmth of a palm pressed against your own, bandaids over day old scratches, a backbone like steel and leaving a faint smell of bubblegum wherever you go. how interesting. oh well, see you in class !

Gryffindor, Seventh yr. Former Sacred 28-er turned ice cream makers daughter, now Head Girl with a heart (mostly) of gold. Duelling Club professional, Herbology club afficionado and Seeker on the Quidditch team with a Snitch tattooed behind her left ear.

Was born a Fawley, the last of her line, the daughter of Andromache Travers, betrothed to Antioch Fawley, the only surviving son of the once great Fawley family. Her childhood was a happy one, though one that was still filled with the indoctrination of purist society, and she grew up unaware that the views her parents were raising her with weren’t the norm.

Her mother died when she was eight - vanishing sickness took hold quickly, but Dragonpox was what took her. Her father when she was ten - he hadn’t needed to work, he’d been left a fortune by family members who died too soon, but he decided to work anyway, and was caught in a collapsing Egyptian tomb. 

She was more or less adopted that same summer by Hugo Fortescue, a family friend who had been widowed in the same explosion that took Antioch (and, yes, her father was named after that Antioch. The Peverell one.) 

Suddenly she lost almost everything she had ever known. Yes, Hugo was a pureblood, though not a member of the Sacred 28 owing to him having immigrated from France only a few years earlier to be with his wife, but he was by no means wealthy. Or, perhaps, he was a lot more frugal than Alice was used to her family being.

Gone were the parties and little excursions to her friends houses, the fancy dresses and lessons on etiquette and what to expect from the Black’s and the Lestrange’s and the Rosier’s and Yaxley’s and Shacklebolt’s, the echoing halls of her manor of a home and the cold reality that while her parents loved her, they did not always treat her as such.

Living with Hugo - and her now adoptive older brother, Florean - was a learning curve that she hadn’t ever anticipated. She was suddenly faced with the reality that everything her parents had drilled into her, all of it was a lie. None of it was true. The innate kindness they’d tried to force out of her, the natural love of humanity and awe of muggles that they’d tried to burn out of her, that was true. What wasn’t was the lesson that they were superior that they had drilled into her head, that had been why she felt so out of place here, because their blood was pure.

She didn’t want to admit it, not then, but her childhood was tainted. It’s something she struggled with for a long time, hell, even now she struggles with it - that, really, she isn’t a Fortescue, even though that’s the name she totes, the name she is more than proud of - that her family, her blood, were people who hated anyone that was different. 

For all intents and purposes, Hugo and Florean were more like family than her parents ever were. They made time for her - Florean, even then, was her overprotective big brother - the one that would take a jinx to the chest for her, the one that would torment anyone who hurt her, the one who would wake up too early to learn how to braid her hair because Hugo was always too busy to do it. 

Despite all the unlearning she did - and still is doing, believe me, she knows she isn’t perfect, but she’s angrier than ever and learning more and more each day - she still remained close with several of her childhood friends. They’d come visit her in the ice cream parlour, and she’d sneak them a scoop or two before abandoning her post to run around Diagon Alley with her.

That started to change as she grew - as she became a teenager, and suddenly she was listening to muggle music, and watching muggle tv shows, following Florean out into muggle London for the first time, but certainly not the last. She started to lose friends when they couldn’t understand why she was abandoning them, when to her, she wasn’t. They were so important to her, some still are today, even if she isn’t proud of that, proud of being friends with people on both sides. 

When she got her letter to Hogwarts, a couple of years after being allowed her own wand - under Hugo’s strict supervision (okay, so it wasn’t necessarily always strict, but he said it was to anyone who dared ask him why she could sometimes be found waving her wand in the middle of the ice cream parlour in the middle of Diagon Alley), she knew exactly where she was meant to be.

She’d already gone through a “phase” of getting into skirmishes with people who, in her eyes, didn’t know how to treat people with respect. It’s something that’s definitely mellowed, though that instinct, that protective flare still hasn’t faded, not even now. It was obvious to any of the people who knew her, who knew her as a Fortescue, that she was going to be sorted into Gryffindor - nobody was less surprised than Alice when it barely took a second before she was swept off her feet.

Her fascination with muggle music and love of art only grew at Hogwarts - her natural ability with plants made certain Alice always found a home in the Greenhouses, and her wand’s natural inclining to defensive magic made it easy to thrive in Defence Against the Dark Arts. 

Trying out for Quidditch is a no brainer - she’s not so graceful on her feet on the ground, more often than not tripping and skinning her knees, Drooble’s gum bubble popped as she goes, but on a broom? She knows how to be graceful there, in the air, not quite so high as to be above the clouds, but high enough to be above their heads. She’s not meant to be trying out for the Seeker position - she thought maybe Chaser, or Beater, but Seeker was where she found herself, and where she’s stayed ever since.

Now she’s in her last year, she’s found that so much has changed. The world is on the verge of war, and Alice knows she’ll end up fighting - she wants to be an Auror, she has done since she was fifteen and met one in the ice cream parlour, looking for a lead. She just doesn’t know how far this will go - how far she’ll let herself go, how far they’ll all let themselves go. She only knows that she won’t ever back down.

