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zillennial97 · 4 years ago

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Friends to Lovers | Larry Fanfic Recs

Hiding Place by alivingfire | 365k | Explicit

Louis never wanted a soulmate, didn’t really care for the whole Bonding thing at all, really. Enter Harry Styles, who’s wanted to be Bonded for as long as he could remember. With one fateful meeting in an X Factor bathroom, Louis gets a dagger on his arm and the realization that just because Harry is his soulmate doesn’t mean it’s mutual.

From the X Factor house to Madison Square Garden, from the Fountain Studios stage to stadiums across the world, Louis has to learn to love without losing himself completely, because someday his best friend will Bond to someone and replace Louis as the center of his universe. Meanwhile, Harry begins to think that maybe fate doesn’t actually know what it’s doing after all, because his other half has clearly been right in front of him the whole time. All he has to do now is convince Louis to give them a chance.

Or, the canon compliant Harry and Louis love story from the very beginning, where the only difference is that the love between them is literally written on their skin, and there’s only so much they can hide.

And Then a Bit by infinitelymint | 158k | Explicit

“We’d like to give the fans what they want.” Magee states, placing his hand on the table in front of him and leaning forward. “We want to give them Larry Stylinson.”

Or, take a parallel universe where Louis and Harry were never together, mix in a two year hiatus and an impending comeback, pour in a dash of lost fans, two tablespoons of strong friendship and a Modest! employee with a good idea. Add a squeeze of pretending to be a couple, lots of kisses and a tattoo or two. Stir. Serve: the mother of all publicity stunts.

(aka Harry and Louis fake a relationship for publicity. Eventually it becomes a lot less fake and a lot more real.)

Wild Love by purpledaisy | 130k | Explicit

“Good,” Julia says, clearly pleased to have them both uncomfortable and unable to look at each other. “Now, I only have one more question before you can go. What are you planning to do when this experiment ruins your friendship?”

“We said we’d stay friends no matter what,” Harry says smoothly, his chin lifting in defense.

“That was our one thing going into it,” Louis agrees. “Stay friends no matter what.”

Julia raises a perfectly manicured brow, “That’s all fine and good. But I hope you realize your emotions aren’t going to realize this is an experiment in the end. If one of you falls for the other and finds out those feelings are not reciprocated, you’re not going to be able to laugh it off as a social experiment. I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this, I’m just hoping you’ve considered all of the possible outcomes.”

- AU: Two best friends try to date each other for forty days. It's supposed to be fun until emotions make it complicated.

California Sold by isthatyoularry | 123k | Mature

Notoriously closeted boyband member Harry Styles is famous on a global scale, meanwhile Louis, as his best friend, is back home in Manchester, living the typical life of a 24 year old. When Harry needs Louis with him in LA, a publicity stunt gone wrong changes their friendship forever.

A fake-relationship AU between two lifelong best friends.

Tired Tired Sea by MediaWhore | 113k | Mature

As a B&B owner on the most remote of all the British Isles, Louis Tomlinson is used to spending the coldest half of the year in complete isolation, with his dog and the sea as sole companions. Until, one day, a mysterious stranger on a quest to rebuild himself rents a room for the winter.

Like a Bullet in the Dark by Vurdoc | 99k | Explicit

Prince Harold Edward Styles Lancaster is second in line to the throne of Great Britain. He is also your average Uni student- or he tries to be, anyway.

With a promise from the press (and his father) that they'll leave him alone for four years, he sets out to be a student at Cambridge, when he meets his very normal, very working class, very handsome suite-mate, Louis Tomlinson.

Louis makes Harry feel more like a person than he ever has before, which might cause some issues later on- 'cause Harry has a secret that he's only told his sister Gemma about.

Little does he know though, that Louis has some secrets of his own.

A Will & Kate Au- with a twist.

Christmas-ing With You by dolce_piccante | 65k | Mature

Two writers from Loving Heart Television, the premiere network for holiday romance films, find that, sometimes, love is not only in their works of fiction.

Faking It by TheCellarDoor | 46k | Mature

A uni AU in which Louis has been Harry’s best friend since he offered him cubed fruit on the playground, and they spend more time cuddling in their dorm beds than they do apart, but it’s not like that. Or is it?

Aka Harry pretends to date his best friend to escape unwanted attention from a too insistent classmate and hopes it won’t blow up in his face. Featuring embarrassing dildo accidents, awkward boners, longing, first times, late night conversations, emotional discoveries and Niall as the exasperated friend with bad advice.

if the sun don't shine by falsegoodnight | 36k | Explicit

Louis finds himself struck frozen, fingers stuck in place where he’s flattened them against the cold railing. It takes every bit of his remaining strength to pull them away, sliding them under his shirt and pressing them to his stomach to leech some of the warmth. He hardly pays attention to the bite of the wind and air on his shivering body. He can only pay attention to the music.

The music that is undoubtedly new to Louis’ ears, yet listening to it is the most familiar thing Louis has ever experienced. An inexplicable rush of emotions flood his mind and body, rendering him speechless and hollow. It’s a call of loneliness. It rings of everything Louis’ been feeling.

And the pure yearning - the intense longing for something and someone - tears through straight to Louis’ heart. The desperation feels all too intimate, all too real. It makes Louis think of what he yearns for more than anything. It makes him think of his soulmate.

In a world where you meet your soulmates in dreams, Louis has spent the last three years going to bed hoping to finally meet his, only to end up disappointed time and time again. It all changes with a violin.

From the Start by allwaswell16 | 32k | Explicit

Louis has no idea that one act of kindness will cause his life to spiral out of control. But that's what happens when his new friend fake proposes to him and a video of it goes viral.

Barefoot in Blue Jeans by indiaalphawhiskey | 24k | Explicit

AU. Louis Tomlinson is trying desperately hard not to fall for his son’s au pair, but he can’t, for the life of him, remember why.

475. The hope that this fear is unfounded.

In Dreams by dolce_piccante | 23k | Mature

AU. When Harry moves to a new city, his new flat come with a number of sweet, anonymous gifts and surprises that brighten his days. Could it be a friendly ghost? Another friendly presence in his new building is his tattooed neighbor, Louis, who seems determined to put a smile back on his face.

You're Writing Verses About Me by Rearviewdreamer | 23k | Teen And Up Audiences

Everybody knows that Louis has never been one for serious boyfriends. His reputation around campus precedes him, which is why he doesn't think twice before proudly telling his mother about his new and completely fabricated relationship with his oddly quiet and completely

And I Will Hold On To You by darkmarkburning, staybeautiful | 23k | Mature

“I can’t believe my best friend is about to be Prime Minister of Canada,” Harry whispered in his ear, his arms tight around Louis’ shoulders. “Who decided it was a good idea to let some brash kid from Doncaster run a country?”

“I don’t know,” Louis laughed into his shoulder, “but if you promise not to tell them they’ve made a mistake I’ll give you a posh office.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Tomlinson.” Harry pulled away and smacked a kiss onto Louis’ cheek. “I’m proud of you, Lou, I can’t fucking believe it, but I’m proud of you.”

or Louis has just been elected Prime Minister of Canada and Harry is his best friend since childhood.

the way the storms blow by rbbsbb | 21k | Explicit

Louis doesn’t have a habit of thinking about Harry’s dick.

That would be weird, seeing as they’re best mates, and they share a flat, and they’ve spent holidays at each other’s family homes. Their friendship hasn’t ever risen to a point where Louis should want to see his mate’s dick, and he’s happy to keep it that way.

Except, all that Louis can think about is exactly that. The size of it. The shape. The amount of people it’s been in.

Maybe it’s the tequila talking, or the fact that Louis’ just recently walked in to an eyeful of Harry taking turns on some slags that he’s never seen before, but. Louis’ mind can’t stop obsessing over the idea.

Autumn At My Window by TheCellarDoor | 20k | Mature

A canon-compliant AU, in which Harry and Louis are both in the band and have been sharing flats and hotel rooms for nearly five years, but never made the leap past 'friends who are too close for comfort'.

Featuring a lot of pining, Louis' addiction to Harry's scent, and a whole lot of sexual tension that might just snap loose when they decide to spend some time together all on their own.

The Sex Methods by Alice_Novelland | 19k | Explicit

Harry and Louis explore alternative methods aka sex methods to help each other out.

once bitten and twice shy by pinkcords | 19k | Mature

This time as his stomach rolls, there’s no doubt about it. He’s going to vomit. And if he does, it’ll be on Louis’ shoes, a nice little parting gift to go with the embarrassment he’s caused the both of them. “I’m gonna throw up,” he says just as Louis turns to look at him, blue eyes swimming with shock and confusion, and asks, “Is that true?”

Or, in a rush of bravery only senior year can bring, Harry confesses his feelings in a letter to his neighbor and best friend, Louis, only for the entire school to hear it and laugh him out of their small town in Wisconsin. Ten years later, Harry's a successful lawyer at Columbia Records, coming home for Christmas for the first time since he departed for college. He plans to work his way through the trip, eat his mom's cooking, and avoid everyone from his past for as long as possible. The only problem is best laid plans hardly ever go as intended.

Oblivious by Speechless | 19k | Explicit

"You say it's nothing serious after you've been obsessing over it for months," Liam observes, pausing their videogame. "But now you barely talk about it-" "You guys fucking ignore me whenever I try!" Louis shouts, bumping his shoulder against Liam's and hurting himself in the process. "You're postponing sex, when it's obvious that Luke's up for it at this point." Liam ignores him. "For some reason you've left Harry in the dark about it-" "What?!" Louis snaps, banging his controller against the coffee table. "I have not!" "And no matter how blatant it is, no matter how fucking ridiculous you both get when it comes to it-" "Shut your hole." Louis urges, pinching his thigh, as soon as Harry enters the room. "Shush."

* Where Louis gets a little crush on Luke and for some reason Harry starts acting weird *

searching for a sweet surrender (but this is not the end) by feelslikehxme | 18k | Teen And Up Audiences

Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles, the two most loved coaches on The Voice UK known for their banter on the show and best friendship off. Louis’s determined to win and finally end Harry’s winning streak with Zayn Malik on his team, but Harry’s flirting and Liam Payne have different plans.

— Or an AU based off the Voice where Louis’s Adam, Harry’s Blake, Niall’s Shakira, Zayn and Liam have a cliche Romeo/Juliet love story and Louis’s too old for pathetic pining.

Can I bother you for a sex? by perfectdagger (sincerelyste) | 16k | Explicit

Reason #40 – Called/texted the wrong person, but he was into it anyway

“So, this isn’t really an invite for a sex, I see,” Louis spoke, not missing the chance. There was a teasing smile on his lips as he turned around to face Harry again after he had just closed the door.

Harry let out a laugh as he closed his eyes and shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh for fuck's sake, Louis,” he looked back at Louis, “this will haunt me forever now, won’t it?”

Louis shrugged. “Not my fault some people manage to mistext and sext others at the same time.”

When Harry mistexts Louis, Louis realises that he wouldn't mind Harry bothering him with anything, especially not with sex.

You'll Be Home For Christmas by 2tiedships2 | 15k | Not Rated

“Honesty, Lou, just ask Harry for help.”

Louis remained silent as he continued to scowl at the Christmas calendar Niall had hung on their refrigerator.

“And be nice to my calendar filled with holiday cheer,” Niall instructed. “You’re going to burn a fucking hole in it from the way you’re glaring at the innocent thing. It’s not the calendar’s fault that your heat is starting so close to Christmas.”

You're The One That I Want by spacecakesandmilkshakes | 15k | Explicit

Harry had always been Louis' best friend and...well...his baby, until one day he realized that his baby was all grown up.

show you the stars in the daylight by bruisedhoney | 13k | Explicit

Louis laughed, the sound loud and borderline obnoxious. Harry winced. “Are you kidding, Haz? I wouldn’t even look twice at someone that couldn’t pick me up.”

And, well. That was new information to Harry. It’s not like Louis had ever mentioned to him that he was his type in any way, shape, or form. Harry shifted closer into the space between Louis’s legs, even more intrigued than before. “Why not?” he asked curiously, all pink lips and big curls. Louis smiled.

“Tiny, innocent, little Harold. Need someone that can pick me up, don’t I? I like being tossed around a little. You know, pinned down and made to take it. Lifted up like I’m nothing,” Louis said it all with a confident smile, his sharp little teeth tugging at his bottom lip as he locked eyes with the jock across the kitchen. “Think he might come over here. Move over. I don’t want him to think we’re together.”

Or, the one where Louis has a type and at sixteen and scrawy, it's definitely not his best friend's little brother Harry...ten years later, he changes his mind.

when everybody wants you by nightwideopen | 11k | Mature

Harry nearly faints on the spot. He got the job. He’s going to be on Saturday Night Live.

Three of Harry's dreams come true, then one of them falls apart.

the SNL au that no one asked for

Shape of You by Only_angel_28 | 11k | Explicit

“Seriously?” Surely, Harry must be joking. Louis arches a skeptical brow and snaps the waistband of Harry’s joggers playfully. “What exactly do you have down there, Styles? I know you’ve got four nipples, d’ya have a couple extra bollocks as well or summat?”

“No!” Harry shrieks, his voice bordering on shrill. “No,” He repeats a little quieter, calmer, “I just—I’m, er, kinda…big, I guess.”

Louis rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. “That’s hardly a problem, curly.”

*Or Harry is insecure about a certain rather large part of his anatomy that is apparently intimidating to the point where it has actually scared off potential shags. When he ends up confessing this to his best friend and roommate, Louis takes it upon himself to prove that Harry’s size doesn't have to be a curse, and decides to help show him just how perfect he is.

Waiting by allwaswell16 for LadyLondonderry | 10k | Explicit

Louis Tomlinson was Harry’s omega, of this Harry had always been sure. Unfortunately for Harry, Louis seemed to think they were just best friends. The six weeks that Harry has to live with Louis were going to be rough.

You Give Me Fever (What A Lovely Way To Burn) by my_fandom_OTPs | 10k | Explicit

Louis walks in on Harry jerking off in the shower. What happens after is just… Impulsive and spontaneous.

the value of this moment lives in metaphor by clicheanna for hattalove | 10k | Teen And Up Audiences

Louis and Harry are best friends and absolutely nothing more. It’s a bit strange that, suddenly, everyone thinks they’re dating.

Or the one where they’re all teachers at a high school and students are more invested in their lives than normally expected.

trusting things beyond mistake by sarcasticfluentry | 9k | Explicit

"Is that even possible?" asks Harry.

All of them stare at him for several seconds, and then Louis says, "What, coming untouched?"

"Christ," Zayn mutters, throwing his hands up. “This fucking band, I swear.”

...or, Harry wants to see if he can come without touching his cock and ends up getting more than he bargained for.

And I Will Steady Your Hand by kiwikero | 9k | Explicit

All first year university students who had not yet presented were strongly advised to join the Fire Away meetings, a support group for so-called 'late bloomers.'

They were not, however, advised to fall in love with someone else at the meetings without knowing what they might eventually present as.

A Christmas Wish by Snowy38 | 8k | Mature

"So when are you going to tell him?"

Louis pursed his lips at his sister, his Skype video call relaying his thoughts on that subject perfectly.

"Next question," he mused.

Lottie rolled her eyes.

"It's your birthday in four days, Louis."

"What difference does that make?" He scoffed.

She shrugged.

"You can get drunk and confess how you feel and take it back afterwards if he doesn't feel the same."

That might work if Louis wasn't in love with Harry. But Lottie didn't know that and she didn't need to find out.

"Thanks Lots," he said anyway.

"Seriously Lou what's stopping you?"

Louis sighed.

"Fear mostly."

Under that Damn Mistletoe by hickeystyles | 7k | Mature

Louis' heart froze when he looked over and saw Liam whispering in Harry’s ear and nodding towards the mistletoe. Louis’ eyes widened comically before he dove out of sight so Harry couldn’t see him standing under the mistletoe like an idiot, or worse, like he was part of Liam’s plan to have Harry kiss him.

Or a Christmas Party AU where Louis is in love with his best friend Harry and everyone else is trying to force the two of them under the mistletoe together

We Could Be A Dream by Bearandleonardwrite | 7k | Explicit

“So, I’ve never seen you at one of these parties before,” Harry says as he hands Louis his drink. “Who’re you here for?”

Well, shit. Louis was definitely not expecting that. He sips on his drink to give him a few moments to think of an answer and then, “Oh, y’know. I’m dating the host’s brother. What about you?” He’s quite pleased with himself. Great answer. He takes another drink as a reward.

Harry grins at him, eyes bright, and shrugs. “Gemma’s my sister.” Louis hums around the rim of his cup waiting for him to elaborate. “She’s the host,” he tacks on, smug smile on his face. Louis chokes on his drink and tries his best to glare at Harry while he coughs. Harry rubs at his back until he can breathe properly again, which is actually really not that helpful. “Didn’t realize we were dating, Lou. I’m flattered.”

(Basically; Louis meets Harry at a party that he wasn't invited to. He ends up asking Harry to tutor him so he can keep seeing him. Featuring a bit of pining and a tea party.)

Mission Fucking Impossible by orphan_account | 7k | Mature

“Are you and Louis fucking?”

