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your-angle-of-music · 4 years ago

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Anyone want my playlist for my dream cast version of The Phantom of the Opera?

Coming right up!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DGFe3xKBIJQ&list=PLyXOfYb8cpfkWW_8EO-XHO2MIBFLMevmn

To my knowledge, this has all the songs that count as songs, but as always, I welcome other people’s additions or suggestions!

Check out under the cut for the list of songs and actors, and my notes and explanations for each of them. Enjoy!

1. Prologue/Overture - Barry Clark as the Auctioneer, Steve Barton as Raoul de Chagny, Rosemary Ashe as Carlotta (Original Broadway)

To be honest, I was never too fond of this long prologue, which is never relevant again and reveals very little about the characters’ future. Clark’s Auctioneer does create a properly grand feel, and Barton’s Raoul does sound heartbroken, but what I’m really here for is that epic, bombastic, beautiful overture. No matter how many times I hear it, it will never stop being exhilarating. This track also features the Hannibal opera part. Ashe’s Carlotta sounds deliciously dramatic and her high note on “Rome” treads that line between impressive and annoying perfectly.

2. Think of Me - Katie Hall as Christine Daae, Angela Caesar as Carlotta, Simon Bailey as Raoul de Chagny (UK Tour)

God, I love Caesar’s Carlotta. She takes her time with all her lines, to excellent effect, and her “spare a thought for me” is both genuinely pretty and utterly distinct from Hall’s Christine’s. I also adore the alternating weepiness and shoutiness she puts into her “these things do happen” tirade, and you can hear her clapping during “all the time!”. And then her “this thing does not happen!” is gloriously over-the-top. Meanwhile, Hall’s Christine’s voice is so lovely here. I appreciate how quietly she starts out, barely audible, and then how sweet her voice is once she gets more confident on “that oh so distant day.” She sounds pure and innocent but yet still clearly classically trained, and damn, she can project. I love the way she sings “think of me, think of me waking silent and resigned” especially. And then that final “think of me” cadenza is perfect. She makes the high notes seem effortless and they’re buttery smooth. Bailey’s Raoul also makes an excellent first impression.

3. Angel of Music - Sarah Brightman as Christine Daae, Janet Devenish as Meg Giry, Michael Crawford as the Phantom (Original Broadway)

We start of strong with Crawford’s Phantom’s absolutely haunting “bravi, bravi, bravissimi.” And then I adore Devenish’s Meg — she has such a pure, clear, young voice that sounds perfect for her role. Devenish makes this the best version of this song in my opinion, even though I prefer the new lyric ““I watched your face from the shadows / distant through all the applause. / I hear your voice in the darkness, / yet the words aren’t yours” to the one that Devenish’s Meg sings here, “Christine, you must have been dreaming, / stories like this can’t come true. / Christine, you’re talking in riddles, / and it’s not like you” (because come on now, talking in riddles is one of Christine’s defining personality traits). Brightman’s Christine sounds gorgeous on the high notes, especially when she sings softly, and I love her on her “father once spoke of an angel” part.

4. Little Lotte/The Mirror - Sarah Brightman as Christine Daae, Steve Barton as Raoul de Chagny, Michael Crawford as the Phantom (Original Broadway)

Barton’s Raoul will always be my favorite. There’s a sweetness and a warmth to his voice that makes him always seem likable, when other musical Raouls seem patronizing or boring or manipulative or dumb. I like the mischievous, flirtatious note in Brightman’s Christine’s “you remember that too.” And most of all, I like Crawford’s Phantom’s powerful “insolent boy!” that manages to sound both scary and strangely far-off and echoey — I’d believe he was an angel too. And then the gentleness in his “flattering child, you shall know me” seems more book accurate and likable to me. Crawford has a unique quality to his voice that makes me love his rendition of the “angel of music” motif the best of any actor’s. I am a little sorry that the end of Barton’s cry of “angel” gets cut off in this recording, though.

5. The Phantom of the Opera - Michael Crawford as the Phantom, Sarah Brightman as Christine Daae (Original Broadway)

Brightman’s Christine might not be the strongest, acting-wise, but vocally? She has the range, darlings. She sings the soft, low beginning of this song and the piercing, high end of it with the same facility — I mean, just listen to that last high E. It sounds effortless. And everything in between is good too; her first “the phantom of the opera is there, inside my mind” has a breathtakingly haunting quality. Crawford’s Phantom is also very good with the high notes. I just love the way he sings the words “my power over you grows stronger yet” and “in all your fantasies, you always knew” almost too airily, and of course every time he sings “phantom,” it’s powerful enough to give me chills. And I love how soft he is on his first few rounds of “sing for me.”