- x -

middle name: marguerite. 

languages spoken: english, french, latin (duh). 

body modifications: five ear piercings. two tattoos. a golden snitch behind her left ear, one that moves and flaps it’s wings. a lion on her ribcage.

hobbies: photography, quidditch, herbology club, eating ice cream. being the most badass head girl hogwarts has ever seen. (in her own words, of course).

orientation: bisexual (and biromantic) af. let her have kissed girls and boys.

wand: yew wood and phoenix feather core. twelve inches. rigid. excellent for duelling, and by definition, defense against the dark arts and charms. (also with a dark and very fearsome reputation, she’s learned.)

boggart is herself turning into an inferi. that’s cool. totally not somehow a metaphor for how afraid she is of losing herself and her mind.

patronus: elephant.

amortentia: cinnamon being sprinkled across freshly baked cookies. her mother’s perfume. pink blossoms falling to the ground in the midday autumn breeze. pumpkin pasties, the way the hogwarts kitchens always make. seawater crashing against the coast. bouquets of tiger lily on the dinner table. firework sparks. droobles best blowing gum, bubblegum and blueberry mixing. water hitting tea. laundry, freshly done, just out of the dryer. woody cologne. 

birthday: october 9th, 7:54pm.

zodiac: libra sun.

egyptian zodiac: horus. 

positive traits: altruistic, steadfast, compassionate, loyal, personable, passionate.

negative traits: domineering, well-meaning, self sabotaging, messy, clumsy, closed off.

expanded aesthetic: laughing so hard your stomach aches, the warmth of a palm pressed against your own, bandaids over day old scratches, a backbone like steel and leaving a faint smell of bubblegum wherever you go, running hands through your hair, coffee with three sugars and no milk, eating ice cream for breakfast, leather jackets emblazoned with flowers, never letting your camera get dusty, potted plants on your window still, pressing kisses to people’s cheeks, standing by the sea as it crashes against the shore, sleepless nights buried in text books, wielding authority with a laugh and a smile.

[labitacoradelhombresolitario]

Poéticas prerrogativas

Los poemas venían cuando querían. Era una de sus prerrogativas. Aunque eso (el inapelable «poder de la inspiración») tal vez fuera una noción un poco romántica, y al decir «romántica» quería decirse del romanticismo literario. También el poeta era un trabajador; a Hugo, a bote pronto, se le venía en ese sentido a la cabeza Robinson Jeffers, esculpiendo sus largas historias en la agreste costa californiana de hacía más de un siglo, en una soledad de roca y mar, poblada de viento y de tormentas, de sol, de halcones que surcaban el cielo en las crestas de las olas del aire del Pacífico, y que tantas veces aparecían en las inclementes e inspiradas narraciones en verso del gran poeta norteamericano: «Antes mataría —salvado el legal castigo— a un hombre que a un halcón», decía en una de sus piezas más conocidas (en este caso un poema lírico, de los más breves, que aparecía sin falta en todas las antologías). ¡Tremenda declaración! Jeffers las hacía todavía más «gordas»; sus tiempos, a pesar de lo cercanos que estaban a los actuales, podrían realmente ser tan remotos como los del Imperio romano, o casi. Robinson Jeffers era un artista sin piedad, que construyó su refugio de piedra en Carmel con sus propias manos, con la única ayuda de su mujer, Una, y que vivió la mayor parte de su vida retirado, lejos de la enfebrecida multitud, de la «malvada muchedumbre», que no obstante, en una especie de irónica broma de justicia poética invertida, terminaría tomando por asalto los oceánicos páramos en los que Jeffers y Una habían establecido su «nido de águilas», para invadirlos a partir de los años cincuenta y sesenta con su omnipresente y fatal voracidad de marabunta humana que todo lo pisotea.

Si nos íbamos más atrás, y nos remontábamos a los tiempos en los que Johann Sebastian Bach, posiblemente el músico más sublime de la historia, era un modesto artesano desconocido que hacía su trabajo a la sombra y a la luz de Dios, y para mayor gloria de este último, veíamos que el arte en buena medida seguía siendo humilde oficio, donde no importaba el nombre del creador sino la ansiada grandeza de lo creado; y así los poetas trabajaban también, en cierto modo, y así podíamos tal vez imaginar, un siglo y medio aproximado antes de Bach, a Miguel de Cervantes, anónimo y fatigado funcionario cubierto por el polvo miserable de los caminos, o incluso a Shakespeare, que aunque no creara sus comedias y sus dramas ad majorem Dei gloriam exactamente, sí lo hacía para ganarse honradamente el sustento, llenando papeles a la velocidad del rayo, sin hacer según parece un solo borrón (afirmaban testigos presenciales), con el propósito de poner lo antes posible a sus actores en las tablas y el «pan y la mantequilla» (los garbanzos, las habichuelas, diríamos en español) en su sufrida y frugal mesa isabelina.

Hugo pensaba también en el popularísimo Tennyson, uno de los más queridos vates de los públicos angloparlantes del XIX y del XX, «poeta laureado» de la era victoriana, tal vez no ya tan leído, y modernamente acusado de sentimental en exceso, que sin embargo había dejado versos que formaban parte de la conciencia colectiva de todo un pueblo, como aquel que remataba «Ulises», una de sus más célebres composiciones (el «poema perfecto», en palabras de T. S. Eliot, ¡y no era eso moco de pavo en boca de semejante maestro!): «... luchar, buscar, hallar, y no darse nunca por vencido». ¡Sí señor! ¿No era lo suyo que así hablaran los poetas? «¡Un poco más de heroicidad»!, se decía Hugo con una agridulce y tragicómica carcajada interna. Quizá fuera eso lo que se necesitara, en tiempos tan revueltos y atribulados, pero sobre todo tan exangües, tan correctos, tan faltos del oxígeno vital de la esperanza: un poco más —un mucho más— de serio y heroico trabajo, de anónima abnegación, de sacrificio, de entrega, de activa sumisión a los designios feroces de los dioses y las musas que regían la esfera «humana, demasiado humana» de los desvelos del artista. Sonaba, tal vez, muy grandilocuente, y hasta grotescamente ostentoso, amén de teatral y «traído por los pelos», en este vigésimo primer año del siglo XXI, curado de espantos y de capacidad para el deslumbramiento, pero en realidad podía resumirse en algo bastante sencillo, que tenía paradójicamente que ver con la humildad bien entendida, y con la aceptación —de nuevo, tennysoniana— de que no éramos más, ni tampoco menos, que lo que éramos: That which we are, we are.