Harry nearly spits out his drink as he tries to communicate a "what the ever living fuck" to Niall with his eyes.

Niall takes another casual sip of his beer “Not like I’m the only one thinking it mate, I’m just the only one saying it out loud.”

- Harry is in love with Louis, and he is almost positive Louis is in love with him too. Naturally, Harry deals with this by trying to get Louis horny and hope for the best.

Things don't exactly work out how he plans.

One day to believe in you by mediaville | 7k | Explicit

A mysterious force compels Louis to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Even when it's really inconvenient.

Harry blinks and has the nerve to look surprised. "You think about me when you get off?"

"Yes," Louis says. He wonders how hard he'd need to punch himself in the face to knock himself out.

"Often?"

"Yes, Christ, Harry," Louis groans. "Probably eight times a week for going on six years now. On average, you know. More when we were touring, less when I've been visiting family. Anything else you'd like to know?"

Fake It Till We Make It by whileatwiltshire | 7k | General Audiences

#33- Keeping up with the Neighbors

“We can fake it.”

What?

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“No I did not. Say it again.”

“I said” Harry started slowly, “We can fake having sex to teach them a lesson.”

It was clear to say that Louis's mouth went a little dry at the suggestion.

Or ,

Their neighbours were a bit too loud during their bedroom activities and Harry comes up with the worst plan to shut them up. Louis agrees anyways.

Web Me Harder by iwillpaintasongforlou | 6k | Explicit

Louis Tomlinson, otherwise known as London's masked hero Spiderman, finds himself crashing through the window of Harry Styles one night after a particularly nasty fight with a villain. Luckily Harry is a nursing student with a soft spot for caped crusaders who's more than happy to tend to all of Louis' wounds, no matter how many times he swings by.

candy in your mouth (i know you love me) by embodied | 6k | Explicit

“You’re wrong,” Harry says, jaw clenched tight. “Because if all I wanted was a fuck, I’ve got at least three willing parties a phone call and a five minute drive away. What I want is you. I want us, I want it to be normal again -”

“What the fuck is normal?” Louis yells, much too loudly, and has to pause to consciously lower his voice before he speaks again. “Because a year ago, normal was eating too much takeaway and watching B-movies on Netflix in your room, and then normal was me choking on your cock at half past two in the morning, and I don’t know about you, but as of the past few weeks, normal is not seeing or talking to you at all, because I’ve all but admitted that I’m fucking crazy for you and you don’t know what to say to that.” Louis’ chest heaves, his breath coming out short. He hears his own throat stick when he swallows, and his voice is decidedly weaker when he asks, “So which one is it, Harry?”

AU. Things have shifted since last Christmas.

Running Through a Cloud of Steam by allwaswell16 | 5k | Mature

As Harry’s long anticipated twenty-first birthday approaches, he anxiously awaits the moment when he finally meets his soulmate. He’s not even sure he believes in soulmates, but at the very least, he hopes to prove to his best friend that nothing can come between their friendship--not even a soulmate.

You Can't Blame Me For Tryin' by lululawrence | 5k | Mature

Reason # 38 - Because He Is From One of the Countries You Haven't Had Sex With a Person From Yet.

Louis had been accepted into the study abroad program through his uni back home and therefore got to spend a year in rural Minnesota, of all places, but he wasn’t going to complain. It was still a pretty cool experience, even if it was far different from what he had been expecting. And besides, if he’d been sent to literally any other university, he’d never have met Harry.

If It's Meant To Be (It'll Be, It'll Be) by lululawrence | 4k | Not Rated

“So, anyway. I’m done here and on my way to the airport. I think I’m expected to be there in the morning, around ten. I’ll let you know when I’m getting close.”

“Sounds good.” Harry pulled back from the window and threw himself onto one of the beds. Once he got comfortable, he steeled himself and then went for it. “It’s been too long this time, Lou,” he finally whispered. He watched as Louis bit his lip and nodded slowly.

“I know,” Louis agreed, just as quiet in return. “We have to swear to never go this long without seeing each other again. Two months is just...unacceptable. I’m gonna go now, but I’ll see you soon. ‘Kay?”

“Yeah. See you. Be safe,” Harry said, far too fondly for his best friend. He couldn’t help it though. It was how he always had been and probably always would be.

They hung up and Harry threw his arm over his face.

“I am so in love with him,” he whined to himself. “Fuck.”

Satisfaction by iwillpaintasongforlou | 2k | Teen And Up Audiences

Louis and Harry have known each other since before they could remember and been in love with one another for about as long, even though both steadfastly refuse to admit it. When Louis starts dating other people, it is only to help himself move on and not at all to make Harry jealous. And the sulking sort of anger Harry feels when he watches Louis kiss other people is completely irrelevant anyways.

#larry fanfiction recommendations #larry fanfic rec #larry fic #larry fanfiction #larry stylinson #louis tomlinson #harry styles #one direction fanfiction #one direction fanfic recs #larry fanfiction masterpost #friends to lovers

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justforbooks · 5 years ago

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The 100 best novels written in English: the full list

After two years of careful consideration, Robert McCrum has reached a verdict on his selection of the 100 greatest novels written in English. Take a look at his list.

1. The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan (1678)

A story of a man in search of truth told with the simple clarity and beauty of Bunyan’s prose make this the ultimate English classic.

2. Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe (1719)

By the end of the 19th century, no book in English literary history had enjoyed more editions, spin-offs and translations. Crusoe’s world-famous novel is a complex literary confection, and it’s irresistible.

3. Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift (1726)

A satirical masterpiece that’s never been out of print, Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels comes third in our list of the best novels written in English

4. Clarissa by Samuel Richardson (1748)

Clarissa is a tragic heroine, pressured by her unscrupulous nouveau-riche family to marry a wealthy man she detests, in the book that Samuel Johnson described as “the first book in the world for the knowledge it displays of the human heart.”

5. Tom Jones by Henry Fielding (1749)

Tom Jones is a classic English novel that captures the spirit of its age and whose famous characters have come to represent Augustan society in all its loquacious, turbulent, comic variety.

6. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman by Laurence Sterne (1759)

Laurence Sterne’s vivid novel caused delight and consternation when it first appeared and has lost little of its original bite.

7. Emma by Jane Austen (1816)

Jane Austen’s Emma is her masterpiece, mixing the sparkle of her early books with a deep sensibility.

8. Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (1818)

Mary Shelley’s first novel has been hailed as a masterpiece of horror and the macabre.

9. Nightmare Abbey by Thomas Love Peacock (1818)

The great pleasure of Nightmare Abbey, which was inspired by Thomas Love Peacock’s friendship with Shelley, lies in the delight the author takes in poking fun at the romantic movement.

10. The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket by Edgar Allan Poe (1838)

Edgar Allan Poe’s only novel – a classic adventure story with supernatural elements – has fascinated and influenced generations of writers.

11. Sybil by Benjamin Disraeli (1845)

The future prime minister displayed flashes of brilliance that equalled the greatest Victorian novelists.

12. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë (1847)

Charlotte Brontë’s erotic, gothic masterpiece became the sensation of Victorian England. Its great breakthrough was its intimate dialogue with the reader.

13. Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë (1847)

Emily Brontë’s windswept masterpiece is notable not just for its wild beauty but for its daring reinvention of the novel form itself.

14. Vanity Fair by William Thackeray (1848)

William Thackeray’s masterpiece, set in Regency England, is a bravura performance by a writer at the top of his game.

15. David Copperfield by Charles Dickens (1850)

David Copperfield marked the point at which Dickens became the great entertainer and also laid the foundations for his later, darker masterpieces.

16. The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1850)

Nathaniel Hawthorne’s astounding book is full of intense symbolism and as haunting as anything by Edgar Allan Poe.

17. Moby-Dick by Herman Melville (1851)

Wise, funny and gripping, Melville’s epic work continues to cast a long shadow over American literature.

18. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll (1865)

Lewis Carroll’s brilliant nonsense tale is one of the most influential and best loved in the English canon.

19. The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins (1868)

Wilkie Collins’s masterpiece, hailed by many as the greatest English detective novel, is a brilliant marriage of the sensational and the realistic.

20. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (1868-9)

Louisa May Alcott’s highly original tale aimed at a young female market has iconic status in America and never been out of print.

21. Middlemarch by George Eliot (1871-2)

This cathedral of words stands today as perhaps the greatest of the great Victorian fictions.

22. The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope (1875)

Inspired by the author’s fury at the corrupt state of England, and dismissed by critics at the time, The Way We Live Now is recognised as Trollope’s masterpiece.

23. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain (1884/5)

Mark Twain’s tale of a rebel boy and a runaway slave seeking liberation upon the waters of the Mississippi remains a defining classic of American literature.

24. Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson (1886)

A thrilling adventure story, gripping history and fascinating study of the Scottish character, Kidnapped has lost none of its power.

25. Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K Jerome (1889)

Jerome K Jerome’s accidental classic about messing about on the Thames remains a comic gem.

26. The Sign of Four by Arthur Conan Doyle (1890)

Sherlock Holmes’s second outing sees Conan Doyle’s brilliant sleuth – and his bluff sidekick Watson – come into their own.

27. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde (1891)

Wilde’s brilliantly allusive moral tale of youth, beauty and corruption was greeted with howls of protest on publication.

28. New Grub Street by George Gissing (1891)

George Gissing’s portrayal of the hard facts of a literary life remains as relevant today as it was in the late 19th century.

29. Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy (1895)

Hardy exposed his deepest feelings in this bleak, angry novel and, stung by the hostile response, he never wrote another.

30. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane (1895)

Stephen Crane’s account of a young man’s passage to manhood through soldiery is a blueprint for the great American war novel.

31. Dracula by Bram Stoker (1897)

Bram Stoker’s classic vampire story was very much of its time but still resonates more than a century later.

32. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad (1899)

Joseph Conrad’s masterpiece about a life-changing journey in search of Mr Kurtz has the simplicity of great myth.

33. Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser (1900)

Theodore Dreiser was no stylist, but there’s a terrific momentum to his unflinching novel about a country girl’s American dream.

34. Kim by Rudyard Kipling (1901)

In Kipling’s classic boy’s own spy story, an orphan in British India must make a choice between east and west.

35. The Call of the Wild by Jack London (1903)

Jack London’s vivid adventures of a pet dog that goes back to nature reveal an extraordinary style and consummate storytelling.

36. The Golden Bowl by Henry James (1904)

American literature contains nothing else quite like Henry James’s amazing, labyrinthine and claustrophobic novel.

37. Hadrian the Seventh by Frederick Rolfe (1904)

This entertaining if contrived story of a hack writer and priest who becomes pope sheds vivid light on its eccentric author – described by DH Lawrence as a “man-demon”.

38. The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame (1908)

The evergreen tale from the riverbank and a powerful contribution to the mythology of Edwardian England.

39. The History of Mr Polly by HG Wells (1910)

The choice is great, but Wells’s ironic portrait of a man very like himself is the novel that stands out.

40. Zuleika Dobson by Max Beerbohm (1911)

The passage of time has conferred a dark power upon Beerbohm’s ostensibly light and witty Edwardian satire.

41. The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford (1915)

Ford’s masterpiece is a searing study of moral dissolution behind the facade of an English gentleman – and its stylistic influence lingers to this day.

42. The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan (1915)

John Buchan’s espionage thriller, with its sparse, contemporary prose, is hard to put down.

43. The Rainbow by DH Lawrence (1915)

The Rainbow is perhaps DH Lawrence’s finest work, showing him for the radical, protean, thoroughly modern writer he was.

44. Of Human Bondage by W Somerset Maugham (1915)

Somerset Maugham’s semi-autobiographical novel shows the author’s savage honesty and gift for storytelling at their best.

45. The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton (1920)

The story of a blighted New York marriage stands as a fierce indictment of a society estranged from culture.

46. Ulysses by James Joyce (1922)

This portrait of a day in the lives of three Dubliners remains a towering work, in its word play surpassing even Shakespeare.

47. Babbitt by Sinclair Lewis (1922)

What it lacks in structure and guile, this enthralling take on 20s America makes up for in vivid satire and characterisation.

48. A Passage to India by EM Forster (1924)

EM Forster’s most successful work is eerily prescient on the subject of empire.

49. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes by Anita Loos (1925)

A guilty pleasure it may be, but it is impossible to overlook the enduring influence of a tale that helped to define the jazz age.

50. Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf (1925)

Woolf’s great novel makes a day of party preparations the canvas for themes of lost love, life choices and mental illness.

51. The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald (1925)

Fitzgerald’s jazz age masterpiece has become a tantalising metaphor for the eternal mystery of art.

52. Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner (1926)

A young woman escapes convention by becoming a witch in this original satire about England after the first world war.

53. The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway (1926)

Hemingway’s first and best novel makes an escape to 1920s Spain to explore courage, cowardice and manly authenticity.

54. The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett (1929)

Dashiell Hammett’s crime thriller and its hard-boiled hero Sam Spade influenced everyone from Chandler to Le Carré.

55. As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner (1930)

The influence of William Faulkner’s immersive tale of raw Mississippi rural life can be felt to this day.

56. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley (1932)

Aldous Huxley’s vision of a future human race controlled by global capitalism is every bit as prescient as Orwell’s more famous dystopia.

57. Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons (1932)

The book for which Gibbons is best remembered was a satire of late-Victorian pastoral fiction but went on to influence many subsequent generations.

58. Nineteen Nineteen by John Dos Passos (1932)

The middle volume of John Dos Passos’s USA trilogy is revolutionary in its intent, techniques and lasting impact.

59. Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller (1934)

The US novelist’s debut revelled in a Paris underworld of seedy sex and changed the course of the novel – though not without a fight with the censors.

60. Scoop by Evelyn Waugh (1938)

Evelyn Waugh’s Fleet Street satire remains sharp, pertinent and memorable.

61. Murphy by Samuel Beckett (1938)

Samuel Beckett’s first published novel is an absurdist masterpiece, a showcase for his uniquely comic voice.

62. The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler (1939)

Raymond Chandler’s hardboiled debut brings to life the seedy LA underworld – and Philip Marlowe, the archetypal fictional detective.

63. Party Going by Henry Green (1939)

Set on the eve of war, this neglected modernist masterpiece centres on a group of bright young revellers delayed by fog.

64. At Swim-Two-Birds by Flann O’Brien (1939)

Labyrinthine and multilayered, Flann O’Brien’s humorous debut is both a reflection on, and an exemplar of, the Irish novel.

65. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck (1939)

One of the greatest of great American novels, this study of a family torn apart by poverty and desperation in the Great Depression shocked US society.

66. Joy in the Morning by PG Wodehouse (1946)

PG Wodehouse’s elegiac Jeeves novel, written during his disastrous years in wartime Germany, remains his masterpiece.

67. All the King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren (1946)

A compelling story of personal and political corruption, set in the 1930s in the American south.

68. Under the Volcano by Malcolm Lowry (1947)

Malcolm Lowry’s masterpiece about the last hours of an alcoholic ex-diplomat in Mexico is set to the drumbeat of coming conflict.

69. The Heat of the Day by Elizabeth Bowen (1948)

Elizabeth Bowen’s 1948 novel perfectly captures the atmosphere of London during the blitz while providing brilliant insights into the human heart.

70. Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell (1949)

George Orwell’s dystopian classic cost its author dear but is arguably the best-known novel in English of the 20th century.

71. The End of the Affair by Graham Greene (1951)

Graham Greene’s moving tale of adultery and its aftermath ties together several vital strands in his work.

72. The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger (1951)

JD Salinger’s study of teenage rebellion remains one of the most controversial and best-loved American novels of the 20th century.

73. The Adventures of Augie March by Saul Bellow (1953)

In the long-running hunt to identify the great American novel, Saul Bellow’s picaresque third book frequently hits the mark.

74. Lord of the Flies by William Golding (1954)

Dismissed at first as “rubbish & dull”, Golding’s brilliantly observed dystopian desert island tale has since become a classic.

75. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (1955)

Nabokov’s tragicomic tour de force crosses the boundaries of good taste with glee.

76. On the Road by Jack Kerouac (1957)

The creative history of Kerouac’s beat-generation classic, fuelled by pea soup and benzedrine, has become as famous as the novel itself.

77. Voss by Patrick White (1957)

A love story set against the disappearance of an explorer in the outback, Voss paved the way for a generation of Australian writers to shrug off the colonial past.

78. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (1960)

Her second novel finally arrived this summer, but Harper Lee’s first did enough alone to secure her lasting fame, and remains a truly popular classic.

79. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark (1960)

Short and bittersweet, Muriel Spark’s tale of the downfall of a Scottish schoolmistress is a masterpiece of narrative fiction.

80. Catch-22 by Joseph Heller (1961)

This acerbic anti-war novel was slow to fire the public imagination, but is rightly regarded as a groundbreaking critique of military madness.

81. The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing (1962)

Hailed as one of the key texts of the women’s movement of the 1960s, this study of a divorced single mother’s search for personal and political identity remains a defiant, ambitious tour de force.