6. The Music of the Night - Earl Carpenter as the Phantom (London 2006)

This is one of the few tracks on here that I have video for, and I couldn’t be happier about it. Everything about Carpenter’s Phantom’s body language really makes this song for me, in addition to his positively angelic voice. Carpenter embodies the version of the Phantom that I know from the novel, hesitant and gentle even though he’s...Like That, and he manages to make “The Music of the Night” really seem like a love song. I appreciate that he remains so quiet for so much of the beginning, almost inaudible with your computer’s volume turned up less than a third, and the sweetness he puts into the phrase “night unfurls its splendor.” Also that little hand block he does on “tremulous and tender” and the way he never quite touches Christine during “turn your face away from the garish light of day” makes me Feel Things. The crescendo fakeout he does on “close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams” is masterful, as is his high note on “soar” and the way he turns his masked side away from Christine’s hand on “the darkness of the music of the night” and...oh God, we’re only three minutes in. But he’s not just soft and sweet; his “let your soul take you where you long to be” is strong and powerful. I really, really like how he keeps his distance even when he has his arm around her, and the way he stops her hand during “savor each sensation.” Christine’s faint looks weird, because it always does, because it’s really dumb, but I appreciate that Carpenter actually catches her — and looks a small bit panicked about it. And then when he strokes her hair and sings that last “night” the softest and purest of all...perfection.

7. I Remember/Stranger Than You Dreamt It - John Owen-Jones as the Phantom, Rachel Barrell as Christine Daae (London 2005)

Another one with video! And oh boy, what a video. First of all, Barrell’s Christine has a very cool and interesting voice, and I love the way she sings “on the lake there was a boat, and in the boat there was a man,” delicate and unsure, before you can hear her steeling her courage on “who was that shape in the shadows?” I’m equally happy with the way JOJ’s Phantom snarls out that “you little lying Delilah! you little viper!” while still making it sound good, and that over-the-top, extremely JOJ final “damn you! curse you!” that ends in a sob ‘n growl, because if there’s ever a show to be melodramatic in, it’s Phantom. And then his hissed out “stranger than you dreamt it” and the fact that he keeps his hand over his face the entire time makes it perfect. His wounded-animal-style crawling starting on “fear can turn to love” and the roughness and pain and prettiness in his voice reminds me a lot of Erik’s characterization in the novel, as is his sobbed “oh, Christine!” right afterwards, and his “those two fools who run my theater will be missing you!” is believably scary.

8. Magical Lasso - Janos Kurucz as Joseph Buquet, Mary Millar as Madame Giry (Original Broadway)

It’s such a small song, but I really love the unique quality to Kurucz’s Buquet’s voice, as well as the anxiety in Millar’s Madame Giry’s “heat of his eyes.”

9. Notes/Prima Donna - Rosemary Ashe as Carlotta, John Savident as Monsieur Firmin, David Firth as Monsieur Andre, Steve Barton as Raoul de Chagny, Mary Millar as Madame Giry, Janet Devenish as Meg Giry, Michael Crawford as the Phantom (Original Broadway)

This song is way more of a bop than it has any right to be. I absolutely adore Savident’s Firmin and Firth’s Andre, with their humor and their bluster and their old married husbands vibes. I love that overpowering “damnable!” and that long-suffering sigh on “Wrote. Written.” All the indignant drama that Ashe’s Carlotta brings is delightful in every way, especially on her high Italian parts and that “it’s no use trying to appease me, you’re only saying this to please me.” Crawford’s Phantom’s “one last chance” is chilling, and I like how pretty his sound is here — it’s way creepier than growly anger. The “Prima Donna” section is just such a gorgeous melody, really, and Savident and Firth have such rich, lovely voices. And Barton’s Raoul is also amazing; his “is this her angel of music” especially is so gorgeous. I do wish I could hear Millar’s Madame Giry a little bit more clearly, but I love her voice. And Ashe’s last “once more” high note is really quite breathtaking, as is Crawford’s “a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.“ This recording also features a section of Il Muto that will overlap a little bit with the next track — sorry about that.

10. Il Muto - Kim Stengel as Carlotta, Elizabeth Loyacano as Christine Daae, Howard McGillin as the Phantom (Broadway 2008)

There’s some video for this one, which is good, because all the actors are hilarious. This Raoul...sounds like a bit of an asshole, but to be fair, the script shoves him pretty firmly into that role. I can’t find the name of the actor who plays the Count anywhere, but he is perfect. I love the way he holds that “observe her” note, and his hammy self-awareness in doing so. The real MVP here is Stengel’s Carlotta, with all her imperiousness and her high notes and her dramatic nervous laughter and the way she bosses around Christine and the conductor. And her croaking. The croaking is perfect, especially when she does it offstage. Loyacano’s Christine doesn’t have too much to do in this scene, but her kissing in time is amazing. Same for McGillin’s Phantom, although I like how quiet and genuinely amused he is on his “perhaps it is you who are the toad” as well as his maniacal laughter when he kills Buquet. Actually, the whole ballet section is perfectly executed (although I’m not much of an expert on dancing).