Si de lo que se trataba era de entregarnos a lo que éramos, o más bien y sobre todo a lo que podíamos ser, decía André Malraux que el arte podía dar sentido a nuestra vida, y Hugo no solo estaba de acuerdo con eso, sino que llevaba décadas poniendo la máxima discretamente en práctica; el arte era sin duda un pilar, sostenido por el trabajo, siendo el segundo pilar (peliaguda discusión resultaba sin embargo esa, en la que casi fuera preferible no enzarzarse, y dejarla para otro día) la del amor con físicos pelos y señales.

De todos modos, cerrando el círculo de la palabra en el tiempo con el lápiz mental de carpintero que Hugo empleaba para todos sus trabajos de poética y prosística rumia, los poemas, hoy por hoy, también a él le venían cuando querían, y aunque pudiera ser interesante y a veces necesario, no era conveniente forzar demasiado la máquina; a Wolfe le gustaba, con el mazo dando, dejar que el metal se sugiriera por sí mismo en el yunque, y adoptara las formas que el capricho misterioso del numen quisiera irle dando, guiado por manos que el quehacer diario aspiraba siempre a tornar lo más expertas que se pudiera. Hacía un par de días, en pleno trabajo en un decimonónico y majestuoso edificio reconvertido en hotel, en las afueras de Madrid, le había venido un «apunte» en una de sus medias horas de descanso interpretativo, y había anotado al vuelo los poéticos retazos en el «bloc de notas» del teléfono. Se hallaba en ese momento paseando entre el verde furioso de los fastuosos jardines del añejo establecimiento en el que prestaba servicio, y un olor de campo inflamó súbitamente, en la luz de la tarde, sus sentidos. La máquina proustiana del arte era una máquina del tiempo (la única que había, para la cual no se expendían por cierto boletos sin ton ni son, ni a pedestre diestro y siniestro); en ella viajó de pronto el poeta, llevado en volandas por los decenios, para aterrizar en el levante inmarcesible de su infancia.

Hugo celebró la serena mañana del último día de julio volcando en pantalla su breve bosquejo telefónico y añadiéndole, en la cibernética pecera del ordenador, un título en versales en su tipo de letra de elección (que tal vez en otra ocasión pudiera dar para un breve ensayito bajo el sugerente rótulo de «Cambria»). Quién sabía si la nota al vuelo se convertiría más adelante en poema en toda regla. No importaba; el boceto era por hoy su homenaje al gozo y a la pena de la vida.

PRESENCIAS

¿Estás ahí, abuela? ¿Estás ahí? ¿Partiendo granadas en la cocina para hacer zumo y confitura? Miro los granados en el oro flamígero de la tarde de julio, la miel del sol en las ramas de un verde que es el verde inefable de mi infancia, y me pregunto qué se hizo de todos aquellos que tanto quise y me quisieron tanto.

ROGER WOLFE · 31 de julio de 2021

• • •

John Singer Sargent: Granadas, Mallorca (1908)

[akallabeth-joie]

Brickclub Les Mis 5.8.3

In which I get very frustrated with Marius and the passive aggressive “make the room uncomfortable” games. Just grow up and have a conversation already.

Going to the Rue Plumet is a nice callback to last year, I suppose, but Vicky really twists the knife by framing it as ‘gratitude’ to the place--in what I take to be a deliberate contrast with how JVJ is treated.

It’s weird how everyone seems both really in character and really out of it right here.

Marius is being passive aggressive instead of saying what he’s thinking, sure. Also being a bit of a condescending tyrant, wtf.

JVJ lying to his own detriment in order to protect (or “protect”) others, I can see it. Still not happy about it. And rather wish he’d used some of his willingness to bend the truth to make a plausible reason for his absence(s) instead of never explaining anything to Cosette. The encouragement to live more extravagantly feels out of place--it certainly relates to the ‘Marius is suspicious of Cosette’s dowry’ thing, but it feels weird for highly-frugal and retiring JVJ to place so much importance on status markers he excluded from their lives. One the on hand, I can see it because JVJ wanting Cosette comfortable/happy, and wanting her situation (money and all) accepted. And that depriving her of those things earlier tied into a whole slew of other concerns (his penitential lifestyle, maintaining a low profile) which are no longer in play regarding Cosette. But it still feels weird to see him placing so much value on things he never previously seemed to care about. 

Cosette...ok, we don’t get as much time listening to her voice early on (versus seeing other characters think about her), but since her engagement she’s come across as more child-like and credulous than she did as an actual child. Her speech towards Marius and JVJ falls again and again into wheedling pseudo-tantrums, and I just don’t like or buy it. I’ll cut her some slack in that the two men with power over her life are concealing some major information from her, and playing the brat may be an intentional strategy to cope with that, but Hugo’s on some thin ice.

The kids tutoyer, of course, and Cosette & JVJ are firmly in ‘vous’ territory.

[pynkhues]

Tags Masterlist

Finally got around to properly organising my tags (they were pretty organised already, but a few were a bit of a mess, haha). This is mostly for my own organisation and reference, but I figured I’d share it here and link to it in my header for easy access for people who might want to have a look through them. :-) 

Let me know if you have any questions about the theme tags, I promise they do all refer to specific things.