82. A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess (1962)

Anthony Burgess’s dystopian classic still continues to startle and provoke, refusing to be outshone by Stanley Kubrick’s brilliant film adaptation.

83. A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood (1964)

Christopher Isherwood’s story of a gay Englishman struggling with bereavement in LA is a work of compressed brilliance.

84. In Cold Blood by Truman Capote (1966)

Truman Capote’s non-fiction novel, a true story of bloody murder in rural Kansas, opens a window on the dark underbelly of postwar America.

85. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath (1966)

Sylvia Plath’s painfully graphic roman à clef, in which a woman struggles with her identity in the face of social pressure, is a key text of Anglo-American feminism.

86. Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth (1969)

This wickedly funny novel about a young Jewish American’s obsession with masturbation caused outrage on publication, but remains his most dazzling work.

87. Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont by Elizabeth Taylor (1971)

Elizabeth Taylor’s exquisitely drawn character study of eccentricity in old age is a sharp and witty portrait of genteel postwar English life facing the changes taking shape in the 60s.

88. Rabbit Redux by John Updike (1971)

Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom, Updike’s lovably mediocre alter ego, is one of America’s great literary protoganists, up there with Huck Finn and Jay Gatsby.

89. Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison (1977)

The novel with which the Nobel prize-winning author established her name is a kaleidoscopic evocation of the African-American experience in the 20th century.

90. A Bend in the River by VS Naipaul (1979)

VS Naipaul’s hellish vision of an African nation’s path to independence saw him accused of racism, but remains his masterpiece.

91. Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie (1981)

The personal and the historical merge in Salman Rushdie’s dazzling, game-changing Indian English novel of a young man born at the very moment of Indian independence.

92. Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson (1981)

Marilynne Robinson’s tale of orphaned sisters and their oddball aunt in a remote Idaho town is admired by everyone from Barack Obama to Bret Easton Ellis.

93. Money: A Suicide Note by Martin Amis (1984)

Martin Amis’s era-defining ode to excess unleashed one of literature’s greatest modern monsters in self-destructive antihero John Self.

94. An Artist of the Floating World by Kazuo Ishiguro (1986)

Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel about a retired artist in postwar Japan, reflecting on his career during the country’s dark years, is a tour de force of unreliable narration.

95. The Beginning of Spring by Penelope Fitzgerald (1988)

Fitzgerald’s story, set in Russia just before the Bolshevik revolution, is her masterpiece: a brilliant miniature whose peculiar magic almost defies analysis.

96. Breathing Lessons by Anne Tyler (1988)

Anne Tyler’s portrayal of a middle-aged, mid-American marriage displays her narrative clarity, comic timing and ear for American speech to perfection.

97. Amongst Women by John McGahern (1990)

This modern Irish masterpiece is both a study of the faultlines of Irish patriarchy and an elegy for a lost world.

98. Underworld by Don DeLillo (1997)

A writer of “frightening perception”, Don DeLillo guides the reader in an epic journey through America’s history and popular culture.

99. Disgrace by JM Coetzee (1999)

In his Booker-winning masterpiece, Coetzee’s intensely human vision infuses a fictional world that both invites and confounds political interpretation.

100. True History of the Kelly Gang by Peter Carey (2000)

Peter Carey rounds off our list of literary milestones with a Booker prize-winning tour-de-force examining the life and times of Australia’s infamous antihero, Ned Kelly.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

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nebris · 6 years ago

Text

Hating Valerie Solanas (And Loving Violent Men)

by Chavisa Woods

My fourth book, and first full-length work of nonfiction will be released by Seven Stories Press in June. 100 Times (A Memoir of Sexism) is a 240-page memoir, written as in-scene vignettes, telling the stories of one hundred experiences of sexist discrimination, sexual harassment, and sexual violence I have personally experienced and witnessed, beginning at age five, through the present day.

I recently shared an excerpt of this book on social media, and immediately an old friend who I’d long ago lost touch with, a man from the Midwest, began arguing with me, and compared me to Valerie Solanas. I could tell from the tone of his comment, he expected me to recoil at the mention of that name — Valerie Solanas — the direst of insults; queer female hysterical violent “femi-nazi” insanity personified. This name was meant to summon shame in me, like invoking some Goetic demon to bate and restrain my crazed feminism.

He’s not the only one who sees her that way. When so many people think Valerie Solanas, they think, “bat-shit crazy, violent, murderous, ridiculous, woman.”

In a recent season of the popular television show, American Horror Story, for instance, Solanas was depicted by Lena Dunham as a demented serial killer who led a cult of murderous feminists to kill heterosexual couples — kids hooking up in cars, happy newlyweds and such — in a bloody, nationwide feminist murder spree. This, of course, is a completely fictional narrative, and for the purposes of this show, Solanas’s epitomal work, The Scum Manifesto, was interpreted as a literal, earnest text. Dunham portrayed Solanas as a frumpy, grumpy, clownish homicidal lesbian.

In the mainstream media and collective consciousness, Solonas has been written off as a worthless artist, and remembered only for her violent act against Andy Warhol.

All of this got me thinking about unconscious bias, and what it takes for us to denounce a female artist’s historical worth, versus what it does for a man.

William Burroughs shot and killed his wife while drunk and high, playing a game they called “William Tell,” wherein his wife placed an apple on her head, and he shot it off. He missed, killed her, and later wrote about it, implying it was possible he subconsciously wanted to kill her, because he was gay and resented having a wife. He served only two weeks in jail for this slaughter. Because the homicide occurred in Mexico, and through a combination of bribery and fleeing the country, he avoided serving any prison sentence.

Burroughs, of course, is still widely celebrated as a great author. I, in fact, had a poem published in a literary magazine a few years ago, the cover adorned with a photograph of him holding a rifle. This image was considered darkly humorous.

Almost every other author I’ve spoken with about the ethics of celebrating Burroughs and his art points me in the direction of compassion; he had a drug problem, he and his wife were “in it together.”

After the murder of his wife, he served as a member of the prestigious American Academy of Arts and Letters. His body of work still remains relevant, is widely taught in English and Writing curriculum in colleges, and is written about reverently in current scholarly articles and in major media outlets worldwide. He is generally thought of as good man. In his bio on Wikipedia, the slaughter of his wife doesn’t even come in until the sixth paragraph. (I am citing Wikipedia, because it represents the most current, popular, collective opinions of the general public, not as a scholarly reference.)

Valerie Solanas, on the other hand, shot Andy Warhol, not killing him, but severely injuring him. He died twenty years later from health complications possibly exacerbated by the injury, as well as a speed addiction.

Solanas and Warhol had a documented horrible working/personal relationship, rife with insult. She saw Warhol as constantly demeaning her privately and publicly, even after featuring her in one of his films.

Warhol agreed to look at a play she’d written, possibly to produce it. She gave him the only manuscript to read, and he (claimed he) lost it, though she believed he threw it away to spite her. This was the catalyst for the shooting.

Pablo Neruda raped a servant while he was visiting her country as a diplomat. He wrote about it quite matter-of-factly and unapologetically in his memoirs (I Confess that I have Lived, first published in 1974, in English in 1977):

One morning, I woke earlier than is my custom. I hid in the shadows to watch who passed by. From the back of the house, like a dark statue that walked, the most beautiful woman that I had ever seen in Ceylon entered, Tamil race, Pariah caste. She wore a red and gold sari of the cheapest cloth. On her unshod feet were heavy anklets. On each side of her nose shone two tiny red points. They were probably glass, but on her they looked like rubies.

She solemnly approached the toilet without giving me the slightest look, without acknowledging my existence, and disappeared with the sordid receptacle on her head, retreating with her goddess steps. She was so beautiful that despite her humble job, she left me disturbed. As if a wild animal had come out from the jungle, belonging to another existence, a separate world. I called to her with no result.

I then would leave some gift on her path, some silk or fruit. She would pass by without hearing or looking. Her dark beauty turned that miserable trip into the obligatory ceremony of an indifferent queen.

One morning, I decided to go for all, and grabbed her by the wrist and looked her in the face. There was no language I could speak to her. She allowed herself to be led by me smilelessly and soon was naked upon my bed. Her extremely slender waist, full hips, the overflowing cups of her breasts, made her exactly like the thousands year old sculptures in the south of India. The encounter was like that of a man and a statue. She kept her eyes open throughout, unmoved. She was right to regard me with contempt. The experience was not repeated.

No one remembers him for this.

Charles Bukowski is on video kicking and punching his girlfriend during an interview about his writing, and was said to have been physically abusive to multiple female partners. He is still celebrated worldwide as a great poet.

Louis Althusser strangled his wife to death in an act of cold-blooded murder. In his Wikipedia bio, he’s described as, “A French Marxist philosopher, whose arguments and theses were set against the threats that he saw attacking the theoretical foundations of Marxism.”

As I write this, the murder of his wife doesn’t receive mention until the last paragraph, and then it simply says, “Althusser’s life was marked by periods of intense mental illness. In 1980, he killed his wife, the sociologist Hélène Rytmann, by strangling her.”

He is widely celebrated. The murder of his wife is mentioned only in the context of his mental illness.

Valerie Solanas suffered from Schizophrenia. She was also a victim of childhood incest. Her father repeatedly raped her, and then she was sent to live with her grandparents as a teenager, and then her grandfather raped her, and then she ran away from home and became a sex worker.

The shooting of Andy Warhol is currently the first sentence of her Wikipedia bio. She is widely regarded and repeatedly portrayed as a worthless, angry, bat-shit crazy piece of human garbage. Where is this compassion that we are asked to have for male artists, for her?

She was a brilliant artist. The SCUM Manifesto is a masterwork of literary protest art, which is often completely misread. Much of it is actually a point-by-point re-write of multiple of Freud’s writings. It is a parody.

In his essay The Psychogenesis Of A Case Of Homosexuality In A Woman, Freud suggests that a good treatment for lesbians would be having their (most likely already hermaphroditic) ovaries, and genitals removed and replaced with grafted “real” female genitals.

Freud’s exact words:

The cases of male homosexuality which (have) been successful fulfilled the condition, which is not always present, of a very patent physical ‘hermaphroditism’. Any analogous treatment of female homosexuality is at present quite obscure. If it were to consist in removing what are probably hermaphroditic ovaries, and in grafting others, which are hoped to be of a single sex, there would be little prospect of its being applied in practice. A woman who has felt herself to be a man, and has loved in masculine fashion, will hardly let herself be forced into playing the part of a woman…

In The SCUM Manifesto, Solanas posits that a good “treatment” for straight men is to get their dicks chopped off: “When the male accepts his passivity, defines himself as a woman (males as well as females think men are women and women are men), and becomes a transvestite he loses his desire to screw (or to do anything else, for that matter; he fulfills himself as a drag queen) and gets his dick chopped off. He then achieves a continuous diffuse sexual feeling from ‘being a woman’. Screwing is, for a man, a defense against his desire to be female.”

Freud’s texts are rife with suggestions of female castration and hysterectomies as treatments for all sorts of psychological troubles suffered by women, and in response, The SCUM Manifesto is infamous for suggesting castration might improve the behavior of men.

Freud posited that heterosexual women are sexually passive, engaging in sex only because they want children. He invented the theory of “penis envy.” He claimed that because girls do not have penises, girls come to believe they have lost their penises, and eventually, seek to have male children in an attempt “to gain a penis.” He believed women, on some deep, subconscious level, viewed themselves as castrated males. In his theory of psychosexual development he posited that for women, sex (with males) may also be a subconscious attempt to gain a penis.

In his essay, The Taboo of Virginity, Freud writes: “We have learnt from the analysis of many neurotic women that they go through an early age in which they envy their brothers, their sign of masculinity and feel at a disadvantage and humiliated because of the lack of it (actually because of its diminished size) in themselves. We include this ‘envy for the penis’ in the ‘castration complex’.”

Solanas, replaces the envy of the penis, not only with envy of the vagina, but most often, with women’s emotional openness, complexity and individuality as the focus of men’s envy. She writes of men: “The female’s individuality, which he is acutely aware of, but which he doesn’t comprehend, and isn’t capable of relating to or grasping emotionally, frightens and upsets him and fills him with envy. “

At the time of the writing of The SCUM Manifesto, Freud was a celebrated figure in psychology, and his theories were being widely touted in academic and popular spheres alike. Solanas took issue with this, and wrote The SCUM Manifesto as a parody, mocking the popular, sexist, and hetero-centric thinking on gender and sexuality at the time. But the text is a reversal. In The SCUM Manifesto, Solanas directs everything Freud said with an equal amount of vigor and confidence back at men. So, instead of “female motherhood” being a primary drive, she reverses this to attack/analyze the “male sex drive” through the same line of thinking as Freud.

In his essay, Leonardo Da-Vinci and a Memory of His Childhood, Freud hypothesizes that homosexuality in men stems from their relationship with their father and mother. He proposes that homosexuality (which he assumes is a bad thing) is caused by a relationship with a mother who is too tender to her son (as in all his texts, he repeatedly states that children are naturally sexually attracted to their parents of the opposite sex), and a mother who is, at the same time, too assertive and independent in relation to her own husband (the boy’s father.) This causes the boy to see his mother figure, who’s also an object of his sexual desire in childhood, as a man, not a woman. And this makes the boy gay. He writes:

In all our male homosexual cases the subjects had had a very intense erotic attachment to a female person, as a rule their mother, during the first period of childhood, which is afterwards forgotten; this attachment was evoked or encouraged by too much tenderness on the part of the mother herself, and further reinforced by the small part played by the father during their childhood. Sadger emphasizes the fact that the mothers on his homosexual patients were frequently masculine women, women with energetic traits of character, who were able to push the father out of his proper place. I have occasionally seen the same thing, but I was more strongly impressed by cases in which the father was absent from the beginning or left the scene at an early date, so that the boy found himself left entirely under feminine influence. Indeed it almost seems as though the presence of a strong father would ensure that thee son made the correct decision in his choice of object, namely someone of the opposite sex.

In The SCUM Manifesto, Solanas takes this analysis and flips it on its head through an extreme feminist lens, where becoming a “real (straight) man” is already assumed to be a bad thing. She writes: “The effect of fatherhood on males, specifically is to make them, ‘Men,’ that is, highly defensive of all impulses to passivity, faggotry, and of desires to be female. Every boy wants to imitate his mother, be her, fuse with her. So he tells the boy, sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly, not to be a sissy, to act like a ‘Man.’ The boy, scared shitless of and respecting his father, complies, and becomes just like Daddy, that model of ‘Man’-hood, the all-American ideal — the well-behaved heterosexual dullard.”

While Freud accuses the mother of being to blame for the horrible fate of a boy becoming a homosexual, Solanas accuses the father of being to blame for the horrible fate of a boy becoming a straight man.

As you can see from the above, The SCUM Manifesto in many places is an almost line-by-line mockery of Freud’s writings on women and homosexuals, and was never meant to be read as a literal, earnest text throughout. This does not mean it is intended as a joke or to be taken lightly, though. As some may have noticed in the above text, it is not without serious, meaningful and resonant critiques of patriarchal institutions. There is a lot of truth in this parody. It is a political satire. It is simultaneously dead serious, yet written with a nod and a wink. In keeping with the protest art of the time, if you didn’t get it, she wasn’t going to explain it to you. She was happy to make cocky comments, like, “I mean every word of it,” knowing, and indeed, hoping that the “squares” who didn’t understand the sarcasm inherent to the foundation of the text, would be that much more shocked at her effrontery.

Valerie Solanas just said, in a modernized (now dated) vernacular, exactly what Freud had said about women, only about men, and everyone freaked out, because when we talk about men the same way men have talked about women for centuries, it reads as grotesque and insanely violent, un-compassionate, and shocking, which was exactly her point.

Her work is still misinterpreted as a literal text by many to this day.

After shooting Andy Warhol, Solanas turned herself in to the police. She was charged with attempted murder, assault, and illegal possession of a gun. She was diagnosed with schizophrenia, and pleaded guilty to “reckless assault with intent to harm,” serving a three-year prison sentence, including treatment in a psychiatric hospital. In a darkly ironic twist of fate she was subjected to a nonconsensual hysterectomy during her hospitalization. Shortly after her release from prison, she became homeless, and never published another work.

Michael Alig, known for being a famous party promoter and club kid in the 1980s (in the film about his life, Party Monster, he was played by Macaulay Culkin), brutally murdered his friend, Andre “Angel” Melendez, over an argument about a drug debt.

Alig cut his friend up into pieces and threw him in the Hudson River. He’s been released from prison and is currently working as a club promoter in New York City.

Since his release, he’s also appeared in an indie film with artists I know personally, called Vamp Bikers, in which Alig plays a homicidal sociopath who slowly, brutally murders his friend.

I accidentally watched this at a film screening I attended in Brooklyn years ago, having no idea what I was getting into. It made me want to throw up, seeing him happily take part in a campy fictional portrayal of a murder so similar to the one he actually committed, and being celebrated for this. Many people around me were excitedly saying they hoped that Alig might attend the screening.

His website, michaelalig.com describes him as an “artist, writer, curator.” You can hire him to produce your party, or buy one of his many pop art paintings for $500 a pop.