11. Why Have You Brought Us Here/All I Ask of You - Sarah Brightman as Christine Daae, Steve Barton as Raoul de Chagny, Michael Crawford as the Phantom (Original Broadway)

Brightman’s Christine is wonderful here, sounding properly hysterical on “and in this labyrinth, where night is blind” and “Raoul, I’ve been there” and beautiful and sad on the “yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world” bit. And did I mention that I love Barton’s Raoul? Because I do. I really, really do. The beginning of this song can make Raoul look. Really bad. But this one manages to pull it off, sounding so concerned and so utterly in love. When he sings “no more talk of darkness” and “let me be your shelter, let me be your light” his voice sounds so soft and warm and gentle and my God, you can hear the smile and the hug, and then his “then say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime” is urgent and soaring and lovely. Brightman matches his energy, and she has a lovely, delicate voice that balances perfectly with his. Her “say the word and I will follow you” sounds so tender and there’s a gorgeous intensity in her “say you love me.” Their last “love me, that’s all I ask of you” is sweet and soft, and I love the lightness in Brightman’s “I must go” and of course the warm solidity in Barton’s “Christine, I love you” that sets up the contrast that will absolutely make me cry later. Crawford’s Phantom is perfect too, right from that first haunting, echoing “Christine” at the beginning. He sounds vulnerable and almost disbelieving and on “I gave you my music” and the last repetitions of “Christine,” and that “Go!” is TERRIFYING.

12. Entr’acte - John Savident as Monsieur Firmin, David Firth as Monsieur Andre (Original Broadway)

I don’t have that many feelings about which orchestra in particular preforms this, but I definitely want to include it. I do adore Webber’s score and the switches between the different melody motifs are pretty awesome. Fair warning, though, that it does include the very beginning of “Masquerade” but cuts off in the middle of “I must say, all the same, that it’s a shame that Phantom fellow isn’t here,” which frustrates me to no end.

13. Masquerade - Anna O’Byrne as Christine Daae, Alexander Lewis(???) as Raoul de Chagny (Australia 2009)

Another song with video! And it’s good quality too, highlighting the colorfulness of this scene. O’Byrne’s Christine and Lewis’ Raoul enter at “who can name the face,” and they’re graceful dancers, and everyone reflects the high energy of the scene, especially on the quiet verse. O’Byrne’s Christine sounds young here, but in a good way, and quite scared on “you promised me,” and Lewis lets his Raoul be exasperated on “it’s an engagement, not a crime” — it feels like they’ve had this argument many times before. The part where Christine and Raoul get separated feels genuinely suspenseful, and I really love the lighting just before the Phantom’s entrance.

14. Why So Silent? - Earl Carpenter as the Phantom (London 2005 - 2007)

I do love Carpenter’s Phantom because he’s sweet, but sometimes I love him because he’s really, really scary. There’s video for this bit so we can all admire his Red Death costume and the lighting to match. He stays creepily quiet for the beginning, so that his “remember there are worse things than a shattered chandelier” and his “your chains are still mine! you will sing for me!” are all the more powerful.

15. Notes/Twisted Every Way - Sarah Brightman as Christine Daae, Steve Barton as Raoul de Chagny, John Savident as Monsieur Firmin, David Firth as Monsieur Andre, Mary Millar as Madame Giry, Rosemary Ashe as Carlotta (Original Broadway)

Honestly, Ashe’s Christine is one of the best parts of this song. The way she sings “outrage!” and “ha! here’s our little flower” and the way she absolutely snarls “she’s the one behind this, Christine Daae!” is perfection. She’s also brilliant in the “Don Juan Triumphant” rehearsal. Savident’s Firmin and Firth’s Andre are wonderful as usual, and Barton’s Raoul manages to sound gentle and good in a script that is not kind to the character here — his “you don’t have to, they can’t make you” and “you said yourself, he was nothing but a man” and “every hope and every prayer rests on you now“ are lovely. Millar’s Madame Giry sounds frail and scared and determined (I love her “monsieur, be careful, we have seen him kill”) and she reminds me a lot of her characterization in the novel, and Crawford’s Phantom is deliciously creepy in his letter, and I adore his almost sighing sound on phrases like “an office not the arts” and “her teacher.” His “your obedient friend” gives me chills. Brightman’s Christine also shines here. I actually like the quiet almost-shrillness in her “how dare you” because it sounds like she’s been trying to do what she’s supposed to all along but she’s beginning to snap under the stress, and same goes for her “I’ll go mad!” which sounds genuine and spontaneous. Her “twisted every way” section is haunting and haunted and ethereally beautiful and I could listen to it all day. This recording also includes the beginning of “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again,” so heads up about that.

16. Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again - Leila Benn Harris as Christine Daae (London 2008)

There’s some video for this one, but the quality isn’t great — sorry about that. Harris’ Christine, however, is extremely great. Her voice contains sweetness and sadness and trauma and anger all at once and her dynamics are just perfection. The way she sings “that voice which calls to me and speaks my name” provokes instant goosebumps every time, and then the softness in her “Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing” is brilliant. The fierce anger in her “sculpted angels, cold and monumental” is what really made me fall in love with Harris’ rendition. And that strength and power in her “why can’t the past just die” and then the softness and clearness in “help me say goodbye” with the last ringing, gorgeous high note. God, she is perfect, isn’t she.

17. Wandering Child/Bravo, Monsieur - Michael Crawford as the Phantom, Sarah Brightman as Christine Daae, Steve Barton as Raoul de Chagny (Original Broadway)

Hands down, this song, at least the first half, is my favorite in the show, and these three singers’ voices pull it off perfectly. Brightman’s Christine has such a delicate voice that sounds so lovely with the two lower ones, and she puts so much gentleness and sadness into that “angel or father, friend or phantom, who is it there staring?” and she sounds beautiful and tortured on that “Angel of Music, I denied you, turning from true beauty.” Her acting on “oh, Raoul!” and “Raoul, come back!” is...not the best, but her singing makes it well worth it to me. And Crawford’s Phantom sounds, well, like an angel. There’s such a strangeness and sadness and beauty in his voice. The way he sings “have you forgotten your angel?” is lovely and soft, and I just love how he says “far from my far-reaching gaze” (and I also love the lyric itself; I think it’s really creepy when later Phantoms change it to “fathering gaze”). And his “turning from true beauty” and “come to your strange angel” are powerful and perfect in every way. His “I am your Angel of Music, come to me, Angel of Music” is properly hypnotic, and I like the steadiness of it amidst Christine’s and Raoul’s panic. And speaking of Raoul, Barton kills it with all of his harmonies, and there’s genuine worry in his deliciously soft “once again she is his, once again she returns” and in his loud and long and powerful “luring her back from the grave.” Crawford’s and Barton’s “bravo, monsieur” exchange sounds properly scary, and I almost like how over-the-top Crawford is being compared to Barton’s relative calmness — they are just on such different pages, emotionally, and are assessing the situation in completely different ways. This recording also gets into the beginning of “The Point of No Return,” or rather “Don Juan Triumphant,” and it sounds...demonic is the best word I can think of, honestly, but that is definitely a good thing. I’m not too fond of Brightman’s Christine or Crawford’s Phantom in this part, but I do appreciate their excellent voices as always.

18. The Point of No Return - Ramin Karimloo as the Phantom, Sierra Boggess as Christine Daae (25th Anniversary)

Unpopular opinion, perhaps bordering on life-threatening: I’m generally not that into Karimloo’s portrayal of the Phantom. His voice is just a bit too smooth for me, too glamorous and sexy, not an eerie Crawford or an angelic Carpenter or a tortured JOJ, and his acting usually reflects that side of him a bit too much for the Phantom I know. But in this song? It works. Holy everloving fuck, it works. I love the way he says “no backward glances” and “what warm unspoken secrets will we learn” Boggess’ Christine is absolutely mesmerizing here too — her high notes on “you have brought me” and her vibrato on “our passion play has now at last begun” and the huskiness of her “past the point of right or wrong” are brilliant in every way. I’m especially glad that I have video for this song, because these two really make it with their body language. The way Boggess’ Christine springs up and bolts away just before her “you have brought me” line and, of course, Karimloo’s Phantom’s shaking hands on “until we’re one” are perfect. And then, after Boggess’ Christine’s realization that it’s the Phantom she’s singing with at “consume us,” their dynamic is perfect, with Karimloo’s growling determination and Boggess’ anger and fear, both expressed perfectly in their “so stand and watch it burn.” I love the way their “return”s are out of sync after Boggess’ Christine reveals the Phantom’s mask, and the way Karimloo spits out his “-turn” like a challenge. And then the tenor sweetness and intensity of his “say you’ll share with me” can just about break me every time, yet it also sounds properly distinct from Raoul’s earlier version, like with the fiercely desperate edge to his “one lifetime,” and his “anywhere you go let me go too” almost has a different melody. And then I think his snarling and “no”ing when Christine unmasks him at the end is...a little much, but still very on-brand. Oh, and there’s like ten seconds of silence at the end of this recording, just to warn you.