CONTENT TAGS My Gifs l My Fic

Fanart l Fanvid l Fic Recs l Music

PSA post

-

Good Girls Tags

SEASON TAGS GG Season 1 l GG Season 2 l GG Season 3 l GG Season 4

EPISODE TAGS Pilot 1.01 l 1.02 l 1.03 l 1.04 l 1.05 l 1.06 l 1.07 l 1.08 l 1.09 l 1.10 2.01 l 2.02 l 2.03 l 2.04 l 2.05 l 2.06 l 2.07 l 2.08 l 2.09 l 2.10 l 2.11 l 2.12 l 2.13 3.01 l 3.02 l 3.03 l 3.04 l 3.05 l 3.06 l 3.07 l 3.08 l 3.09 l 3.10 l 3.11 l 3.12 l 3.13 l 3.14 l 3.15 l 3.16 4.01 l 4.02 l 4.03 l 4.04 l 4.05 l 4.06 l 4.07 l 4.08 l 4.09 l 4.10 l 4.11 l 4.12 l 4.13 l 4.14 l 4.15 l 4.16

CHARACTER TAGS Amber Dooley l Annie Marks l Baby Tyler l Ben Marks l Beth Boland l Danny Boland l Darren l Dave l Diane l Dylan l Dean Boland l Dr Josh Cohen l Eddie l Emma Boland l Gayle l Greg l Gretchen Zorada l Harry Hill l Jane Boland l Jeff l Jimmy Turner l JT l Judith Boland l Kenny Boland l Kevin l Krystal l Leslie ‘Boomer’ Peterson l Lucy l Marcus l Marion Peterson l Mary Pat Max l Max l Mick l Nancy l Nick Martin l Noah l Phoebe Donnegan l Rhea l Rio l Rio’s Boys l Rosa l Ruby Hill l Sara Hill l Stan Hill l Tim l Vance

RELATIONSHIP TAGS Amber x Dean l Annie x Greg l Annie x Josh l Annie x Kevin l Annie x Nancy l Annie x Noah l Annie x Rio l Beth x Rio l Beth x Dean l Boomer x Mary Pat l Dean x Gayle l Dylan x Rio l Jeff x Mary Pat l Mary Pat x Mick l Rhea x Rio l Ruby x Stan

Annie + Beth + Ruby l Annie + Beth l Annie + Dean l Annie + Marion l Annie + Rio l Annie + Ruby l Beth + Mary Pat l Beth + Rhea l Beth + Ruby l Beth + Turner l JT + Ruby l Mary Pat + Turner l Nick + Rio l Rio + Turner l Stan + Turner

PLACES TAGS Annie’s Apartment l The Boland House l The Hill House l Rio’s Loft

Bars and Cafes l Boland Motors l Cloud 9 l Dandy Donuts l Fine and Frugal l Four Star Pools and Spas l Hospitals l Kwik Kash l Paper Porcupine l The Park l Schools l Storage Units l Sweet P’s l Warehouses

THEME TAGS Bathroom Breaks l Beth the MVP l Bills Bills Bills l Break Ups and Make Ups l Callbacks and Parallels l Catching Feelings l Character Backgrounds l Checks and Balances l Class in Session l Crime Time l Dis/Armed l Dis/Honesty l Femininity l Illness and Injury l Interior Lives l King and Queen l Kinks and Fantasies l Loaded Looks l Masculinity l Outside Opinions l Parenting l Pissing Contests l Power Plays l Rio the MVP l Set Dressing l Showdowns l Staying’s Worse than Leaving l That Chemistry l Timelines l Touches l What’s in a name

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CHARACTER TAGS Caroline Collingwood l Connor Roy l Ewan Roy l Frank Vernon l Gerri Kellman l Gil Eavis l Greg Hirsch l Hugo Baker l Iverson Roy l Jess Jordan l Josh Aaronson l Karl Muller l Kendall Roy l Lisa Arthur l Logan Roy l Marcia Roy l Nan Pierce l Naomi Pierce l Nate Sofrelli l Rava Roy l Rhea Jarrell l Roman Roy l Sandi Furness l Sandy Furness l Shiv Roy l Sophie Roy l Stewy Hosseini l Tabitha l Tom Wambsgans l Willa Ferreyra

RELATIONSHIP TAGS Connor + Kendall l Connor + Logan l Connor + Roman l Connor + Shiv l Ewan + Logan l Kendall + Logan l Kendall + Roman l Kendall + Shiv l Logan + Roman l Logan + Shiv l Roman + Shiv l The Roy Siblings

Caroline x Logan l Connor x Willa l Gerri x Roman l Kendall x Naomi l Kendall x Rava l Kendall x Stewy l Nate x Shiv l Rava x Stewy l Shiv x Tom

Succession cast

[lizardrosen]

10/5/19 BrickClub 1.1.5

How Monseigneur Bienvenu Made His Cassocks Last Too Long

And so, as the saying went in town, “When the bishop isn’t feeding a priest, he’s feeding a Trappist.”

Again, everything we see is filtered through people’s perceptions. but more importantly we see how frugal he is and how he can live on very little. But the thing is, while it’s a very noble thing for him to do, he’s not the only person living in the house! Madame Magloire has to use visiting priests or other guests as an excuse to serve them any kind of meat, because he can look after everyone else but forgets about his own needs. And none of them is young, either, so they’d probably all benefit from having more than just bread and milk and sometimes boiled vegetables.

Sometimes he took a shovel to the garden, sometimes he did a bit of reading and writing. He had one word only for these two different kinds of work: he called both gardening. “The mind is a garden,” he would say.