I think this is all abhorrent. I’ve had debates with friends over this, and have been asked, “Well, he served his time. Shouldn’t we have compassion? He was young and on a lot of drugs when he did that. Don’t you think he should get a second chance?”

Perhaps. Perhaps a chance at living as a free person again, yes, perhaps that, but definitely not a chance to be celebrated for being the famous club kid who murdered his friend. And it’s not lost on me that the person he murdered was a poor, lesser known gay man of color, and I wonder if he would have gotten out of prison so early if he’d been the one who murdered Michael.

Perhaps more shocking than this, is the life and reception of essayist and novelist Norman Mailer. When speaking about feminism and women’s liberation Norman Mailer said: “We must face the simple fact that maybe there’s a profound reservoir of cowardess in women that had them welcome this miserable, slavish life.”

In his book Advertisements for Myself, Mailer claims that a writer without “balls” is no writer at all:

I have a terrible confession to make — I have nothing to say about any of the talented women who write today. Out of what is no doubt a fault in me, I do not seem able to read them. Indeed, I doubt if there will be a really exciting woman writer until the first whore becomes a call girl and tells her tale. At the risk of making a dozen devoted enemies for life, I can only say that the sniffs I get from the ink of the women are always fey, old-hat, Quaintsy Goysy, tiny, too dykily psychotic, crippled, creepish, fashionable, frigid, outer-Baroque, maquillé in mannequin’s whimsy, or else bright and stillborn. Since I’ve never been able to read Virginia Woolf, and am sometimes willing to believe that it can conceivably be my fault, this verdict may be taken fairly as the twisted tongue of a soured taste, at least by those readers who do not share with me the ground of departure — that a good novelist can do without everything but the remnant of his balls.

I would argue that Norman Mailer spoke and wrote just as violently, grotesquely and shockingly about women as Valerie Solanas did about men. But he was not saying any of these things or writing his sexist texts as a parody or protest of his own subjugation.

Norman Mailer is still widely celebrated for both his fiction and essays, including numerous works that take a stand adamantly against feminism and women in general. In 1968 and 1980 he won the Pulitzer Prize. In 2005, he won the National Book Award for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. In 1960, he attempted to murder his wife by stabbing her multiple times in the chest, barely missing her heart.

While his wife lay in the hospital in critical condition, a day after the stabbing, Mailer appeared in a scheduled interview on The Mike Wallace Show, where he spoke of the knife as a symbol of manhood. He was briefly arrested two days later, though his wife refused to press charges, saying that she feared for the safety of their children if she did so. She did, however divorce him once she recovered.

The parallels between Mailer and Solanas are as astonishing as their differences. The only reason I can find for the differences in how they are popularly viewed is that Mailer was a man, speaking and acting violently against women in a sexist society, and Solanas was a woman, doing the reverse in this same society.

I can’t help but conjure Solanas’s legacy when looking at the current questions that keep popping up on the subject of violence, art, and who we celebrate today. Do we forgive Louis C.K. for serially masturbating on countless women he worked with? What does forgiveness mean? Does it mean he continues to enjoy the same level of reverence and celebrity as before? Can we still enjoy Michael Jackson’s music knowing that he had ongoing sexual relationships with what seems to be an endless stream of young boys? Should we still be patronizing Woody Allen’s films? Is it alright to feel heartbroken over the loss of the Bill Cosby so many knew and loved? What of the beautiful works of so many beloved male authors I have spoken about above?

I do not have clear answers to these questions, nor do I think there is one rule of response that is correct for every situation, but I do know that the social hammer has come down hard on women who commit similar acts of violence, especially when those acts are directed at men. I do know that sexist bias has judged one of my artistic heroes much more harshly than her male counterparts.

I do not condone or celebrate Valerie Solanas’s shooting of Andy Warhol. But when people bring up Valerie Solanas as if she is a horrendous, murderous, bat-shit crazy, worthless, hysterical, violent criminal whose literary artwork is as valuable as the ramblings of a madwoman, suggesting that she should be written off as nothing more, I always think to myself, “Well, that’s exactly what she would have expected from this society.” Much less has changed since she first released the book in 1967, than I would have hoped. Those opening lines still remain eerily significant: “Life in this society being, at best, an utter bore, and no aspect of society being at all relevant to women, there remains to civic-minded, responsible, thrill-seeking females only to overthrow the government, eliminate the money system, institute complete automation, and destroy the male sex.”

http://www.full-stop.net/2019/05/21/features/chavisa-woods/solanas/

#The Sisterhood

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justsomelarryfics · 7 years ago

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hello lovely, any Dom Louis sub harry fics?

Dom Louis/ Sub Harry

Sorted by length

(Note: I mostly did fics with plot. If you would like mainly pwp, please message me again)

Everyone needs someone who can handle their darker sides - In a world where the government dictates who you’ll spend the rest of your life with—Doms are matched by the age of 30, and subs are matched by the age of 18. Or Where One Direction consists of soft, unmatched Dom Niall, sweet Dom Liam, and strict Dom Louis and his sub, Harry. (one shot, 2k, rec whole series)

Perfect - Where Harry is Louis’ submissive and a paraplegic, but they still make things work. (one shot, 2k)

All Your Dreams are on Your Way - It was all becoming too much for Harry. The emotions, the frustration, the exhaustion. Or, the one where Harry just needs Louis to know what he needs. In this case, it’s punishment. (one shot, 5k)

Nothin’ Dirty ‘Bout It - Louis is up to something. He has been for a while now, really. It’s like he’s being careful with Harry, which he hasn’t been in a long time. He puts care into everything they do, of course, but somehow it’s different. He hasn’t been pushing Harry’s limits with anything lately. Harry hasn’t been reduced to tears in weeks, which he hadn’t previously realized was such a common occurrence (or that he needed it so much). It’s making him antsy. Or, Louis buys Harry a collar (one shot, 7k)

Something Unpredictable - Harry peers inside the gift bag, but all he sees is stuffing paper, the room too dark to see anything else. After turning on the lamp at the corner of his desk, Harry takes out the stuffing paper, then feels around for what’s inside. What he comes back with surprises him so much that he nearly drops it, clapping his hand over his mouth after a small sound comes out. Office AU where Harry plans a Secret Santa Christmas Party for his office floor. What he hadn’t planned on, was some certain gifts that make him blush like crazy. Also featuring Mr. Tomlinson, The Boss Man; Zayn, Louis’ best friend and company co-owner; Niall, Harry’s cheeky mate; and Liam, the oblivious sweetheart. (one shot, 19k, not really dom/sub until the end)

Even If It’s Just Tonight - By turning the suitcase around, Harry at least found out the name of the sex toy loving stranger. Louis [email protected] ORLouis and Harry happen to switch their suitcases in the airport’s bathroom and it’s possibly the best mistake Harry has ever made. (chaptered, complete, 26k)

Haven** - “I take it you’re not a new student?”“What?” Harry mumbles, caught up in the way his eyes are quite literally sparkling in the light. “Oh—No. Not a student.”“Are you a sub?” Louis asks.Harry clenches his hands into fists, holding them behind his back as he stumbles a bit. “I don’t, uh—I mean. I’ve never really gotten a chance to be a true sub, you know? My ex-partners were always scared they’d hurt me. But, like—If I trusted someone a lot, and if we used a, a safeword. And talked about, you know, boundaries, then—Yes, yeah, I-I’m a sub.��Louis’ eyes are so wide, his cheeks puffing out in the effort to not burst into laughter.“Oh shit, oh my god,” Harry whispers. “You meant—Oh god.” (one shot, 35k)

Reduce Me To A Pleading Cry (Break The Skin and Tantalize) - As the CEO of Styles & Styles, Harry Styles cuts a brooding and handsome figure at the helm of a very successful business. His reputation for intensity is well known, but you would be intense, too, if you had to work numbers all day, give countless orders, and conduct endless meetings. When all you really want to do at night–ache to do–is give away the reins, let someone else make the decisions, be ordered around for once, just–let go. Harry has reached his breaking point when one touch from a man whose very stance commands attention leads him back to a place he thought he’d never return. Or Harry is a broody submissive boss, Louis is a natural dom who works in the mail room at Styles & Styles, Niall is a matchmaking oracle, and a slender, dark haired man stands mute at the coffee stand encouraging others to spill their secrets. (one shot, 37k, first in series)

Wrap Your Arms Around Me Till Your Knuckles Are Burning White - In a world where human trafficking is legal, 19 year old Harry Styles surrenders his freedom to the Cooperative Affiliation of Human Exchange, aka CAHE. One week later, 25 year old Louis Tomlinson of Tomlinson Enterprises, attends ‘The Auction.’ Let the bidding begin. or au where Louis’ in a bidding war against Simon Cowell and ends up winning the best prize of all. (one shot, 58k)

Loving You Is Free** - Louis is a workaholic record label CEO who hasn’t been on a date in nearly a year. Niall and Liam make an account for him on a sugar dating website as a joke. And then Louis meets Harry. (chaptered, complete, 67k, first in series)

Like an Endless Summer** - “You just wanna go fawn over Styles as soon as possible,” Zayn grumbles. “I do not. Plus, he probably got ugly this year. Eighteen is an awkward time…I bet he’s got acne and one of those terrible fuckboy haircuts all the hipsters are getting these days, with the shaved sides? Just watch, the first year we’re gonna get any time together is gonna be the first year I don’t have a stupid crush on him.” — Or, Louis is a riding instructor at a summer camp, and Harry is a fellow counselor who he’s been successfully managing his crush on for the last two summers. That is, until Harry shows up this year leveled up and lethal, and all Louis’s formerly perfected veneer of nonchalance melts like a popsicle in the sun. (chaptered, complete, 87k, mostly fluff and pining but there is some dom/sub and I had to include it bc it’s one of my all time favs, also has a kinky sequel)

Satyriasis - Satyriasis (/,sat��ˈrʌɪəsɪs/): Excessive, often uncontrollable sexual desire and behavior by a man. Harry Styles, a seventeen year-old boy, is used to be humiliated by his boyfriend for having peculiar tastes. These include being highly feminine and loving wearing panties. Louis Tomlinson, an experienced sexologist, is determined to treat what Harry was taught to consider a problem, which soon becomes a virtue for both of them. OR The story where Harry is a hypersexual teenager who has an appointment with one of the most prestigious sexologists to help him with his problem. (chaptered, incomplete, 112k, also on wattpad)

Monopolize Me** - Harry thought he could spend his simple life as a cow farmer, but Desmond had other plans. When Desmond uses blackmail, for reasons unbeknownst to Harry, he finds himself lost in the giant city of New York as next in line to run his father’s company… At least until he meets Louis.Louis’ sole purpose in life has been to make his business succeed. Harry doesn’t think that’s an issue until he finds out Louis is CEO of a company much larger than Harry could ever imagine.Louis struggles to balance his filthy business ways with an honest relationship with Harry while pushing his company to be the global leader. Between publicly humiliating Harry as his competitor during the day and dominating Harry as his lover behind closed doors; he might just monopolize Harry in the process.Harry has to leave more than just past behind if he ever hopes to please both his father and Louis. Finding himself in a forbidden love with extreme tastes pays out better than staying lost in New York.BDSM: Bondage/Discipline * Dominance/Submission * Sadism/MasochismAU blend where stockbrokers on Wall Street and CEO’s in the tech industry are basically the same thing. (on wattpad!! 54 parts, incomplete)

Stockholm Syndrome - “I like you like that.” The voice was husky but bore a slightly high pitch. Harry jerked as fingers threaded into his hair. “So soft, ” the voice purred as Harry’s breathing spiked and his chest rose up and down quickly from the onslaught of adrenaline whizzing around his veins and his nipples peaked of their own accord at the tactility of his captor. Harry realised his headscarf was no longer wrapped around his head taming his curls. In fact, he began to consider that it was in fact the same material as being used to bind his eyes closed. He briefly wondered why the stranger hadn’t gagged him but it was so remote out here even if Harry screamed his lungs out he had no hope of being heard. And because he didn’t yet know if this person- this man by the sounds of things- was intending to hurt him or not, he figured shouting around and trying to break free were not his priority options. He had to find out more, if he could. He had to find out who this was and more importantly, what they wanted. (locked, chaptered, complete, 208k, honestly entirely smut)

#larry #Larry Stylinson #larry fanfiction #larry fic #larry smut #one direction fanfiction #dom louis #sub harry #louis and harry #fanfic #fic rec #larry fic recs

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pamphletstoinspire · 7 years ago

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Catholic Prophecy - Part 15

42 Catholic Prophecy

After noting that the Council of Trent was a gift of God to enlighten and strengthen the Christians of our times, Ven. Holzhauser goes on to say that another Council is to take place at the time of the Great Monarch. (The Ecstatic of Tours says the same.) Yet, strangely enough, Vatican I and Vatican II are mentioned nowhere. Why? I submit that there may be a number of reasons. Obviously, Ven. Holzhauser can mention only the most significant events of the fifth period. Now, Vatican I may in no way be compared to Trent. It did define Papal infallibility, but its work was unfinished.

Vatican II purposely refrained from being doctrinal; the accent was on the pastoral side of things. But even in a "pastoral" Council it is impossible to avoid all references to doctrinal matters. Vatican II got out of the difficulty by compromise and ambiguities. The Conciliar Fathers were so divided on so many vital issues that it could not have been otherwise, short of a Papal intervention. (The Pope, however, did intervene in a limited way). Had the Council wanted to be doctrinal, it could not have done so either, unless, again, the Pope had imposed his own decisions. It follows that, doctrinally, Vatican II is insignificant.

Pastorally, it could have achieved a great deal, but the climate of permissiveness, hesitancy, timorousness (which is so typical of our times) is hardly propitious for the imposition of firm guidelines. In other words, Rome has failed to impose the correct implementation of the Council's decrees. What has been imposed constitutes a mockery of what had been decided, and it has been imposed by the sizeable proportion of Ecclesiastics, in the world and in the Vatican itself, who are currently subverting the Church.

The liturgy is a case in point: Vatican II permitted an extension of the use of the vernacular, while it commanded that Latin should be retained. There is nothing wrong, really, in extending the use of the vernacular to the reading of the Epistle and Gospel. But when this latitude results in the complete elimination of Latin, when it leads to the abandonment of Gregorian Chant (which is inseparable from Latin), and to the adoption of guitar-playing and hand-clapping, it is then clearly in opposition to what Pope John intended when he wrote his encyclical Veterum Sapientia on retaining Latin.

The result, of course, is here for everyone to see: confusion in the Church, shocking innovations, defections of priests, a sharp drop in vocations and conversions, etc. The Second Vatican Council, therefore, has indirectly precipitated the

Paragraph 46 43

crisis which had been brewing for about sixty years. Far from being a ''renewal", it marks instead the coming end of the fifth period of the Church, mentioned by Ven. Holzhauser.

It must be understood, however, that it is not my intention to oppose in a sweeping statement all the changes which have taken place since Vatican II. Throughout history the Church has had to adopt herself to changing conditions. The changes brought about by St. Pius X, who is now regarded as a Conservative, were unprecedented at the time. Conservatism does not mean immobilism. On the contrary, it implies regular overhauls and renovations. This is so because nothing can be conserved without some work of maintenance and renovation, and the Church is no exception. Obviously, in this changing world of ours some sort of updating was called for. That is why there is no question of rejecting indiscriminately all changes. What is to be deplored, however, is that the wise updating intended by John XXIII has become synonymous with Revolution, and that the necessary changes have become a pretext for a clean break with the past.

Obviously, a Council which asserts nothing doctrinally, at the very time when every doctrine is boldly being challenged, and fails to enforce what it decides pastorally, cannot be a very significant Council in the historical perspective. If we fail to see this just now, it is because we are not yet in the broad historical perspective. We are still in the post-conciliar perspective — far too close for a correct assessment. Ven. B. Holzhauser, however, cast his prophetic eye on the general historical perspective, and this may explain why he did not mention the Second Council of the Vatican.

|[ 47. Venerable Holzhauser (Continued) . "When everything has been ruined by war, when Catholics are hard-pressed by traitorous co-religionists and heretics, when the Church and her servants are denied their rights, when the monarchies have been overthrown and their rulers murdered, then the hand of Almighty God will work a marvelous change, something seemingly impossible according to human reason. . .

"There will rise a valiant king anointed by God. He will be a Catholic and a descendant of Louis IX, yet a descendant also of an old imperial German family, born in exile. He will rule supreme in temporal matters. The Pope will rule supreme in spiritual matters at the same time. Persecution will cease

44 Catholic Prophecy

and justice shall reign. He will root out false doctrines. His dominion will extend from East to West. All nations will adore God their Lord according to Catholic teaching. There will be many wise and just men. People will love justice, and peace will reign over the whole earth, for Divine Power will bind Satan for many years until the coming of the Son of Perdition. . .

"After desolation has reached its peak in England, peace will be restored and England will return to the Catholic faith with greater fervour than ever before. . .

'The Great Monarch will have the special help of God and be unconquerable. . ."