19. Down Once More/The Final Lair - John Owen-Jones as the Phantom, Katie Hall as Christine Daae, Simon Bailey as Raoul de Chagny (UK Tour)

I love this production so, so much, and I wish I had video for it, because nothing exemplifies its understanding of the characters like the staging of The Kiss — instead of the standard staging, in which Christine kisses the Phantom, then hugs him, then kisses him again with more enthusiasm, in this production, Hall’s Christine kisses JOJ’s Phantom once, and then he falls to his knees and she hugs him as he sinks into her and then pushes her away. But I’m here for the audio, too. We start of strong with JOJ’s Phantom’s “into darkness deep as hell!” which he holds for an amazingly long time in this voice of beautiful despair, followed by a properly tortured “why, you ask, was I bound and chained” section. His “a mask, my first unfeeling scrap of clothing” is heartwrenching, and his “monsieur, I bid you welcome” section is chilling. Despite his awesomeness, I might still need to hand the MVP award to Hall’s Christine, who carries an anger and defiance into this scene that I rarely see in other Christines that you can hear in her “am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh” and her “it’s in your soul that the true distortion lies” and of course her iconic “tears of hate.” And Bailey’s Raoul is compelling, and his “free her!” and “I did it all for you and all for nothing” are wonderfully delivered. In the frantic part where all three characters sing at the same time, their voices are balanced perfectly. I absolutely adore JOJ’s Phantom’s “for either way you choose you cannot win” and Bailey’s Raoul’s “why make her lie to you to save me” and Hall’s Christine’s “Angel of Music, you deceived me.” JOJ’s Phantom’s “you try my patience, make your choice!” is scary but not deafening, and then comes the tender perfection of Hall’s Christine’s “pitiful creature of darkness” (although I wish there was a slightly longer pause before it” and her angelic “alone” and God, I love them all. Hall’s little “no please” when she sees the Phantom approaching Raoul is an excellent detail, and JOJ’s “angel in hell” sounds desperate and almost childlike. I wish his “go now and leave me” wasn’t quite so loud — my throat hurts just thinking about it, but then his “Christine, I love you.” Oh my God, that “Christine, I love you.” I think stabbing me in the heart would be less painful. And I love the lightness and gentleness of Hall’s and Bailey’s final “All I Ask of You” reprise. Yeah. I adore this production, and I adore this show.

Thank you for stopping by! I’d be happy to talk about these choices or Phantom in general with anyone, any time :)

#poto #the phantom of the opera #phantom of the opera #phantom #angle o speak

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takaraphoenix · 5 years ago

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All that you haven't done from 1 to 15?

Thanks for playing, cupcake!

1. List 3 shipping tropes you love

AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES. I didn’t realize how much this delights me until I joined the Shadowhunters fandom, to be honest.

When they can communicate without using words. It kills me.

THE GRUMPY ONE IS SOFT FOR THE SUNSHINE ONE.

2. List 3 shipping tropes you don’t love

Miscommunication that sits around unresolved for forever.

When writers let their fave get away with treating the other half of the ship like shit and still have the fave being fawned over and catered to, like half of the ship literally only exists to elevate the other half?? (This is... not about what you think it is. And it’s also @ a whole lot of show-writers... -_-)

When they enable each other’s bad behaviors.

3. One emotional aspect of a ship that always gets you

Trust. Really simple as that. But when they genuinely open up about something fucked up they’ve been through or reveal their soft side, it like... gets me.

4. One physical aspect of a ship that always gets you

Height difference. And like, honestly, either way is amazing. I know especially in the mlm ships it’s usually the “top is taller” thing, but like... that is just as amazing as the taller one getting absolutely wrecked by the shorter one?

5. Multiship or Monoship?

MULTI. ALWAYS MULTI. How do people with only one ship even live?

6. Rare pairs or Mainstream?

Rare pairs. It never ceases to terrify me when I realize the ship I like is actually really very popular. I don’t know, it’s just... impossible to connect for me then? It’s so large, there are so many here who have already been here forever, there is ten thousand set-in-stone fanons for this ship already? I prefer to sail a smol sailing ship with a crew where basically everyone on board kinda knows each other, or like at least knews each other threw someone both know. That way also makes it easier for me to find... footing in the fandom. Also, all cards are still on the table. You get to be the first to write trope x, instead of the 10th this week alone. And I dunno, but it’s fun to be the first to do something, or not even just the first, just... when something hasn’t been done to death already.

7. Polyamory or Monogamy?

Yikes, I genuinely hate that phrasing, like... it links so much with “monogamy means being faithful” and making everything else seem like cheating, not to mention polyamorous people can be in monogamous relationships too, so it should be polyamory vs monoamory.

But technicalities aside, poly all the freaking way.

8. If the ship is physical, reversible or not?

...what? *blinks* Like. I... genuinely have no idea what this question means?? Reversible? In what context? How is the ship physical?

9. Do you always have romantic ships for fandoms?

Yes, always, otherwise I don’t consider it a “fandom” of my own.

Things I have ships for, I am actually invested in. Things I don’t have ships for are just... casual watches for me and I wouldn’t look at them as a fandom of mine. Something only becomes a fandom to me if I have a baseline investment in it and that, for me, always shows in shipping.