I love this concept so, so much, and it’s the first peek we get at gardens basically being a signal that this is a Good Character (Myriel, Valjean, Fauchelevent, Georges Pontmercy, Mabeuf).

I do sort of miss the FMA translation as “The spirit is a garden” because it’s a lot more poetic and evocative, and also because it ties in with the Bishop’s dissertation on the different translations of “And the spirit of G-d moved upon the face of the waters.” from Genesis. Knowing Hugo, it’s probably not an accident that the idea of “spirit” and creation shows up in these two areas of the bishop’s life. But then, I don’t know what the original is, or whether he said “the spirit” or “the mind” is a garden.

Anyway he’ll sometimes fall into a meditation and just write his notes in the margins of whatever book he’s been reading, whether it’s directly related or not. First, that’s high key relatable as an ADHD person, and second, that sounds a lot like Hugo and his digressions and things that “have no bearing” on each other, even when they totally do.

[blackandwhitemusician]

Are there any authors you want to see in BSD? What will be their ability? Appearance, if I'm not asking too much?

Thank you for the great ask!! And no it’s not too much to ask, I just have a rather limited imagination so I’m really hoping I can answer you properly!

AHHH there are a few of them I’m hoping to see!! Some have already been discussed by other BSD blogs:

Mishima Yukio: I’m pretty positive that he will show up as one of the members of The Decay of Angels, or even their boss, since it wasn’t indicated that Fyodor was their leader. He might even be the person writing on the page that The Decay of Angels stole from the government.

Appearance-wise, he would probably carry a samurai-like air, rather whimsical and contradictory, melancholy one moment and hysterical the next, laughing with his mouth and a heavy look in his eyes. His ability name could be “The Sea of Fertility”.

Arthur Conan Doyle: I like the idea of his ability being “A Study in Scarlet”. I also picture him as a dignified old man with a peculiar sense of humour, an obsession with dead bodies and riddles, and (unnecessarily) expansive knowledge of cigars.

George Orwell: If he shows up with “1984″ as his ability I’ll lose my shit. Although I’m not 100% confident Asagiri would go there, I would be happy if they explored the theme of thought control and the malleability of the mind. I could picture him being a modest-looking young man with harsh eyes, probably heading a revolution somewhere against the government’s control over ability users.

Charles Dickens: A poor and frugal young man, known for his sharp wits and cynical satire. Got into war by accident. Really would rather stay at home so he wouldn’t have to spend money eating out. Ability name: “A Christmas Carol”.

Lewis Carroll: This guy knows real magic. A dreamy young man with a knack for logic and talking about the impossible. Ability name: “Through the Looking-Glass”.

Oscar Wilde: An extraordinarily handsome man who never ages. Ability name: “The Picture of Dorian Gray”.

William Shakespeare: too famous not to make an appearance. A drama queen, feels compelled to give a rose to everyone he meets. Ability name: “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”.

Victor Hugo: “The Hunchback of Notre-Dame”. He’ll have to be the scary one. Sorry, Hugo.

[random-red-ramblings]

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean Characters: Javert (Les Misérables), Jean Valjean, Cosette Fauchelevent, Toussaint (Les Misérables), Rivette (Les Misérables), Marius Pontmercy Additional Tags: Post-Seine, Javert Lives, Slow Burn, old man virgins, Eventual Porn, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, guys getting through their issues, tentative friendship, Friends to Lovers, Javert using slurs to describe himself, wet dreams, Masturbation, one instance of self-harm Summary:

Javert's moment with the Seine is interrupted but his confusion and uncertainty remain. Life continues to be difficult for him with these new trials of conscience, but perhaps it gets somewhat easier in the presence of a friend.

Friendship is the last thing either of them expected and maybe, in the end, it's a bond that runs far deeper.

Chapter 8

Valjean felt careful fingers push the hair from his brow. Not gentle, Javert had never known gentleness, but a light, awkward touch. A smile formed on Valjean's lips and opened his eyes upon hearing Javert's huff but his hand was back in his lap as if it had never touched him.

“What do you have to smile about? As sick as you are.”

Valjean only felt his smile widen at Javert's concern. “I am quite alright, Javert.”

“You would not even attempt that lie if you could see yourself. Grey is not a healthy complexion.”

Javert had visited every day since he had brought Cosette and Marius to find him at Rue de l’Homme-Armé, and Valjean could not be happier. He could never have dreamt that he would have told Cosette of his life, and that she would still show him so much love once there were no secrets between them. Then there was Javert, who had his own clumsy way of caring, for he was a man unaccosted to soft sentiments and gestures. Valjean found Javert's guff, awkward manner in these moments to be terribly endearing.

Cosette visited daily too but arrived in the mornings and left before Javert finished work. Valjean suspected they were avoiding each other. He hoped there would be warmth between them in time.

It had been nearly a week since they had rescued him from his self-isolation and they had settled comfortably into this routine. He had not recovered his strength yet but Cosette made sure that he breakfasted in the morning with her and Javert dined with him in the evenings. Toussaint had returned and fussed over his condition continuously. She purchased finer foods than Valjean would have asked her to buy ordinarily but he did not have the strength to argue. He imagined Cosette had a hand in this.

It was easier to take meals with Javert than it was to eat with Cosette, he didn't feel so guilty if his appetite left him. Javert understood his frugal relationship with food in a way Cosette never could, and Valjean would never wish her to understand it. On the first day of Valjean's return to life, Javert's expression accurately reflected Valjean's feelings when Toussaint served them beef after the soup both he and Valjean had considered to be their main meal. Valjean ate to encourage Javert to follow his example. It was easier to eat with Javert because if he didn't Valjean knew Javert might not eat at all.