Comment: Venerable Holzhauser correctly saw three hundred years ago that, in our own times, the restoration of Monarchy would seem impossible according to human reason. It does seem impossible. Yet, if we consider the manner in which a handful of doctrinally well-trained and determined Bolsheviks took over Russia in 1917, and if we consider that there exists at present in Europe an equally well-trained and determined association of dedicated Catholics who are sparing no efforts to sow the seeds of renewal and are spreading the sound concepts of Catholic thinkers and philosophers who are just as unknown as Karl Marx was in 1850 — but not less capable, one can see, then, that God has already set the stage for the marvelous renewal which He will work.

|f 48. 1 Bl. Anna-Maria Taigi ( 1 9th century) . "God will send two punishments; one will be in the form of wars, revolutions and other evils; it shall originate on earth. The other will be sent from Heaven. There shall come over the whole earth an intense darkness lasting three days and three nights. Nothing can be seen, and the air will be laden with pestilence which will claim mainly, but not only, the enemies of religion. It will be impossible to use any man-made lighting during this darkness, except blessed candles. He, who out of curiosity, opens his window to look out, or leaves his home, will fall dead on the spot. During these three days, people should remain in their homes, pray the Rosary and beg God for mercy.

jf 48.2 "All the enemies of the Church, whether known or unknown, will perish over the whole earth during that universal darkness, with the exception of a few whom God will soon

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convert. The air shall be infected by demons who will appear under all sorts of hideous forms.

fl 48.3 "Religion shall be persecuted, and priests massacred. Churches shall be closed, but only for a short time. The Holy Father shall be obliged to leave Rome.

fl 48.4 "France shall fall into a frightful anarchy. The French shall have a desperate civil war in the course of which even old men will take up arms. The political parties, having exhausted their blood and their rage without being able to arrive at any satisfactory settlement, shall agree at the last extremity to have recourse to the Holy See. Then the Pope shall send to France a special legate. . . In consequence of the information received, His Holiness himself shall nominate a most Christian King for the government of France.

fl 48.5 "After the three days of darkness, St. Peter and St. Paul, having come down from Heaven, will preach in the whole world and designate a new Pope. A great light will flash from their bodies and will settle upon the cardinal who is to become Pope. Christianity, then, will spread throughout the world. He is the Holy Pontiff, chosen by God to withstand the storm. At the end, he will have the gift of miracles, and his name shall be praised over the whole earth.

jj 48.6 Whole nations will come back to the Church and the face of the earth will be renewed. Russia, England, and China will come into the Church.

Comment: This prophecy does not add anything new to what we already know from the other prophecies quoted in the twelfth issue of World Trends, but it does bring further evidence concerning the events to come. One might conceivably entertain doubts if we had only two or three different prophecies, but it would be unreasonable to do so when we possess well over one hundred, coming from different sources.

Among the books written on Anna-Maria Taigi, we have Wife, Mother and Mystic, written by Albert Bessieres, S.J., - and translated into English by Fr. Stephen Rigby. In his introduction, Fr. Rigby quotes an interesting passage from Louis Veuillot's book The Fragrance of Rome. This passage is better than anything I could say to acquaint my readers with the extraordinary gifts of Anna-Maria Taigi (I quote):

"Her intellectual gifts were altogether overshadowed by an unexampled miracle. Shortly before she had entered on the

46 Catholic Prophecy

way of perfection there began to appear to her a golden globe which became as a sun of matchless light; in this all things were revealed to her. Past and future were to her an open book.

"She knew with certainty the fate of the dead. Her gaze travelled to the ends of the earth and discovered there people on whom she had never set eyes, reading them to the depth of their souls. One glance sufficed; upon whatever she focused her thoughts, it was revealed to her and her understanding. She saw the whole world as we see the front of a building. It was the same with nations as with individuals; she saw the cause of their distresses and the remedies that would heal them.

"By means of this permanent and prodigious miracle, the poor wife of Domenico Taigi became a theologian, a teacher, and a prophet. The miracle lasted forty-seven years. Until her death the humble woman was able to read this mysterious sun as an ever-open book. Until her death she looked into it solely for the glory of God; that is, when charity suggested or obedience demanded it. Should things for which she had not looked, or which she did not understand, appear she refrained from asking explanations.

"The poor, the great of the world, the princes of the Church came to her for advice or help. They found her in the midst of her household cares and often suffering from illness. She refused neither her last crust of bread nor the most precious moment of her time, yet she would accept neither presents nor praise.

"Her most powerful friends could not induce her to allow them to favour her children beyond the conditions in which they were born. When she was at the end of her resources, she told God about it, and God sent what was necessary.

"She thought it good to live from day to day, like the birds. A refugee queen in Rome wished to give her money. 'Madame,' she said, 'how simple you are! I serve God, and He is richer than you.'

"She touched the sick, and they were cured; she warned others of their approaching end, and they died holy deaths. She endured great austerities for the souls of purgatory, and the souls, once set free, came to thank her. . . She suffered in body and soul. . . She realized that her role was to expiate the sins of others, that Jesus was associating her with His Sacrifice,

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and that she was a victim of His company. The pains of Divine Love have an intoxication no words can explain. After Holy Communion there were times when she sank down as though smitten by a prostrating stroke. To tell the truth, her state of ecstasy was continual because her sense of the presence of God was continual. . . All pain was sweet to her. . . She went her way, her feet all bloody; with shining eyes she followed the Royal way.

"Behold, then, the spectacle God raised to men's sight in Rome during that long tempestuous period which began at the time the humble Anna-Maria took to the way of saints!

"Pius VI dies at Valence; Pius VII is a prisoner at Fontainebleau; the revolution will reappear before Gregory XVI reigns. Men are saying that the day of the Popes is over, that Christ's law and Christ Himself are on the wane, that science will soon have relegated this so-called Son of God to the realm of dreams. . . He will work no more miracles.

"But at precisely this time God raised up this woman to cure the sick. . . He gives her knowledge of the past, present and future. She declares that Pius VII will return. She sees even beyond the reign of Pius IX. . . She is God's answer to the challenge of unbelief. "

|f 49.1 Fr. Nectou, SJ. ( 18th century). (Father Nectou was Provincial of the Jesuits in the south-west of France. The priests who knew him all regarded him as a saint and a prophet. He died in 1777. The following prophecy was made circa 1760.)

#catholic prophecy

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tipsycad147 · 5 years ago

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Leo July Bastille Day

By shirleytwofeathers

Commemorates the storming of the Bastille, which started the French Revolution, on July 14th, 1789. Bastille Day is also celebrated by many of France’s former and current colonies.

For A Magickal Bastille Day

Theme: It’s time for a revolution!

Colours: Blue, white, and red

Symbols: The Eiffel Tower and the French national flag

Presiding Goddess: Lady Liberty

About Lady Liberty:

Although, Lady Liberty is not a goddess in the true sense of the word, she is a potent symbol of freedom. The statue of Liberty was a gift to the United States from the people of France. The statue is of a robed female figure representing Libertas, the Roman goddess of freedom, who bears a torch and a tabula ansata (a tablet evoking the law) upon which is inscribed the date of the American Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776. A broken chain lies at her feet. The statue is an icon of freedom. In 1793, during the French Revolution, the Notre Dame de Paris cathedral was turned into a “Cult of Reason” and for a time “Lady Liberty” replaced the Virgin Mary on several altars.

To do today:

Time to take stock of your life and circumstances. Is it time for a revolution in your life? Is it time to break down barriers, make new rules, give yourself permission to be free of oppressive situations and/or relationships? Is it time to draw up your own Declaration of Independence, or as the French termed it, the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen?

Here is a spell for personal freedom:

This spell taps directly into the energy and power of Bastille Day, and can be performed any time it is needed. You will need a length of blue, white, and red ribbon or yarn. It should be as long as you are tall. You can use three ribbons, each a solid colour, or one ribbon that is a combination of the three colours. You will also need an envelope, and a handful of dandelion fluff, or feathers, a small candle, and a knife or pair of scissors.

Light the candle, and then place the dandelion fluff into the envelope, and seal it shut. Those little bits of fluff or feathers represent your spirit. The envelope represents the walls you have created to protect yourself. Carefully fold or roll the envelope up so that will fit comfortably in your hand. You control your own destiny. It lies in your hands now.

Sit down, holding the envelope, and think about what restricts your freedom, what circumstances and situations starve your spirit, and steal your joy, what binds you, what constricts you, what holds you back. Begin to tie the ribbon around the envelope. There is no wrong way to bind up the envelope with the ribbon. Tie as many knots as you’d like. While you are binding the envelope, be thinking about the restrictions that bind your spirit. When you are complete, drip candle wax onto the bundle to seal it, and then snuff the candle.

Now, take the wrapped up envelope outside, along with the knife or scissors outside. Take a few moments to breathe in the outside air, listen to the sounds around you, notice the wind and the sky. You can be free. You can claim your freedom. Allow yourself to think about how it will feel to be free. When you are ready, begin to cut the strands of ribbon away from the envelope. As you do, say the following:

Bondage has no hold on me. Beautiful Lady set me free.

When the ribbon is completely cut, very gently open the envelope and take out the dandelion fluff or feathers. Holding them in your hand, gently breathe into them and then hold them high and toss them free. Don’t worry if they simply fall to the ground. Any feathers or fluff that fails to fly free can be picked up and gently placed in an open spot where they will catch the breeze.

Burn or bury the remains of the envelope and the ribbon. When you go back inside, re-light your candle. You are now ready to let your own light shine. Allow the candle to burn completely.

About Bastille Day:

What follows is an excerpt from a Paris newspaper account of the fall of the Bastille, on July 14, 1789:.

It was a terrible scene. . . . The fighting grew steadily more intense; the citizens had become hardened to the fire; from all directions they clambered onto the roofs or broke into the rooms; as soon as an enemy appeared among the turrets on the tower, he was fixed in the sights of a hundred guns and mown down in an instant;

meanwhile cannon fire was hurriedly directed against the second drawbridge, which it pierced, breaking the chains; in vain did the cannon on the tower reply, for most people were sheltered from it; the fury was at its height; people bravely faced death and every danger; women, in their eagerness, helped us to the utmost; even the children, after the discharge of fire from the fortress, ran her and there picking up the bullets and shot;

…and so the Bastille fell and the governor, De Launey, was captured … Serene and blessed liberty, for the first time, has at last been introduced into this abode of horrors, this frightful refuge of monstrous despotism and its crimes.

Interestingly, although the name of the Bastille evokes dark images of despotism and unjust imprisonment, in reality it was a great deal pleasanter than most ordinary prisons. A central part of the myth, and an indication of its potency, was the story of a prisoner supposedly forced to wear an iron mask to conceal his identity even from his guards – the sufferings of this Man in the Iron Mask were given wide publicity by Voltaire. Archives of the title reveal that there was indeed a masked prisoner from 1698 until 1703, when he died. The mask was made of velvet, and he was well treated.

It was originally built in the 14th century to guard one of main entrances to Paris, but by the 18th century the Bastille served only as a prison – mainly for political, aristocratic prisoners who could not be thrust into the crowded gaols with common criminals – and occasionally as a store for arms.The fortress also accommodated printers, booksellers and authors who produced works that the authorities considered seditious. Voltaire was imprisoned there twice: first in 1717 when he was suspected of writing verses accusing the Régent of incest, and then again in 1726. Throughout the 18th century there were never more than 40 inmates, most of them serving short sentences.

On the morning of 14 July 1789, the Bastille was nearly empty of prisoners, housing only seven old men annoyed by all the disturbance: four forgers, two “lunatics” and one “deviant” aristocrat, the Comte de Solages (the Marquis de Sade had been transferred out ten days earlier). The cost of maintaining a medieval fortress and garrison for so limited a purpose had led to a decision being taken to close it, shortly before the disturbances began. It was, however, a symbol of royal tyranny.

Upon learning that the Bastille had been taken, King Louis XVI, who was residing at Versailles, was reported to have asked an informer: “Is this a revolt?” and La Rochefoucauld-Liancourt said, “No, Sire, it is a revolution.” Little did Louis know that the mob’s next plan was to march to Versailles, and take him away with them as well.

Note: This post was put together by Shirley Twofeathers you may repost and share it only if you give me credit and a link back to this website. Blessed be.

https://shirleytwofeathers.com/The_Blog/pagancalendar/category/july-holidays/page/3/

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artmotherhoodandmadness · 6 years ago

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Victims of Child Sex Abuse must speak out without fear or shame

A new four-hour documentary has been released: Leaving Neverland, in which Wade Robson and James Safechuck’s describe being systematically sexually abused, by the now deceased pop star, Michael Jackson. When Jackson was first accused I remember my sense of incredulity and shock. The Martin Bashir documentary that followed some years later was more equivocal. Jackson was vociferous in his denial of any sexual misconduct in 2003. Jackson is dead and like Jimmy Savile, he took his secrets to his grave.

In the UK Jimmy Saville, Gary Glitter and Rolf Harris have been branded and shamed as sex offenders and predators. Giant figures during my childhood; they were protected by fame, money, and in some instances the BBC. How long did it take for victims to come forward? Decades. Louis Theroux’s documentary: Savile left an indelible impression on my psyche. I recall one line from the film, ‘It’s not monsters who abuse children, it’s nice men.’ Naturally, they have to be nice in order to win the trust of children otherwise how can they secure access?

In the specific cases of Savile and Jackson their celebrity was a magnet, it is easy to see how parents could be star struck, children seduced by the attention and lavish gifts bestowed upon them.

I grew up thinking Michael Jackson was an icon and genius, who triumphed over adversity, despite his brutal childhood at the hands of his bullying father. Jimmy Savile was a staple on national TV. Children dreamt of being on his programme Jim’ll Fix It- he was the man who made kids dreams come true. Rolf Harris could draw cartoon characters in seconds. His creations filled me with awe and wonder. Jackson and Savile are dead, Harris and Glitter are in jail? Why am I so perturbed by all these cases? Three years ago I remembered being sexually abused by a family member, since recalling I have experienced vivid and horrific flashbacks - my life has changed irrevocably. I, too, still try and protect my abuser, failing to achieve closure, while the family have cut off contact; certain friends don't want to know; others are incredulous; a small handful though have been supportive and shown empathy.

I started drawing the flashbacks of my own CSA, some of the images may cause distress, but art, writing and now music are my only sanctuary. I believe my drawings are evidence that something indeed happened to me in the small room before the aged of four. The desire to be believed is at times excruciating.

From a young age I was allowed to sleep alone with the perpetrator, while my mother slept in another room. The last day I saw my mother we became embroiled in an argument and it was then that I confronted her asking why did she allow me to sleep with a man who was not my biological father? How could this have happened under her watch and she retorted, ‘You loved him so much you went on your own.’ So, I am solely culpable then? According to her I went to my abuser night after night voluntarily. She neglected to mention when all of this started and when it stopped. There are still so many unanswered questions. Let it go, I say, but it is my brain that is clawing for the truth. All I do know is from the age of four to eighteen I was emotionally withdrawn eschewing all hugs and affection, even from my sisters, and I wouldn’t let my abuser come anywhere near me physically when I no longer slept with him in the small room. As a child I didn’t like to wash, sometimes refusing to for days, I wore clothes that were too big, as if ashamed of my body, I developed O.C.D (obsessive compulsive disorder) seeking extreme order in what was a chaotic, emotionally and physically abusive household. I was a solitary child, living in an imaginary dream world, it was aged four that I started to assiduously draw. As a teenager I struggled with my interpersonal relations and seemed to be drawn to predatory and insalubrious types. My erratic behaviour and mental unravelling is all documented in my book Schizophrenics Can Be Good Mothers Too written under the pseudonym Q S Lam (2014 Muswell Hill Press). Some of my more extreme behaviour is understandable now, often I was seeking dopamine, which is a form of pain relief. To this day I have to control this tendency towards extremity. When my mother asked him if he had abused me, he roared like a wounded lion, ran upstairs, broke down in tears in front of my niece and nephew and has not spoken to me since.

It’s as if I am dead. And yet I spent my whole life trying to please my abuser and seek his approbation, this is the sad and tragic irony of this tale.

I oscillate - sometimes minimising, negating, blocking, refusing to accept the flashbacks as real, even dismissing them as false memories. But after extensive reading and the more experts I have spoken to in this field, I keep hearing the same response - that they have heard my story verbatim from other survivors of CSA. Recalling the abuse decades later is not uncommon. I still remember sitting at my desk, clutching my head, rocking back and forth in an intense state of agitation until I felt my skull split open, a luminous green goo oozed out and then dissipated. It was after this vivid hallucination that I had the realisation that I was abused. It does sound odd, but this is what happened. It was shortly after this that I started making music, I can now play keyboards and guitar, I started singing again after a 33 year break and during the last two years I have produced 400 pieces of music - it is the only art form that ameliorates the pain.

No one really wants to hear about CSA, no one really cares about your abuse, it makes people very uncomfortable, victims are supposed to suck it up, to be stoic, to forgive and forget and move on. But you never forget, this stuff haunts you for life. Jackson’s victims stayed silent for decades, my secret stayed buried for decades, my mother’s abuse was also her secret for fifty years until she finally told me in 2014, two years before I recalled my own CSA. Abuse is often generational. You simply can't keep secrets like this inside, if you do you are ensuring the slow death of your soul. The truth has to come out and it always does.