10. How important is the sexual part (if any) of your ship?

Very, actually. As an asexual person, the only thing I’ve ever seen in sex was a sign of trust, because you are literally never more vulnerable than when you are naked and bare and doing this. I always looked at sex as that, as a huge sign of trust in each other. That’s why the majority of my oneshots end on a sex scene, actually. It’s like... “this is where they are, they trust each other so much they share their bodies with each other and now they lay together, in each other’s arms in a gentle embrace, with nothing but this content feeling of being with the one they love on their mind”.

(It’s why I, to this day and beyond this day, will never understand casual hook ups with total strangers. The mere idea is utterly disturbing and terrifying to me, tbh.)

11. Opinion on platonic ships?

Friendships and familiar relationships are sooo important and honestly my favorite thing about fics is when they dive into what canon has only scratched upon. The potentials for friendships and family dynamics that canon deemed a waste of time to spend screentime on so they only made throwaway remarks that hint at these dynamics. I love exploring those. *^*

12. List 3 ships you currently love

Let’s skip the super obvious ones and go to the ones I’m currently most obsessing over in my mind these days:

Diamond no Ace; Okumura Koushuu/Sawamura Eijun & Miyuki Kazuya/Sawamura Eijun (I obsess over both equally these days so they tie. Also I am considering an OT3 to literally tie them)

Justice League Action; Superman/Wonder Woman (I started watching the cartoon. Yes, literally just because SuperWonder is canon in this. It’s actually fun beyond that though)

Haikyuu!!; Kozume Kenma/Hinata Shouyou

13. List 5 OTPs from past fandoms

Oooh funsies, mmmh, let’s do some that I haven’t mentioned a billion times like Kai/Rei on Beyblade or Puppyshipping...

Digimon; Motomiya Daisuke/Takaishi Takeru

Fast and the Furious; Dominic Toretto/Brian O’Conner

Glee; David Karofsky/Kurt Hummel/Noah Puckerman

Heroes; Gabriel Gray/Peter Petrelli

Inuyasha; Kouga/InuYasha

I have so many past fandoms and so many past ships so here, have a relatively broad coverage of mlm ships. Ask if you want a wlwor m/f version xDDD

14. Opinion on the importance of marriage?

Yes.

I mean, even beyond fanfiction, I find marriage pretty important. I think it’s weird if you’ve been together for years and are of the opinion that you don’t plan on leaving this other person to then not marry them, tbh??

Also, it gives the nice fanfiction opportunity of taking on the spouse’s name in case of [insert abusive family here]. :D

15. Opinion on kids?

Very much yes. Seriously, creating a next gen OC line-up is one of the most fun things about being in a fandom? Also, this is how I know I have gotten Very Invested in something. My very shiny ones always get the next gen line-up, I looove it. And not just for the OTP, but like a legitimate line-up, for my favorite side-ships too, to imagine the dynamics between the kids, friendships, rivalries and love-stories unfolding them. You know I’ve dug myself in too deep when I create a third gen, where the next gen have kids together.

(My PJO line-up went a total of four OC generations deep.)

(My DC one is at two generations right now. Some parties are still in flux. Admittedly, it is also my biggest one after PJO considering it covers all my favorite Justice League members.)

(My Shadowhunters line-up is three generations.)

Ship Preference Game

#About Me #Shipping #Ship Preference Game #send me asks #kimmycup

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doctortreklock · 5 years ago

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Do You Possess a Piece of Time? - August 21, 2019

Part of my Resolution19. Read it on AO3.

Prompt: Person A has given up on love. Nope. Love is not for them. Forget that…. And then they meet person B and think; “Annnd this is the asshole who will ruin everything.” (x)

Fandom: Rivers of London

Title: "Do you have a moment? Do you possess a piece of time? Do you physicalize abstract concepts and keep them to yourself?" Welcome to Night Vale twitter, 17 Jan 2014

Words: 1349

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It's not as if Thomas had set out to dismiss love entirely from the beginning. No, that would have been simply absurd, not to mention short-sighted. When he had been a boy he could barely tell his left shoes from his right, completely too young to decide anything of the sort.

The decision had come later, much later. In fact, it hadn't really come about until after a series of horrific failures, the likes of which Thomas tried very much not to think of, for fear it would turn his mother spinning in her grave.

He had been fourteen, after all, when he had first decided to test his mettle against this whole "love" nonsense that English poets always put so much stock into. He had been home from Shrewsbury for the summer and his mother, bless her soul, had encouraged him to spend time out of doors, perhaps with the gardener's son, or perhaps the boys down the way. It had been Rupert Dance, home from Harrow, who had taught Thomas what it meant to kiss a boy and mean it.

He had been fifteen when he had come home to find Rupert Dance utterly besotted with the greengrocer's daughter. Eloise Blissett had taught Thomas how it felt to have your heart broken by someone who never knew you were actually serious about the whole thing, poor lad.