“Your hair is too long,” Javert muttered. It almost felt like an excuse as to why he had been touching it.

“Ah, I suppose I am looking rather unkempt.”

In truth, Valjean did not much care for his own appearance, he only cultivated it to help him maintain the illusion of Madeleine and then Fauchelevent. Here he was just ‘Valjean’ and who was Valjean? How should an ex-con turned kindly old father keep himself? He was not a gentleman but he had money, he had no standing in society but he had contributed to it.

“Do you think I should cut it?” Javert interacted with many people in his daily work, he would know how Valjean ought to look.

“Yes. I know you have been called ‘the beggar who gives alms’ but there really is no need for you to look like a vagrant.”

“Very well. I shall see to it after we have eaten.”

“Shouldn't you have someone else do it for you?”

“With a steadier hand you mean? No, it's alright, you are quite correct. I forget how easily I tire. And you would not want to be seen with me if I only managed to trim half of my hair,” Valjean chuckled.

Toussaint had conceded to prepare them slightly lighter meals - for now at least. Valjean had convinced her that his stomach had to grow accustomed to such food again and Javert seemed relieved with this decision.

As they ate, he noticed Javert's glances, the inspector prepared to leap to his side should his fork slip from his fingers. It had been, to Valjean's embarrassment, something that had happened often in those first days. Javert had not gone so far as to feed him and for that Valjean was glad. He had been able to retain some of his dignity as Javert cut Valjean's food for him without a word.

Today he was stronger and he was sure he could make it through this meal without assistance, but how pleasant it was for Javert's glances to be due to worry and not suspicion! To have this severe inspector rush to his side, not to grab him by the collar or place him in irons, but to give his aid!

The next time he caught Javert's glance, he smiled and Javert quickly dropped his gaze to his plate, biting into the piece of duck on his fork as if he had a personal vendetta against it.

Toussaint had cleared away their plates and they had moved to the hut, where Valjean was always more comfortable. He watched Javert poke the fire in the grate. Valjean had learnt not to argue about being assisted with chores in his home, Javert was far too stubborn to be swayed.

“Would you do the honours then?”

“Honours?” Javert frowned, placing the poker back on its hook.

“Of making me look respectable.”

“Ah.” Javert fiddled with his shirt cuff. “You evidently have no taste Valjean, first that tattered old coat of yours and now you look at me and believe I could have any clue about how to make you look respectable.”

“Well, you always look very smart. And you have more knowledge of people than I - how do you think I ought to look?”

“That does not mean I have any clue about fashion or cutting hair.”

“I do not desire to be fashionable. Besides, I imagine you have strong opinions about it, as you do everything else.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“That you do have an idea of how my hair ought to look.”

Javert sighed but he did not sound truly irritated. “Very well, it cannot be too difficult to trim it, I cut my own hair after all.”

“You see?” Valjean said, pleased in his small victory.

“You must sit on a dining chair so I can see what I am doing.”

Valjean did as he was told and Javert came to him with a blanket, a comb and a pair of scissors. He placed the blanket over Valjean's shoulders and began to comb through his hair, likely deciding where to begin. Javert hesitated when his fingers brushed over Valjean's scarred scalp.

“It is alright,” Valjean murmured.

“It is not. There was no need for your hair to be shorn so roughly… That should have been added to my list.”

“List?”

“It is nothing.”

Valjean attempted to turn his head to look at him.

“Stay still! I will cut my own finger otherwise.”

Valjean shuddered as he heard the rasp of the blades, recalling vividly how his hair had been cut back in Toulon. But they had used a knife, not delicate scissors, and Javert was careful and unhurried.

Javert made and unhappy grunt.

“What is it?”

“Curly hair is more problematic than I had anticipated. I held it flat and now it has sprung back it is shorter than I intended.”

“I'm sure it is fine. You are always too harsh on yourself.”

“Hm.”

Javert continued in silence, slow and methodical. Valjean relaxed into it, the repetitive sounds and movements somehow soothing. He was beneath Javert's hands, Javert was safe, but as Valjean’s mind wandered, he could not keep the memories and irrational fears at bay.

“Javert?” He did not wish to break Javert's concentration and he felt foolish that he required reassurance that it was still in fact Javert at his back. Not a guard, not even Javert as a guard, or Javert as an inspector. He wanted to hear that it was Javert, his friend, behind him still.

“Yes?”

Valjean fumbled for a sensible reason to have spoken. “What list?”

“You are persistent,” Javert grumbled. “It was a list of recommendations for the police.”

“Regarding prisoners?”

“Yes. The small injustices in the system - the lack of shoes, the behaviour of the guards - that sort of thing.”

“Where do you plan on sending this letter?” Valjean tempered his amazement that would likely cause Javert to end the discussion.

“I wrote it and left it for my superiors before I went to the bridge that day.”

“Javert-” Valjean attempted to turn his head again.

“Stay still! I did not realise you fidgeted so much.”

Valjean pondered this revelation in silence. Javert had changed more than he had realised that night. He had already made steps to repent for his past actions, and it was touching that what might have been his final words were for the better treatment of prisoners. The affection that he had grown to feel for Javert swelled in his chest.

Javert stepped around him to trim the hair around his face and Valjean smiled.

“Close your eyes or you will get hair in them,” Javert muttered. Anyone else would think his expression was as severe as ever but Valjean knew him better now.

Valjean did not want to see the clumps of hair fall away. He closed his eyes and remained still until Javert spoke again.

“There. I believe that is satisfactory.”

“Thank you.”

Javert's frown deepened as he regarded Valjean. “Although it makes the rest look worse. You need to shave.”