When I finally plucked up the courage to press charges, the process was protracted, communication with the police sporadic, and the case was passed from one officer to another. None of the questions raised in my detailed statement were addressed, my abuser denied everything; he had a solicitor present. Ironically, afterwards, I felt guilty for subjecting him to this ordeal and when asked if I wanted to prosecute I said, ‘No.’ It is not uncommon for victims to protect their abusers, a condition called Stockholm Syndrome. One of Jackson’s victims also spoke about his guilt, his denial of the abuse, and his natural instinct to shield Jackson. The legal system doesn’t give victims much confidence that justice can be fairly achieved either.

When I was eighteen I was sexually assaulted on a bus, I took the man to court. It was masterly the way the lawyer discredited me while the accused just sat smugly with his wife and was found not guilty. In 2015 I wrote an article for the Huffington Post about the sexual assaults I have been subjected to over the years- this was before the #metoo movement exploded - I was trolled.

In my own case then the perpetrator will also take his secrets to his grave. I won’t get closure and nor will Michael Jackson’s two victims ever get a chance to confront him face to face.

Abuse frequently occurs within families, protective walls come crashing down, the victim is often the one that is not believed and sometimes even ostracised. Both of Jackson’s victims in the Leaving Neverland documentary spoke of their ongoing sleep problems, long term depression and the symptoms of CPTSD (Complex Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome). I struggle with all of the same problems and more. Help is out there, but for many of us we just have to live with the memories, not knowing when you will get another flashback, carrying a constant heaviness inside, grappling with irritability and a deep restlessness, believing that something is wrong at the very core of your being. You carry on, as we all must, try to edge towards the light and leave the darkness behind.

Survivors of abuse must speak out, share their stories, not feel ashamed and not care if they are believed or not. You have no idea how long I have wanted to write down these words, it was shame and stigma that inhibited me, but reading about these two men has given me the courage to also share my story, I am the one living through the hell of remembering and I have no reason to fabricate my story either. I sincerely hope the two brave survivors in the documentary have attained some kind of catharsis now. At the end of the screening they received a standing ovation, the audience was left shell shocked, Jackson’s legacy is shattered, but the lives of his victims are too.

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kristablogs · 5 years ago

Text

Modern surgery wouldn’t be possible without this one key drug

The cover of The Invention of Surgery (Pegasus Books/)

The following is an excerpt adapted from The Invention of Surgery by David Schneider.

Amputating a man’s arm is a gut-wrenching and shocking act. Regardless of the clinical justification and no matter the years of practice, severing a limb from a body requires stubborn resolve and intense personal subordination. Perhaps some surgeons grow callous to cutting off a limb—I never have.

I am a surgical intern at Pennsylvania State University and all I want is a couple hours sleep. I figure, if I can lie down now, I’ll instantly fall asleep, and will get enough shut-eye before 4:00 a.m. to last me through another day of grunt work. But on this winter night, just as my body twitches and shocks itself to slumber, my pager vibrates me to reality. Like all surgical interns, I am taking call while “in-house,” staying in the hospital all night fielding phone calls from the Emergency Room, the hospital floor nurses, and outside patients.

In the darkness, I fumble for my little black Motorola pager on the nightstand next to my head. Checking the four-number code, I dazedly recognize “6550” as one of the extension numbers to the Medical Intermediate Care Unit. We don’t get many calls to that number, and

I hope that I have been paged incorrectly. Without turning on the lights, I prop up on my left elbow and punch the number on the institutional green AT&T office phone. A nurse answers my call, informing me of an urgent surgical consult on a seventy eight-year-old man with elbow pain. She explains that he had been admitted hours before with heart attack–like symptoms, but that all preliminary tests were ruling out an MI (myocardial infarction, or heart attack). Oftentimes an MI patient complains of crushing chest pain, with associated left arm or jaw pain; alert ER personnel hear these complaints and immediately begin testing the patient for a “cardiac event.” Although all initial tests were ruling out an MI, the severity of his symptoms warranted a hospital admission. As the hours progressed, his arm pain worsened, and by 2:00 a.m., the medical team was getting nervous. The aged patient was developing blisters and “ecchymoses” (bruises) on his left arm. Instead of an MI, they are now considering some ominous issue with his musculoskeletal system.

I am a know-nothing surgical intern, just months removed from medical school graduation, but I agree to come evaluate the patient as a first-line responder for my surgical team. I sit up in bed, take a deep breath, and slide on my day-worn, slightly smelly socks. After fumbling for my shoes, my thoughts become more organized, and I’m already starting to generate a “differential diagnosis,” the list of possible causes behind this man’s presentation. While trying not to wake my bunkmate and fellow intern, I slip out of the night call room and jog up the echoic stairway to the medical floor.

Briskly walking down the darkened hallway, I arrived in the Medical Unit, which is a beehive of activity. Nurses and aides are darting around, and are oddly relieved to see me. Typically, floor nurses in an academic medical center rightfully have disdain for interns. They arrive every July with their new MD degree, but are as helpless as a newly licensed motorist trying to drive a stick-shift, uphill, for the first time. But these were medical nurses, adept at caring for cardiac patients, but greenhorns themselves when dealing with an odd musculoskeletal patient who would normally be a couple floors down on the orthopedic floor.

A young nurse points to the corner bed, where a seventy-eight-year-old gentleman restlessly lies in his hospital bed, his left arm propped up on pillows. Rapidly, I can see the bruises that the nurse was telling me about, and I can also see that his forearm is swollen. I ask, “Mr. Louis, does your arm hurt?”

This aged man is truly sick, and can only mumble a feeble, “yes.” Growing concerned, I approach his bedside, and focus on his arm. There are dark, splotchy patches of bruises the color of grape jelly. I lean over the bed, inspecting the inside aspect of his elbow. There are several raised burgundy-colored blisters above his elbow, and I am starting to feel out of my league. What am I looking at?

I reach for his wrist to lift his arm, and instantly feel the crackle of air under the forearm skin that feels like squeezing a bag full of wet Rice Krispies. My stomach drops, and while I don’t have much experience or judgment in the practice of surgery, I know this is gas gangrene, the byproduct of “ flesh-eating” bacteria. There are classes of bacteria that are infamous in causing rapid infections that result in the death of the body’s soft tissues, so-called “necrotizing fasciitis,” with the occasional byproduct of “subcutaneous emphysema,” or gas underneath the skin. The physical exam finding of subcutaneous emphysema is frightening, to say the least.

I gently place Mr. Louis’s arm back on the pillows, knowing that I am seeing my first case of “nec fasc”—pronounced “neck fash,” in common parlance. (This is how residency works—you can read all about subcutaneous emphysema and necrotizing fasciitis, but until you have someone’s limb in your hands with crunchy air underneath the skin, you have not been properly initiated. Somehow the numbers work out. Relatively rare, every surgery resident has seen nec fasc.)

I turn to the nurse and say, “necrotizing fasciitis.” All conversation stops and everyone freezes.

“Really?” she says.

“Yes. I’m going to call Dr. Moulton, my senior resident.”

Connecting with Mark Moulton, I explain the details of the case. Getting to the point, he asks me, “Are we early enough to save his arm or will we have to amputate?” I confess to Mark that I really don’t know, that I don’t have any experience. Mark tells me to get the patient rushed to the operating room immediately. We will try and save Mr. Louis’s life, if not his arm.

A flurry of phone calls to the operating room and the anesthesia team achieves the impossible, and we are rushing to the OR within half an hour. Life is on the line. The rest of the orthopedic team has made its way to the hospital by 3:00 a.m. , and my boss, Dr. Spence Reid, quickly concludes that an amputation is mandatory. In the pre-op holding area we get a portable X-ray that reveals air going all the way to the shoulder. Typical for necrotizing fasciitis, the bacteria are on a warlike march, leaving a plume of air in their wake, and before the bugs get to the chest, daring surgery must be performed. Not only do we need to amputate his entire arm, the collarbone and shoulder blade must also be removed, a so-called “ forequarter” amputation (as opposed to hindquarter, or lower limb).

Even before transporting the patient to the OR suites we gave Mr. Louis a large dose of penicillin, but necrotizing fasciitis is notorious for not responding to antibiotics in the emergency setting. Penicillin helps, but surgical magnificence is demanded if the patient is to live another hour.

Once we urgently transfer the patient to the operating room and the anesthesia team intubates him, we rapidly position him on the surgical table. Racing to save his life, he is propped on his side and his entire left side and arm are swathed with greenish-blue surgical drapes. Dr. Reid works very quickly, making a dramatic, football shaped incision around the shoulder blade and chest. Under nonemergency situations, this dissection would likely take ninety minutes, but under the circumstances, the dissection is done at lightning speed, in barely a dozen minutes. The collar bone, the shoulder blade, the entire arm, and all the muscles attached to those bones are rapidly cut away. The nerves emanating from the neck and the large blood vessels emerging from the chest cavity must all be tied off and cut.

As a resident at the beginning of my training, I know I would kill this patient if I attempted to do the operation. I just don’t have the skills yet. Dr. Reid is a superb surgeon, a master craftsman with unique understanding, adept hands, supernormal concentration and stamina, and most important right now, heroic courage. Moments like this will kindle all these attributes in me for the rest of my life, and Dr. Reid’s greatest gift to me will be the gift of confidence, the ability to take on impossible shoulder and elbow cases in the future. Surgeons are criticized for arrogance and brashness; this critique is probably fair, but at this moment, a fearlessness nurtured from deep self-assurance is mandatory. A surgeon can perceive if he has outflanked a flesh-eating bacterial infection—there is no crackly air in the layers of soft tissue that he is cutting through. A cocktail of life-supporting medicines continues to be injected into Mr. Louis’s IVs as our team completes the final steps of the forequarter amputation. Cutting edge antibiotics, in addition to penicillin, are being pumped into his body even as the team races to detach the limb.

The moment of liberation of the putrefied appendage finally occurs, leaving a gaping wound over the rib cage. There is a simultaneous sense of triumph over the bacterial horde and an acquiescence to the power of microorganisms as the limb is separated from the thorax and dropped into a hazardous waste trash bag. Aggressive irrigation with antibiotic laden saline is performed, and a palpable optimism flickers to life in our operating room.

Mr. Louis, although bizarrely disfigured with no arm and no shoulder, will live.

Mr. Louis’s life was saved by surgery and by penicillin. I have posed the question many times to friends and patients: How many years ago was the first dose of penicillin given? In ancient times, or five hundred years ago, or during the Revolutionary War, or after the First World War? Few people realize that the first clinical administration of penicillin in a small English hospital was only seventy-five years ago.

The pioneering work of Pasteur, Lister, and Koch convinced scientists and physicians that germs were real. As Robert Koch microscopically elucidated their life cycles and interactions with humans, the dark veil of ignorance regarding infectious diseases was lifted. Semmelweis and Lister, among others, were able to show the advantages of handwashing and sterilization, and it is not surprising that public health institutions were created in the years after John Snow helped create epidemiology and Florence Nightingale influenced hospital design. Although improved sanitation and cleanliness dramatically decreased epidemics, there was still no answer for acute or chronic infections in individual patients. The advent of modern chemistry coincided with the triumph of germ theory during the 1880s, in no small part because manufacturing dyes provided contrast and color to an otherwise drab and blurry microscopic world. The bourgeoning German industrial chemical companies began as dye manufacturers, only later turning to fertilizers, perfumes, photography, and pharmaceuticals. Paul Ehrlich (1854–1915), a Prussian-Jewish physician-scientist continued the proud German tradition of perfecting the art of histological staining, eventually gaining fame for differentiating the component cells in peripheral blood. A contemporary of Robert Koch, Ehrlich had a breakthrough insight when he considered the chemical processes that were occurring during the staining of tissues and bacteria. There was a primitive understanding that certain dyes had a special affinity for certain cells (and their constitutive parts); further trial-and-error testing with dyes by the Danish physician Hans Christian Gram (1853–1938) yielded the most important finding in the history of bacteriological microscopic analysis—that bacteria could be grouped into two main classes of cells that either stained purple (“Gram-positive”) or red (“Gram-negative”) in response to a series of staining steps with crystal violet and safranin stains.

Paul Ehrlich was intrigued by why different dyes were attracted to particular species of bacteria, but handicapped by primitive research tools, had no way of formulating a scientific response. However, demonstrating the type of keen insight that geniuses possess, Ehrlich skipped several steps ahead and wondered if the dye materials could be manipulated not to just embellish a slide but to kill bacteria. If a staining material could be identified that targets and binds with a particular class of bacteria, it made sense to the pioneering scientist that a dye could be used as a weapon. Ehrlich traveled to London in 1907 to lecture to Britain’s Royal Institute of Public Health, delivering a lecture for the ages. He dreamed that one day there could be a “targeted drug, one that would attack a disease-causing microbe without harming the host suffering from the disease.” Ehrlich conceived of chemical compounds that would serve as magic bullets, just decades after researchers had finally proven the germ theory. Barely fifty years removed from John Snow’s revolutionary epidemiological research during the cholera outbreak of 1854, Ehrlich returned to the very London neighborhood that had been (literally) awash in diarrhea, stumping for magic bullets.

By the time Paul Ehrlich had traveled to London, he was already well on his way in the quest for the magic bullet. Modern chemistry was in full bloom, with Dmitri Mendeleev’s periodic table coming into focus and a developing appreciation of how atoms bind together to form complex molecules. For an extremely insightful researcher like Ehrlich, the mysteries of simple chemical compounds were beginning to dissolve at the turn of the 20th century, and as one of the fathers of histological staining, it’s not a surprise that he turned to azo dyes like methylene blue, congo red, and alizarin yellow in the search for a chemical breakthrough. Since the mid-1880s, Ehrlich had experimented with the azo dyes as potential therapeutic agents, and although he was inadvertently turning his patients’ eyes and urine various colors of the rainbow, he and his lab partners were able to show a response to malaria.

Azo dyes—aniline derivatives like the mauveine discovered by William Perkin in 1856—are chemically stable and not very changeable; Ehrlich and his cohorts were hoping to find another substance that acted like a dye (showing a propensity to bind with certain bacteria), but was more chemically unstable and easier to manipulate in the lab. Ehrlich knew of a chemical compound named atoxyl that had been shown to kill trypanosomes, single-cell parasites that cause diseases like African sleeping sickness. He was intrigued by atoxyl, particularly once he realized that it was a chemically unstable arsenic-based molecule and not a true aniline dye.

And so the testing began. Ehrlich and his colleagues Alfred Bertheim and Sahachiro Hata began to chemically modify atoxyl in 1907, feverishly altering the composition of the molecule bit by bit. Different versions were further modified, and a numbering system was generated based upon these modifications. The eighteenth version of the fourth compound (number 418) was effective in curing sleeping sickness, but was causing blindness in some of Hata’s lab animals and was therefore abandoned. By the summer of 1910, in what can only be described as crude experimental processes, Compound 606 had been created and tested. The sixth version of the sixth compound (606, arsphenamine) showed tremendous success in lab animals with various diseases, including syphilis.

Syphilis likely was not present in Europe before explorers brought it back from the New World in 1495, and it raged for four hundred years across the continent with its slow-motion terror of blisters, aching testicles, sore throat, raised skin rash, and in its final stages, facial deformities and brain infections. With no effective treatment, mankind was defenseless against the corkscrew-shaped bacterium. Until Compound 606.

The German chemical company Hoechst AG, also located in the Frankfurt area, began marketing Compound 606 in 1910 as “Salvarsan.” Through trial and error, Paul Ehrlich had created a molecule that was part stain, part poison. The dye portion of arsphenamine would bind to the surface of the syphilis bacterium, whereas the arsenate portion killed it. In so doing, he had developed the world’s first synthetic chemotherapeutic agent. For good measure, Ehrlich coined the term “chemotherapy.”

Salvarsan rapidly became the most prescribed medicine in the world, leading to hopes that it would have broad application among many different types of bacteria. Unfortunately, Salvarsan, and its improved version, Neosalvarsan, had extremely narrow efficacy across the microbial world. This, paired with its significant side effects, made it a qualified success. More significantly, the development of Salvarsan was a false lead, as all future antibiotics (after the sulfonamides) would be “natural” molecules gleaned from nature—from fungi or bacteria—and not synthetically created from dyes or other simple chemical molecules. When sophisticated chemical engineering is performed by pharmaceutical companies in the search for a new antibiotic, it is upon naturally occurring chemicals already being produced by living organisms.

World War I (1914–1918) introduced horrific methods of combat, and while there were the predictable medical advances achieved from the theater of war, there was a transitory disruption in the German pharmaceutical industrial machine. The German biochemical revolution was fueled by rigorous academic programs at decentralized universities, a cultural identification with industriousness, and the creation of durable funding that was the envy of Germany’s European neighbors. There was a grand consolidation among German chemical and dye businesses following the conflagration, setting in motion the powerful chemical, agricultural, and pharmaceutical manufacturing enterprises. Familiar names like Bayer, Agfa, BASF, and Hoechst combined together to form IG Farben in 1925, resulting in the largest chemical company in the world. As will be seen, the German chemical corporations involvement in World War II was much more diabolical and vastly more damaging.