Now, Thomas was of good English stock and he took that to heart. It meant that you always paused for teatime and never let on how much someone hurt you, so he stiffened his upper lip and carried on. He determined that regardless of the way Rupert's kisses had quickened his heart, there must be something to the idea of women, else Eloise wouldn't have garnered such attention.

He was sixteen when a hastily aborted venture with Margaret Brown taught Thomas that no matter what other men might think of women, the entire notion was very much not for him, thank you very much.

He had taken a brief sabbatical from romance for the remainder of his time at Shrewsbury, much to the dismay of his mother, who had become rather over-hopeful when Ms. Brown had entered the picture. Uni, he determined, would be different.

Uni, it was determined, was not really all that different. For one, most of the same boys were now reading Economics and History right along with him. Much like Thomas, the other young men skipping classes were also destined to take their father's place in the Home Office and marry a young woman of good family to the delight of their mothers. Unlike Thomas, however, most of them seemed to be looking forward to it, as long as their destinies could be put off for a year or five, there's a chap.

Unfortunately for Thomas's mother, he really wanted as little as possible to do with either the Home Office or young women of good family.

Fortunately for Thomas, in the spring of his second year at Cambridge, he met David Mellenby.

Mellenby was reading Chemistry and his greatest ambition was to join the RAF. Thomas was instantly smitten. Mellenby was exactly everything his mother did not want him to associate with: a man who was not inclined toward quiet civil service and wanted to fly jet aeroplanes. Now, regardless of how his mother might have seen the situation, Thomas did not associate with Mellenby strictly due to his "unsavory" characteristics, no. In fact, Thomas spent a great deal of time with David Mellenby because when he bent over his chemistry notes his hair fell in his face and when he talked about flying his eyes lit up and when he smiled at Thomas, Thomas very firmly believed that if he did not kiss David Mellenby he would have a heart attack.

Mellenby kissed him. Thomas did not have a heart attack. These two events are not strictly related.

Thomas spent two years kissing David Mellenby and not having heart attacks. When the pair graduated, Mellenby reiterated his plan to join the RAF. Thomas's mother reiterated her insistence that he join the Home Office. Thomas decided that despite his mother's best attempts, a quiet life of civil service and marrying a young woman of good family was never in the cards for him. He joined the RAF with Mellenby instead.

The Royal Air Force taught Thomas how to fly and Mellenby taught Thomas how to fall. Then a crash during a training exercise in Germany taught Thomas the way grief and horror can catch in your throat and choke you, the way a leg twisted with scars can send you home, and the way the crumpled remains of a charred helicopter can lurk behind your eyelids and wake you screaming from a dead sleep.

Thomas's mother wasn't quite sure how to best help her son after his discharge. She took him to his medical appointments and held his hand and when he decided to join the Home Office, she took her victory with grace.

Thomas worked and moved into his own flat and built a life for himself, bricking up the holes where he had once imagined Mellenby standing. When his mother got sick, he took her to medical appointments and held her hand and when she died he buried her in the family plot next to his father. The last thing she said to him was that she hoped he would be happy, and perhaps find himself a young man of good family to grow old with.

By this point in his life, Thomas had very much given up on the entire idea of love. He had tried it a few times, but it had never seemed to work out, and even when things had been going well, fate had intervened and left him with scars, nightmares, and an empty flat.

Yet, his mother had asked that he try, so Thomas dutifully dusted off his best suit and asked Hugh Oswald to dinner. Oswald had been a year behind Thomas at Shrewsbury and had read Biology at Oxford. He worked now doing something with bees and Hyde Park, but Thomas couldn't quite summon enough interest to keep the conversation going over dinner. Instead, they exchanged half-hearted comments on the menu and quietly decided to go dutch on the bill.

Enough, Thomas decided, was enough. His mother had meant well, but it was obvious that there was no place in Thomas's life for another person. Love was for children, after all, and he was well beyond childish things. So Thomas worked at the Home Office and lived comfortably alone in his flat and occasionally considered getting a cat and then never did. He had nightmares that became less frequent over time and a leg that required daily stretches and a cane that he forgot at home as often as he could. And he was happy. Well, as happy as a man like Thomas could be.

It was January when a young man in a Metropolitan Police sweatshirt moved into the flat opposite Thomas. He was perhaps a half-dozen years younger than Thomas with a bright energy about him and an insatiable curiosity. "Peter Grant," he introduced himself. "And I work for the Met, but as long as you don't actually tell me about any minor crimes you're committing, I think we'll get along fine."

He was the opposite of Margaret Brown in every way. He had only a passing resemblance to Rupert Dance. And he was just like David Mellenby in all the ways that mattered. He was young, and Thomas wasn't sure if his mother would have characterized the Grants as "good family," but they certainly weren't bad, not to Thomas's way of thinking.