Valjean rubbed his bristly neck and grimaced. “I believe you are right.”

“I'm afraid I do not trust your hands to keep a razor steady. If you would permit-”

“Yes. Of course you may do it for me. I am only sorry you have to tend to me like this.”

“Nonsense. It is nothing.” Javert turned on his heel as he spoke to fetch the soap and razor.

Valjean moved his chair beside the chest of drawers on which Javert could place the basin of water. Javert returned, nodding his approval and set up the shaving utensils. He retrieved a pitcher of water from the house and filled the basin.

“Untie your cravat and tuck this into the neck of your shirt,” Javert said, throwing a sheet at him before turning away to lather the shaving brush. Valjean thought that perhaps Javert had turned away from him to avoid seeing the marks on Valjean's neck.

“Done,” Valjean said when he was decent.

Javert tilted Valjean's chin up so he could slather soap over his neck with the soft brush. He was hunched over so far Valjean wondered, with some amusement, if it would have been easier for Javert for him to stand.

“Keep you neck straight,” Javert instructed as he picked up the razor.

Valjean angled his head up further, baring his throat. He did not flinch, but as soon as the blade touched his throat, he grasped Javert's arm, the hand of which he was using to hold Valjean's chin.

“I will not harm you.”

“I know.” Still, he could not release Javert's arm. After a moment, Javert made the first stroke of metal against skin regardless, and wiped the foam on the sheet around Valjean neck.

“You see?”

“I know, Javert. It is not you, it is only my instinct.”

Javert didn't look convinced but Valjean let go of him and folded his hands neatly in his lap. He endured this blade just as easily as the last. Javert cleared the stubble from Valjean's neck and shaved some from high on his cheeks. Then he moved back to the scissors and cropped Valjean's beard neatly to his jawline. Javert roughly dusted the loose hairs from them both, carried the sheet away and returned with a mirror that he thrust into Valjean's hands.

Valjean did not often look at himself and when he did it was always with trepidation, unsure of who might be looking back at him. He was afraid of seeing the snarling convict or the distant mayor with equally vacant eyes. He was afraid of not recognising himself at all, that he was none of the people he remembered being. This time was no different. He braced himself and he held the mirror up to his face.

So this was Jean Valjean. Neat and calm yet anxious too. An elderly fellow, with not the standing to be a true gentleman. He smiled and it was genuine. Tears threatened to spring to his eyes. This Jean Valjean was happy! He had a friend and a family, and he was honest with them! In this small way he was indeed an honest man. His smile widened and he had to turn the mirror face down in his lap for the sight of such a smile on his face was overwhelming.

Javert stood glaring out of the window, his stance rigid. Valjean realised Javert was concerned about his verdict.

“One might say I am almost handsome!” Valjean chuckled.

Javert spun to face him, his cheeks dark, mouth half open in preparation to protest.

“Ah, forgive me Javert, I do not mean to offend. You have done a very fine job.”

“That is not- You do not offend me. It is only- You could be, I mean to say: you are. Not because I cut your hair. You were and you are… Bah! Nevermind.”

Javert promptly left the room leaving Valjean bewildered. What was he exactly?

Javert returned, looking at a fixed point above Valjean's head. “I thought, if you are feeling strong enough, you should bathe. It will get the loose hairs off your scalp and you'll feel better for it. I imagine it been awhile since you were able to draw a bath.”

Valjean nodded. “That is very thoughtful of you Javert, thank you.”

Javert led him back to the house where he had set up the bath and started to fill it. Valjean's guilt rose the the more trips back and forth Javert made to retrieve water.

“That is enough I should think.”

Javert frowned at him but conceded to stop. He offered a hand to help Valjean out of his chair. As Valjean took it and heaved himself to his feet, he was reminded of a time in Montreuil when Javert had refused to take his hand. How often and how willingly he took it now! Valjean found himself smiling again.

Javert remained at his side with his hand at Valjean's elbow as he led him to the bath. Once they were beside it, Javert pushed him away almost forcefully.

“I will be outside,” he said with his head angled down and away from Valjean. “Take as long as you wish.”

He was gone before Valjean could respond. Valjean sighed and began to undress. He thought that Javert had difficulty interacting with people - that was no bad thing, in fact Valjean found it reassuring. He was not much good at communicating himself.

He lowered himself into the cool water and already felt better. It made him feel more awake and cleared the clammy sweat from his skin. He closed his eyes and eased himself to lean back.

read more

[ectoblud]

Ask - Hugo vers!!

[newstfionline]

For Mexican Presidential Hopeful ‘AMLO,’ 3rd Time a Charm?

Associated Press, June 5, 2018

MEXICO CITY--While financial markets fret about left-leaning candidate Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador, the man himself is calmly cruising toward what polls say is a likely victory in Mexico’s July 1 presidential election, seemingly impervious to attacks--and without the angry tone that marked his previous two runs for the top job.

The graying, slow-spoken Lopez Obrador, known to devotees and detractors alike as AMLO, lights up when he tells supporters at campaign rallies that they are about to make history.

“This is going to be a peaceful, orderly change, but at the same time, it will be radical,” Lopez Obrador said recently, drawing cheers and cries of “Presidente! Presidente!” from a crowd in the colonial town of San Miguel de Allende.

Markets wonder whether a President Lopez Obrador would cause the Mexican peso to tank--experts say probably not--or reverse the openings to private oil companies--Lopez Obrador says he probably won’t. But it’s hard to judge things based on his policy platforms, because they are prone to change, often seemingly overnight.

That distaste for policy details, along with Lopez Obrador’s penchant for playing to his base and making big promises while keeping his own advisers guessing as to what he really means, has drawn parallels to U.S. President Donald Trump.