In the years leading up to World War II, the Teutonic drive for innovation in chemistry had led to great breakthroughs in fertilizer development, which even today accounts for half of the world’s crop production. Assembly-line manufacturing, pioneered by Henry Ford, was fundamental to the next wave of the Industrial Revolution in the early 20th century, but instead of making vehicles, the German research machine would use mass production organization to tackle scientific challenges with brute force. The testing of prospective chemical compounds was formalized on a grand scale, exposing huge numbers of potential drugs to various bacteria in what was described as an “endless combination game [utilizing] scientific mass labor.”

Paul Ehrlich, the father of histological staining, immunology (he was the first to grasp antibodies), and chemotherapy, died in 1915, just as World War I was exploding. Wartime disruptions and the vacuum left after his visionary leadership led to a lull in chemotherapy discovery. The formation of IG Farben in 1925 and the arrival of Gerhard Domagk (1895–1964) in 1927 to Bayer set the stage for a muscular approach in the quest for a true antibacterial medicine. “If Ehrlich had tested dozens of different recipes in order to find the antisyphilis treatment, Bayer would try hundreds. Or thousands.” In a foreshadowing of the petrochemical polymer industry, Bayer chemists began producing thousands of chemical compounds from coal tar, the thick liquid that is a by-product of the production of coke and coal gas from coal.

Domagk, as a pathologist and bacteriologist, had gained a specialized understanding of the microbial enemy (including being a wounded soldier in World War I), and was critical in constructing the experimental framework, having identified a particularly virulent strain of Streptococci (Gram-positive cocci which links in twisted chains). Streptococcus, the pathogen famous for throat infections, pneumonia, meningitis, and necrotizing fasciitis, was an ideal test bacterium, not only because it was common, but because it killed laboratory animals so terrifyingly efficiently. Domagk, like his famous German predecessor Robert Koch, intentionally infected laboratory white mice with his test bacteria. Thousands of diseased mice died over the first few years of the project, helplessly succumbing to Strep despite being injected with myriad coal-tar derivatives from the Bayer chemists.

Trudging along, as science demands, the scientists continued tinkering with the azo dyes, chemically modifying the compounds with the addition of chlorine atoms, then arsenic, then iodine. Years of failure and almost no hope demanded a resiliency that was perhaps battle born, but a breakthrough did finally occur in 1932, when the team began linking the azo dyes with a sulfa-based molecule. The protocol that he had practiced for years yielded a monotonous outcome: injecting live Strep cultures into the abdomen of a mouse would result in death within a day or two. But in late 1932, outside Düsseldorf, Germany, twelve mice were administered a new drug—an azo dye amalgamated with sulfanilamide—shortly after being injected with the deadly bacteria. Concurrently, fourteen mice were injected with the same bacteria but were not given any medicine. All fourteen of these control animals were dead within days, while all twelve that had received the new compound, KL-730, had lived. The Bayer scientists had stubbornly forged ahead as the carcasses of rodents piled up, but in 1932, the world’s first antibacterial magic bullet had finally been crafted.

Bayer knew that their new medicine, KL-730, which they would name “Prontosil,” was effective against bacteria because of the unique marriage between the azo dye and sulfanilamide. Except that it wasn’t. What the Germans had never performed was an isolated test of sulfanilamide alone. A group of French scientists at the Institut Pasteur in Paris repeated an experiment with various sulfanilamides on a group of forty mice, including a treatment group with sulfanilamide alone and no azo dye.

After a few days, the Parisian team evaluated the response among the test animals. Almost all of the mice died who were treated with newer azo-sulfanilamide combinations, but all of the mice lived who were treated with Prontosil, Rubiazol, and sulfanilamide alone. The Bayer scientists had assiduously labored to protect their patent rights over Prontosil, sure that it represented a bonanza, but they had never considered that sulfanilamide alone might be the subjugator. At about the same time that the Institut Pasteur scientists made their discovery, the Bayer group was unearthing the same sobering fact. While it was a tremendous moment for mankind, it was a financial catastrophe for Bayer; the sulfanilamide molecule had been discovered (and patented) in 1908 by Viennese chemist Paul Gelmo, and was now in the public domain. The financial goldmine had evaporated before their eyes.

Bayer did profit from sulfanilamide. They marketed it around the world as Prontosil, even after realizing that sulfanilamide alone was the effective agent, without the need for the azo dye. (It also explains why Prontosil was only effective in vivo and not in vitro. In a test tube full of bacteria, Prontosil posed no risk. Only animals have the enzyme that separates the dye from sulfanilamide. If testing had only occurred in test tubes, and not animals, Prontosil would have appeared as a failure, and it was this and other drugs that educated the early pharmaceutical manufacturers that “pro-drugs” were genuine. At times, pro-drugs are ideal—a pro-drug is intentionally manufactured so it can survive digestion, turning into the active metabolite once in the bloodstream.) Prontosil and other forms of sulfanilamide hit the world market in 1935, immediately making an impact. “Virtually overnight, mortality from childbed fever [Strep pyogenes] fell from 20 to 30% to 4.7%.” 9 Physicians across the United States and Europe embraced the new drug, but the American public became intimately acquainted with the new sulfa drug in 1936 when Franklin Delano Roosevelt Jr., while a student at Harvard College, contracted a life-threatening streptococcal throat infection. Physicians in Boston administered the new magic bullet, saving his life, and in the process, helped propel America into the modern age. The New York Times trumpeted the news on its front cover, helping ignite a “sulfa craze” across the country, even leading to patients asking their physicians for the new wonder drug by name (a first). Even at the outset of the antibiotic revolution, overprescribing was a temptation.

The European quest for synthetic chemotherapeutic molecules was in full launch mode as the world tilted toward a second Great War. Chemists were obsessed with a haphazard survey of chemicals, believing that the new man-made particles could outsmart the bacterial enemy. While the modern pharmaceutical industry has created, de novo, chemicals that lower blood pressure, increase blood flow, and alter cholesterol levels, the source of antibiotics would be from mother nature, not from the minds of scientists. Unbeknownst to the chemists, several years before sulfanilamide was given to a human, an accidental discovery in London had already opened the vistas of future medical care.

Alexander Fleming was a young Scottish physician working at St. Mary’s Hospital in London, and although he was trained as a physician and surgeon, his talents in laboratory research had led him to an eventual career as a bacteriologist. Small and slight, Fleming had joined the inoculation department at St. Mary’s in 1906, soon turning his attention to Paul Ehrlich’s Salvarsan.

Bacterial researchers have always followed the pioneering example of Robert Koch, studying the lives and sensitivities of microbes by growing colonies of bacteria in Petri dishes in a nurturing environment. Fleming and his colleagues focused on important pathologic bacteria like staphylococcus and streptococcus, culturing the bacteria and evaluating the conditions that altered colony formation. In 1922, Fleming and a lab assistant were cleaning up Petri dishes that had been seeded with bacterial colonies when they noticed an odd pattern. Typically, in a Petri dish of bacterial colonies, there is widespread, even growth of bacteria across the dish; instead of seeing such growth, Fleming noticed that there were blank areas of no bacterial colonies. In a victory for everyone who has suffered from the common cold and a drippy nose, Fleming recalled that nasal mucous from his own nose had dripped onto the culture dish days earlier, and he rapidly surmised that his own nasal drippings had somehow hindered the growth of bacteria. The shy and reticent researcher concluded that there must be a substance in the nasal discharge that had inhibitory powers, naming it lysozyme. For the first time in world history, a purely organic substance had been characterized as having antibacterial properties.

Lysozyme became a fascination for Fleming, albeit a research dead-end. In time, researchers were able to show how lysozymes function to weaken the cell walls of bacteria, but more important, the recognition of a molecule that inhibited, or killed, microbes prepared Fleming’s mind for his revolutionary observation in 1928.

As summer turned to fall in 1928, Alexander Fleming returned to London from a holiday by the sea. When he arrived at his petite laboratory at St. Mary’s Hospital (preserved today as a memorial to the man and his momentous discovery that September 3), a jumbled stack of Petri dishes was on a tabletop, including a dish that had fallen off its perch and lost its lid. The story goes that he glanced at the Petri dish and quickly did a double take—dozens of round spots of staphylococci carpeted the dish but their spread was limited by a large island of white mold on one side of the dish. Recognizing a pattern similar to what he had seen five years earlier, the blotch of mold had a surrounding beltway, a demilitarized zone of sorts, where there were no bacterial colonies and no fungus.

Fleming muttered softly to himself, “That’s odd.”

For thousands of years, humans had unwittingly harnessed mold to make wine and beer and bacteria to make cheese. Fewer than one hundred years before Fleming’s discovery, Louis Pasteur had solved the riddle of fermentation, and less than half a century before, Koch had demonstrated that bacteria were real. Fleming had already concluded five years earlier that lysozymes from human fluids retained antibacterial properties, and now, perched in his little lab above Praed Street, began conceptualizing that the mold itself was making a substance that was deadly to the staphylococcus .

The name of the mold? Penicillium. (Read that carefully. It doesn’t say “Penicillin.”)

The Penicillium mold was likely a contaminate in the building or from the air from an open window. There has been much conjecture about the source of the mold—was it from a nearby lab, was its presence a hallmark of sloppiness of research, did it taint the bacterial culture because Fleming’s assistant was slovenly?—but in the final analysis, Penicillium is a common mold that has been making its own special chemical as a defense, likely for millions of years. How it got into that lab is not important, but the fact that Fleming paused to consider its actions is significant.

Correctly ascertaining that Penicillium was producing a substance that inhibited bacterial encroachment, Fleming and his assistant, Stuart Craddock, (initially) became obsessed with farming Penicillium and harvesting the resultant “mold juice.” Fleming then tested this concentrate on other bacterial samples and found that it was effective against staphylococci and streptococci, finally settling on the name “penicillin” as the name of the substance that would make him world famous. In March 1929, Fleming published an article titled, “On the Antibacterial Action of Cultures of a Penicillium, with Special Reference to Their Use in the Isolation of B. Influenzae.” This predates, by several years, the German discovery of sulfanilamides, but Fleming and his team lost out on the designation as providers of the first antibiotic because they could never adequately cultivate the finicky mold in sufficient quantities to make it clinically significant.

In fact, Penicillium was so persnickety that Fleming gave up. It is confusing today to reconcile Fleming’s abdication on mastering the development of (arguably) the most significant drug ever discovered, but the lack of sophisticated research tools, lab space, manpower, and most important, intense drive to corral the fungus meant that it would be up to another team, more than a decade later, to harness the power of Penicillium. Amazingly, Alexander Fleming walked away from Penicillium and never published on it again.

Excerpted from The Invention of Surgery by David Schneider, published by Pegasus Books. Reprinted with permission. All other rights reserved.

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scootoaster · 5 years ago

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Modern surgery wouldn’t be possible without this one key drug

The cover of The Invention of Surgery (Pegasus Books/)

The following is an excerpt adapted from The Invention of Surgery by David Schneider.

I turn to the nurse and say, “necrotizing fasciitis.” All conversation stops and everyone freezes.

“Really?” she says.

“Yes. I’m going to call Dr. Moulton, my senior resident.”

Mr. Louis, although bizarrely disfigured with no arm and no shoulder, will live.

Fleming muttered softly to himself, “That’s odd.”

The name of the mold? Penicillium. (Read that carefully. It doesn’t say “Penicillin.”)

Excerpted from The Invention of Surgery by David Schneider, published by Pegasus Books. Reprinted with permission. All other rights reserved.

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samanthasroberts · 7 years ago

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Unearthing The Mysterious Forces Behind The Lemp Mansion Hauntings

I don’t even know where to start with this one. I feel so much pressure to get this information out to the public, in hopes that it might set a plan in motion how to best help the spirits of the Lemp family members’ suffering…and I do mean suffering as they hang in the balance between the living and the afterworld.

Yes, I said the Lemp family.

If you follow haunted locations at all, you will have heard of this family and the famously haunted mansion that still resides in St. Louis, Missouri to this day. If you follow history, you will have heard about the The Lemp Family and all of their beermaking glory starting back in the 1800s.

I became involved in this piece of haunted history through a series of events. A wonderfully talented writer named M.J. Pack contacted me to ask me if I could read a live blog she wrote from a night that she stayed in the haunted Lemp Mansion. She asked specifically if I picked anything up from her night there. I tuned in and yes, I did see and feel a lot of different things about her stay in the mansion. It was then that M.J. asked if I would be willing to take part in a live session at the Lemp Mansion and I didn’t even hesitate to say yes to that invitation.

In case this is your first time reading my posts, I do a lot of things in life. One of those things is talk to the dead. I am a medium and have been since childhood. I mostly volunteer my time to missing person’s cases and working with the families of those missing. A majority of my gift is donated. So when I began to tune into the Lemp family and feel them and their pain, I had to take part in M.J.’s live blog. I have never done anything of that nature before this…meaning connecting with a live person from a remote distance, as they stay in a haunted room. I just figured, if I can connect with a spirit when I call them forward…why wouldn’t I be able to connect with them this way?

It was exhausting. Absolutely exhausting from the get-go. The night before the scheduled live event, I received a visit from many of the Lemp family members while attempting to sleep. Here is what came to me.

The first was a woman’s hand and wrist that had several bracelets on it. Not sure who that belongs to, although the next night when M.J. was at the mansion, she sent me a picture of a chunky gold bracelet they was on display that belonged to William “Billy” Lemp, JR.’s wife, Eleanor.

The second thing I saw was a mirror a very vintage mirror with gold framing. Parts of the mirror were smoked and distorted and other parts were dotted with dark speckles where the mirror had aged. I wasn’t sure if this mirror was hanging in the house or if it was in the house (such as the attic) and not used. Either way, the spirits use this mirror to communicate…big time. They use this mirror all the time to be seen. When M.J. spent the night the next night, she found the mirror in what is now the dining area…which is where William “Billy” Lemp, JR. “took his life.”

What I saw third was the house I was inside it. I was in a room made up of mostly mauve colors.Mauve walls…wallpaper maybe…floral patterns in the room too. The room M.J. stayed in was mauve.

Next, I saw a young man in his 20s. He was tall (I was looking up at him) and lanky, and had a set of golden dark blonde hair to light brown hair. It was crazy because he said hello to me as he passed me and I said, “Wait…you can see me?” and he said. “Why, yes. Of course I can.” and I said back to him, “Usually they can’t see me when I do this.” H said, “…well, I can.” The young man poked me to show me he could feel me and I felt his poke. What I remember next was he went over to the corner of the room, took what looked to be thick phone like cord, like ones you would plug into a wall and there was this contraption dolly-like thing he had made with the window, and he proceeded to hang himself. I was distraught at the sight and all of a sudden, a woman came forward from nowhere and explained me that he does this every night. “What do you mean he does this every night?” I asked. The woman replied, “He relives his death every night.” She went on to tell me he “comes down” at dawn.

The fifth person I saw was Charles Lemp. I looked into the mirror from my second vision when he came forth. He was serious faced and stern, but did not say a word to me. He just wanted me to know that he knows what I am doing with this.

And finally, I saw a fireplace and there were family heirlooms such as small paintings, letters, papers, and pictures all burning in this fireplace.It has significant energy around it. It has been said that many of the paintings and family documents were destroyed in fire, at the request of the last male descendent left of the Lemp Family.

I was nervous for most of the day for two reasons:

These spirits are intense.

I have never done something like this before and wanted to be at my best for the spirits and for M.J. too.

As soon as M.J. and I tried to start our live session, we were plagued with technical malfunctions left and right. We, after over an hour of trying, finally got Periscope to work. You can read and view the entire night and all of its findings here.

I was exhausted from holding a connection for that long. When I do readings on any level, I give myself breaks and unplug when I need to regain energy. This night, I did not and I paid for it that night and the next day. You must read M.J.’s live blog to get the full picture of what unfolded and our experience. Here is a snippet from it where I explain to M.J. why this family has experienced so much tragedy and why their spirits are not at rest. This is a VERY important piece of information, as I will go into later what happened once I got in touch with a Cherokee Shaman after M.J. and I connected on this night.

After our night of live blogging, I could not find peace in just “letting it go” and taking the stance that there was nothing I could do about it. In a miracle of synchronicity, I received a message from a friend of mine who is also a medium, telling me about her having just met a Cherokee Shaman. This is in Louisiana. I immediately knew this was a chance to reach and and see what could be done. I sent all the information and what I had received myself from guides and spirits and I received a response back from the Shaman. This is very powerful and made every hair on my body stand up when I read the words. Here is what the Shaman offered as information and guidance as to the plight of the Lemp Family.

It was owned by Native Americans in that area. A shaman in that area that knows the tribe’s history needs to be called. The Native Americans are at war on that property because they lost everything they had due to alcohol. The Lemps got them drunk, then got them to sign papers and deeds of which they did not understand. In return, they gave them guns and alcohol. Turning their sacred place, including tunnels into the wicked stuff that took everything away. This is a slap in the face to them. They will not let their spirits rest because the Native Americans cannot rest either. Someone who is passed, from the Lemp Family, needs to make a sincere and formal apology.

As long as the the house or grounds still make beer, it may be very hard for them to make peace. A saging ceremony and a pipe ceremony need to take place after the apology. ANY REENACTMENTS AND HAUNTED GHOST TOURS WOULD HAVE TO STOP (I sense this could be a problem). Their account of what truly happened in history is wrong according to my guides. Blessing may calm it down, but unless the Native American spirits are put to rest, the rest of the Lemp spirits can’t go either. They died at the hand of the Native Americans. In other words, this is not an easy fix. They need to find a tribe in the area that can still speak to them in their native tongue. Then bring the medium in that can help them cross over.

I then asked for confirmation from the Shaman that what I received in information from my own guides and the spirits about these not all being suicides and that they were driven to suicide and madness by this curse was correct. I received this confirmation: “Yes, they were driven to suicide and some killed by the Native Americans. They tormented them until they killed themselves. History is wrong. That question would be best answered by the tribe in that area.”

How in the world do we go about doing this? I can’t really see the owners of the Lemp Mansion stopping all the haunted tours and such. I am sure it draws a large amount of people there. How do I, a person in Oregon, track down a Shaman in that area that speaks the native tongue? As well as get one of the Lemps to formally apologize for what they did?

All I know is that they are not letting me rest. The night before last, I physically had the comforter on my bed lift up and something hit my ankle and drop the comforter back down. I jumped out of my skin, which woke my boyfriend up. I immediately saw a flash of Billy’s face (he is a gnarly man) and as soon as his face flashed? A flash came of a Cherokee Indian with war paint on. They both are coming. I somewhat feel that the Cherokee presented himself as protection to me. Billy is angsty pants central.He has sociopathic ways and was a violent and cruel person of intention in a lot of areas. I have said this and he does not like that I say it. In which I always respond back, “Okay…if you can honestly say that anything I have said about how you behaved in your life is untrue, then I apologize for it.” I always feel him back down…because if there is anything Billy enjoyed, it was someone to mess with. He still does.

I will keep you posted here on what transpires. My plans for the next steps to this process are to write the current Lemp Mansion owners an email or letter explaining every bit of this. I hopethey will be on board to help bring the Lemp Family and the Natives to peace.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/2017/11/27/unearthing-the-mysterious-forces-behind-the-lemp-mansion-hauntings/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2017/11/27/unearthing-the-mysterious-forces-behind-the-lemp-mansion-hauntings/

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adambstingus · 7 years ago

Text

Unearthing The Mysterious Forces Behind The Lemp Mansion Hauntings

Yes, I said the Lemp family.

What I saw third was the house I was inside it. I was in a room made up of mostly mauve colors.Mauve walls…wallpaper maybe…floral patterns in the room too. The room M.J. stayed in was mauve.

I was nervous for most of the day for two reasons:

These spirits are intense.

I have never done something like this before and wanted to be at my best for the spirits and for M.J. too.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/2017/11/27/unearthing-the-mysterious-forces-behind-the-lemp-mansion-hauntings/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/167923559812

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readbookywooks · 8 years ago

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The Torres Strait

DURING THE NIGHT of December 27-28, the Nautilus left the waterways of Vanikoro behind with extraordinary speed. Its heading was southwesterly, and in three days it had cleared the 750 leagues that separated La Perouse's islands from the southeastern tip of Papua. On January 1, 1868, bright and early, Conseil joined me on the platform. "Will master," the gallant lad said to me, "allow me to wish him a happy new year?" "Good heavens, Conseil, it's just like old times in my office at the Botanical Gardens in Paris! I accept your kind wishes and I thank you for them. Only, I'd like to know what you mean by a 'happy year' under the circumstances in which we're placed. Is it a year that will bring our imprisonment to an end, or a year that will see this strange voyage continue?" "Ye gods," Conseil replied, "I hardly know what to tell master. We're certainly seeing some unusual things, and for two months we've had no time for boredom. The latest wonder is always the most astonishing, and if this progression keeps up, I can't imagine what its climax will be. In my opinion, we'll never again have such an opportunity." "Never, Conseil." "Besides, Mr. Nemo really lives up to his Latin name, since he couldn't be less in the way if he didn't exist." "True enough, Conseil." "Therefore, with all due respect to master, I think a 'happy year' would be a year that lets us see everything - " "Everything, Conseil? No year could be that long. But what does Ned Land think about all this?" "Ned Land's thoughts are exactly the opposite of mine," Conseil replied. "He has a practical mind and a demanding stomach. He's tired of staring at fish and eating them day in and day out. This shortage of wine, bread, and meat isn't suitable for an upstanding Anglo-Saxon, a man accustomed to beefsteak and unfazed by regular doses of brandy or gin!" "For my part, Conseil, that doesn't bother me in the least, and I've adjusted very nicely to the diet on board." "So have I," Conseil replied. "Accordingly, I think as much about staying as Mr. Land about making his escape. Thus, if this new year isn't a happy one for me, it will be for him, and vice versa. No matter what happens, one of us will be pleased. So, in conclusion, I wish master to have whatever his heart desires." "Thank you, Conseil. Only I must ask you to postpone the question of new year's gifts, and temporarily accept a hearty handshake in their place. That's all I have on me." "Master has never been more generous," Conseil replied. And with that, the gallant lad went away. By January 2 we had fared 11,340 miles, hence 5,250 leagues, from our starting point in the seas of Japan. Before the Nautilus's spur there stretched the dangerous waterways of the Coral Sea, off the northeast coast of Australia. Our boat cruised along a few miles away from that daunting shoal where Captain Cook's ships wellnigh miscarried on June 10, 1770. The craft that Cook was aboard charged into some coral rock, and if his vessel didn't go down, it was thanks to the circumstance that a piece of coral broke off in the collision and plugged the very hole it had made in the hull. I would have been deeply interested in visiting this long, 360-league reef, against which the ever-surging sea broke with the fearsome intensity of thunderclaps. But just then the Nautilus's slanting fins took us to great depths, and I could see nothing of those high coral walls. I had to rest content with the various specimens of fish brought up by our nets. Among others I noted some long-finned albacore, a species in the genus Scomber, as big as tuna, bluish on the flanks, and streaked with crosswise stripes that disappear when the animal dies. These fish followed us in schools and supplied our table with very dainty flesh. We also caught a large number of yellow-green gilthead, half a decimeter long and tasting like dorado, plus some flying gurnards, authentic underwater swallows that, on dark nights, alternately streak air and water with their phosphorescent glimmers. Among mollusks and zoophytes, I found in our trawl's meshes various species of alcyonarian coral, sea urchins, hammer shells, spurred-star shells, wentletrap snails, horn shells, glass snails. The local flora was represented by fine floating algae: sea tangle, and kelp from the genus Macrocystis, saturated with the mucilage their pores perspire, from which I selected a wonderful Nemastoma geliniaroidea, classifying it with the natural curiosities in the museum. On January 4, two days after crossing the Coral Sea, we raised the coast of Papua. On this occasion Captain Nemo told me that he intended to reach the Indian Ocean via the Torres Strait. This was the extent of his remarks. Ned saw with pleasure that this course would bring us, once again, closer to European seas. The Torres Strait is regarded as no less dangerous for its bristling reefs than for the savage inhabitants of its coasts. It separates Queensland from the huge island of Papua, also called New Guinea. Papua is 400 leagues long by 130 leagues wide, with a surface area of 40,000 geographic leagues. It's located between latitude 0 degrees 19' and 10 degrees 2' south, and between longitude 128 degrees 23' and 146 degrees 15'. At noon, while the chief officer was taking the sun's altitude, I spotted the summits of the Arfak Mountains, rising in terraces and ending in sharp peaks. Discovered in 1511 by the Portuguese Francisco Serrano, these shores were successively visited by Don Jorge de Meneses in 1526, by Juan de Grijalva in 1527, by the Spanish general Alvaro de Saavedra in 1528, by Inigo Ortiz in 1545, by the Dutchman Schouten in 1616, by Nicolas Sruick in 1753, by Tasman, Dampier, Fumel, Carteret, Edwards, Bougainville, Cook, McClure, and Thomas Forrest, by Rear Admiral d'Entrecasteaux in 1792, by Louis-Isidore Duperrey in 1823, and by Captain Dumont d'Urville in 1827. "It's the heartland of the blacks who occupy all Malaysia," Mr. de Rienzi has said; and I hadn't the foggiest inkling that sailors' luck was about to bring me face to face with these daunting Andaman aborigines. So the Nautilus hove before the entrance to the world's most dangerous strait, a passageway that even the boldest navigators hesitated to clear: the strait that Luis Vaez de Torres faced on returning from the South Seas in Melanesia, the strait in which sloops of war under Captain Dumont d'Urville ran aground in 1840 and nearly miscarried with all hands. And even the Nautilus, rising superior to every danger in the sea, was about to become intimate with its coral reefs. The Torres Strait is about thirty-four leagues wide, but it's obstructed by an incalculable number of islands, islets, breakers, and rocks that make it nearly impossible to navigate. Consequently, Captain Nemo took every desired precaution in crossing it. Floating flush with the water, the Nautilus moved ahead at a moderate pace. Like a cetacean's tail, its propeller churned the waves slowly. Taking advantage of this situation, my two companions and I found seats on the ever-deserted platform. In front of us stood the pilothouse, and unless I'm extremely mistaken, Captain Nemo must have been inside, steering his Nautilus himself. Under my eyes I had the excellent charts of the Torres Strait that had been surveyed and drawn up by the hydrographic engineer Vincendon Dumoulin and Sublieutenant (now Admiral) Coupvent-Desbois, who were part of Dumont d'Urville's general staff during his final voyage to circumnavigate the globe. These, along with the efforts of Captain King, are the best charts for untangling the snarl of this narrow passageway, and I consulted them with scrupulous care. Around the Nautilus the sea was boiling furiously. A stream of waves, bearing from southeast to northwest at a speed of two and a half miles per hour, broke over heads of coral emerging here and there. "That's one rough sea!" Ned Land told me. "Abominable indeed," I replied, "and hardly suitable for a craft like the Nautilus." "That damned captain," the Canadian went on, "must really be sure of his course, because if these clumps of coral so much as brush us, they'll rip our hull into a thousand pieces!" The situation was indeed dangerous, but as if by magic, the Nautilus seemed to glide right down the middle of these rampaging reefs. It didn't follow the exact course of the Zealous and the new Astrolabe, which had proved so ill-fated for Captain Dumont d'Urville. It went more to the north, hugged the Murray Islands, and returned to the southwest near Cumberland Passage. I thought it was about to charge wholeheartedly into this opening, but it went up to the northwest, through a large number of little-known islands and islets, and steered toward Tound Island and the Bad Channel. I was already wondering if Captain Nemo, rash to the point of sheer insanity, wanted his ship to tackle the narrows where Dumont d'Urville's two sloops of war had gone aground, when he changed direction a second time and cut straight to the west, heading toward Gueboroa Island. By then it was three o'clock in the afternoon. The current was slacking off, it was almost full tide. The Nautilus drew near this island, which I can see to this day with its remarkable fringe of screw pines. We hugged it from less than two miles out. A sudden jolt threw me down. The Nautilus had just struck a reef, and it remained motionless, listing slightly to port. When I stood up, I saw Captain Nemo and his chief officer on the platform. They were examining the ship's circumstances, exchanging a few words in their incomprehensible dialect. Here is what those circumstances entailed. Two miles to starboard lay Gueboroa Island, its coastline curving north to west like an immense arm. To the south and east, heads of coral were already on display, left uncovered by the ebbing waters. We had run aground at full tide and in one of those seas whose tides are moderate, an inconvenient state of affairs for floating the Nautilus off. However, the ship hadn't suffered in any way, so solidly joined was its hull. But although it could neither sink nor split open, it was in serious danger of being permanently attached to these reefs, and that would have been the finish of Captain Nemo's submersible. I was mulling this over when the captain approached, cool and calm, forever in control of himself, looking neither alarmed nor annoyed. "An accident?" I said to him. "No, an incident," he answered me. "But an incident," I replied, "that may oblige you to become a resident again of these shores you avoid!" Captain Nemo gave me an odd look and gestured no. Which told me pretty clearly that nothing would ever force him to set foot on a land mass again. Then he said: "No, Professor Aronnax, the Nautilus isn't consigned to perdition. It will still carry you through the midst of the ocean's wonders. Our voyage is just beginning, and I've no desire to deprive myself so soon of the pleasure of your company." "Even so, Captain Nemo," I went on, ignoring his ironic turn of phrase, "the Nautilus has run aground at a moment when the sea is full. Now then, the tides aren't strong in the Pacific, and if you can't unballast the Nautilus, which seems impossible to me, I don't see how it will float off." "You're right, professor, the Pacific tides aren't strong," Captain Nemo replied. "But in the Torres Strait, one still finds a meter-and-a-half difference in level between high and low seas. Today is January 4, and in five days the moon will be full. Now then, I'll be quite astonished if that good-natured satellite doesn't sufficiently raise these masses of water and do me a favor for which I'll be forever grateful." This said, Captain Nemo went below again to the Nautilus's interior, followed by his chief officer. As for our craft, it no longer stirred, staying as motionless as if these coral polyps had already walled it in with their indestructible cement. "Well, sir?" Ned Land said to me, coming up after the captain's departure. "Well, Ned my friend, we'll serenely wait for the tide on the 9th, because it seems the moon will have the good nature to float us away!" "As simple as that?" "As simple as that." "So our captain isn't going to drop his anchors, put his engines on the chains, and do anything to haul us off?" "Since the tide will be sufficient," Conseil replied simply. The Canadian stared at Conseil, then he shrugged his shoulders. The seaman in him was talking now. "Sir," he answered, "you can trust me when I say this hunk of iron will never navigate again, on the seas or under them. It's only fit to be sold for its weight. So I think it's time we gave Captain Nemo the slip." "Ned my friend," I replied, "unlike you, I haven't given up on our valiant Nautilus, and in four days we'll know where we stand on these Pacific tides. Besides, an escape attempt might be timely if we were in sight of the coasts of England or Provence, but in the waterways of Papua it's another story. And we'll always have that as a last resort if the Nautilus doesn't right itself, which I'd regard as a real calamity." "But couldn't we at least get the lay of the land?" Ned went on. "Here's an island. On this island there are trees. Under those trees land animals loaded with cutlets and roast beef, which I'd be happy to sink my teeth into." "In this instance our friend Ned is right," Conseil said, "and I side with his views. Couldn't master persuade his friend Captain Nemo to send the three of us ashore, if only so our feet don't lose the knack of treading on the solid parts of our planet?" "I can ask him," I replied, "but he'll refuse." "Let master take the risk," Conseil said, "and we'll know where we stand on the captain's affability." Much to my surprise, Captain Nemo gave me the permission I asked for, and he did so with grace and alacrity, not even exacting my promise to return on board. But fleeing across the New Guinea territories would be extremely dangerous, and I wouldn't have advised Ned Land to try it. Better to be prisoners aboard the Nautilus than to fall into the hands of Papuan natives. The skiff was put at our disposal for the next morning. I hardly needed to ask whether Captain Nemo would be coming along. I likewise assumed that no crewmen would be assigned to us, that Ned Land would be in sole charge of piloting the longboat. Besides, the shore lay no more than two miles off, and it would be child's play for the Canadian to guide that nimble skiff through those rows of reefs so ill-fated for big ships. The next day, January 5, after its deck paneling was opened, the skiff was wrenched from its socket and launched to sea from the top of the platform. Two men were sufficient for this operation. The oars were inside the longboat and we had only to take our seats. At eight o'clock, armed with rifles and axes, we pulled clear of the Nautilus. The sea was fairly calm. A mild breeze blew from shore. In place by the oars, Conseil and I rowed vigorously, and Ned steered us into the narrow lanes between the breakers. The skiff handled easily and sped swiftly. Ned Land couldn't conceal his glee. He was a prisoner escaping from prison and never dreaming he would need to reenter it. "Meat!" he kept repeating. "Now we'll eat red meat! Actual game! A real mess call, by thunder! I'm not saying fish aren't good for you, but we mustn't overdo 'em, and a slice of fresh venison grilled over live coals will be a nice change from our standard fare." "You glutton," Conseil replied, "you're making my mouth water!" "It remains to be seen," I said, "whether these forests do contain game, and if the types of game aren't of such size that they can hunt the hunter." "Fine, Professor Aronnax!" replied the Canadian, whose teeth seemed to be as honed as the edge of an ax. "But if there's no other quadruped on this island, I'll eat tiger - tiger sirloin." "Our friend Ned grows disturbing," Conseil replied. "Whatever it is," Ned Land went on, "any animal having four feet without feathers, or two feet with feathers, will be greeted by my very own one-gun salute." "Oh good!" I replied. "The reckless Mr. Land is at it again!" "Don't worry, Professor Aronnax, just keep rowing!" the Canadian replied. "I only need twenty-five minutes to serve you one of my own special creations." By 8:30 the Nautilus's skiff had just run gently aground on a sandy strand, after successfully clearing the ring of coral that surrounds Gueboroa Island.

#20000Leagues

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