Analysts say both men view truculence and obstinacy as political virtues and as such could probably understand one another.

“I think that both share a sense of populism,” political scientist Jesus Silva-Herzog said. “I think they both belong to this historic moment of the rise of populist politicians who are ... uninterested in the details of public policy.”

But where the Trump brand is associated with brass name plates and glitz, Lopez Obrador’s is endowed with a deep sense of history and destiny after a dozen years on the outside as a perennial opposition candidate. After serving as Mexico City mayor in 2000-2005, he returned to his roots as the irreverent, man-of-the-people rally leader that he was from 1988 to 2000 in the oil fields of his home state, the Gulf coast swamps of Tabasco.

Lopez Obrador, 64, sees his movement as changing the history of Mexico, touts himself as a savior of the poor and argues that corruption is the country’s biggest problem. Beyond that, policies come and go.

After losing to conservative Felipe Calderon by a razor-thin margin of just 0.56 percent in 2006, and coming in second again in 2012 behind current President Enrique Pena Nieto, this time around that formula may be enough to win.

His two main rivals, Ricardo Anaya and Jose Antonio Meade, are champions of the technocrats, the kind of market-oriented policy wonks who have run Mexico since at least 1982. But the growth and economic stability they promised hasn’t emerged, and violence has skyrocketed.

Fed up with those and other domestic ills such as corruption, the Mexican electorate is ripe for change, and Lopez Obrador has a way of explaining his vision for change with striking clarity and simplicity.

He likes to draw a parallel to one of the most important transformations in Mexican history: Generations of dying Roman Catholics had willed their lands and fortunes to the church, tying up much of Mexico’s wealth for perpetuity and strangling the economy. Then President Benito Juarez expropriated much of the church’s holdings. Now, Lopez Obrador says, he wants to free up the economy by reducing the influence well-connected business magnates hold over the federal government.

“Just as Juarez separated the church and the state, so will I separate economic power from political power,” he told a crowd in Mexico City recently.

Lopez Obrador’s connection with his followers is deeply personal--something that has eluded Meade of the governing Institutional Revolutionary Party and Anaya, who heads a left-right coalition

The other main contenders have campaigned in part on dire warnings about a Lopez Obrador presidency, and Anaya has tried to project the image of an optimistic and modern tech CEO a la the late Steve Jobs.

With his rumpled appearance and distinctive regional accent--think Bernie Sanders south--Lopez Obrador inspires those tired of slick, well-heeled politicians.

Javier Quijano, a lawyer who represented Lopez Obrador when then President Vicente Fox tried to prevent him from running in 2006, described Lopez Obrador as a “supremely frugal” man who often met him for breakfast or lunch at the candidate’s tatty, middle-class apartment on Mexico City’s south side.

“It was very humble, very simple, and he was always attentive and well-mannered to people who work for him,” Quijano recalled. “Just the very fact that an honest man with rectitude would win the presidency, that is enormous progress.”

Lopez Obrador promises to regenerate the millions of small farms whose main output over the last 25 years has been a steady stream of migrants to Mexico’s big cities and the United States. He would also need to reverse a severe decline in Mexico’s oil industry, with the country now importing most of its gasoline from the U.S.

Supporters say he is at least challenging what he considers a cruel neoliberal order that keeps Mexico down.

“You feel it at every rally, that on July 2 we are going to be celebrating. You feel people are overflowing with emotion,” 30-year-old computer programmer Antonio Arroyo Ceron said at a recent campaign gathering in the capital. “We have a hope that the country will change its entire mentality.”

Lopez Obrador’s crowds tend to trend older--people like retired tailor Ruben Lopez who have lived all their lives under the long-ruling Institutional Revolutionary Party, or PRI, except for a 12-year interval at the beginning of new century.

“During the 80 years of the PRI, they never did anything to improve the country,” said Lopez, 74. This election “will be the first moment of joy ever for this country,” he added.

Beyond the enthusiasm, neither Lopez Obrador nor his challengers have yet put forth a credible plan to lower homicide rates that have reached levels unseen in decades.

Lopez Obrador has offered a vague plan to offer an amnesty for some criminal convictions, which apparently could mean anything from cancelling felonies after sentences have been served to sentence reductions for cooperating witnesses to freeing poor farmers jailed for growing drug crops.

Regardless, a Lopez Obrador victory would probably mean a large dose of symbolism and an even larger dose of pragmatism.

Antonio Sola, a Spanish political consultant who helped design the “Lopez Obrador is a danger” campaign that swung the 2006 election against him, now says that “this is not the Andres Manuel I competed against in 2006.”

“This is a candidate who has evolved and moderated,” Sola said, comparing Lopez Obrador to Brazil’s Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva, a one-time socialist firebrand who won election on his fourth try and proved a business-friendly president even while expanding social programs.

In 2006, Mexican business leaders sought to hurt Lopez Obrador’s campaign by likening him to socialist President Hugo Chavez in Venezuela. After the narrow loss to Calderon, Lopez Obrador responded angrily, claiming fraud and mounting a months-long blockade of Mexico City’s main boulevard.

This time around he has been taking it all in stride, at least publicly. Despite railing frequently against what he calls the “mafia of power,” Lopez Obrador responds to even the most vicious political attacks by repeating what has become almost a mantra--“peace and love”--and by deflecting them with humor.

After some suggested without proof that he may have benefited from Russian election tampering, Lopez Obrador filmed a video by the side of a harbor in the Gulf coast state of Veracruz joking that his name was actually Andres Manuelovich and saying he was waiting for a Russian submarine bringing him gold from Moscow.

Even Meade called that a brilliant bit of politics.