And when he turned to Thomas and asked if he wanted to get coffee sometime? Thomas opened his mouth, his knee-jerk "No, thank you" at the ready, when he realized abruptly that while he may not have thought there was room for love in his life, there certainly seemed to be room for Peter Grant.

Oh, he thought. Oh no.

#Resolution19 #Rivers of London #RoL #starlingale #david mellenby #mCD #thomas has a Tragic Backstory

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headlineawards · 6 years ago

Text

Other Character Fiction Winners

Fiction Winners Other Characters

The Best Thing Since Rainbows Award [Best gen., other]

Winner - "Shilo Died" by Duckydash13 “While we absolutely adored the writing, plot, and concept of Shilo Died, what stood out was the number of ways we were able to interpret this story. Of course, it stands on its own as a description of when and why Nathan told Mag that Shilo had died, but at a deeper level it’s a moment of transition. This isn’t just Nathan lying to Mag. This is the moment he chooses to hide not only from her but from the world. That’s a momentous decision.

At yet another level, the story plays with the idea of hiding. Nathan’s isolated himself in the house. He’s hiding from the world. He’s hiding the truth when he tells Mag that Shilo died, and in doing so he’s hiding his daughter not only from those he thinks will harm her, but from Mag who would care for her. He tries to hid his grief but Mag’s concern is too much for him. “I said I was fine!” Another lie, another truth hidden.

All of these levels of meaning, and we’re sure there are more, make this story a delight to read.”

Runner-up - Not Wholly Human by Kira_K “In "Not Wholly Human" by Kira_K, we see a glimpse of a different Dominion, one in which a new factor not dreamed of in Canon seems to threaten to further destabilize the already precarious world in which David Whele and his fellow Vega Citizens must survive. Just as in Canon, David is the voice of caution against all the alien beings that seem to threaten humanity. But as always, the question remains, are his razor-edged warnings words of wisdom, or merely fear? This careful look at David's very familiar reaction to a very different Chosen One suggests a satisfying if unusual answer.”

The Imagine You & Me Award [Best romance, other]

Winner - Dear Marni, I Am So Sorry by Forestwater “Wow. This is an amazing piece of work. The writing grabs your heart and pulls you in, and it doesn’t let go even after you’ve finished reading. It’s a journey through all kinds of emotions. Despite the sense of doom that hangs over everything, we were so happy to meet Marni and find out what a cool person she was. Delighted to see the friendship both Marni and Nathan had with Mag. And of course, that made it all the more painful when it all shattered into pieces. To say we cried would be an understatement- the intensity, the ugliness, and the sheer inevitability of the events took us far beyond that. And when Shilo opens her eyes at the end, eyes that are so like Marni’s, that brings a whole new kind of tears.”

Runner-up - An Ocean Away by timeladyleo “We can’t wait to read the rest of this story! You’ve really captured the essence of the characters and their stubbornness and insecurities. It’s frustrating to see them stand in the way of their own happiness, but we still enjoy reading it a lot. More please!”

The Gold Blend Award [Best smut, other]

Winner - Infinite by Jay_eagle “If you think BDSM is (or should be) all about pain and punishment and seeking pleasure at someone else's expense, Infinite, by Jay_eagle might just change your mind. This sensitive and evocative depiction of three men loving each other in all of the ways that each of them needs is a testament to the fact that, in the right hands, "Safe, sane, and consensual" can be very, very sexy.”

Runner-up - A Kiss is a Terrible Thing to Waste by Amberswansong “There’s such an off kilter tenderness to this, even in this rough moment between strangers in a ruined world. The way Nathan “introduces” Grave to Marni is achingly sad and quickly passed. The details of Graves’s voracious appetite and agelessness, his eyelashes against Nathan’s cheek—they all create an emotional core in the midst of a sticky fumble. Graverobber’s skill and Nathan’s hunger both seem perfectly in character and the fine line between Nathan and his other half is wrought with subtlety. These two are strange bedfellows, but a sweet and sultry moment shines between them here.”

The Legal Assassin Award [Best dark, other]

Winner - Blood by Derangedfangirl “This is a sharply poetic piece of work. Not a single word is wasted. Even the white space between the paragraphs builds tension, as if the reader is looking in on something we aren't supposed to see. The gradual split between Nathan and the Repo Man, with the notion that Nathan feels as though he leaves his body and watches the killings, is drawn expertly in a new way. The poetic language creates beauty amidst the carnage. Really beautiful.”

Runner-up - Want to See You Again by Crankyoldman “This story was deceptively sweet with Nathan’s interactions with Mag, before diving into the darkness of his true intentions for being at his wife’s grave. It shows a harsh reality of parenthood, feeling like you can’t possibly manage this alone. The tension is expertly built as Nathan performs a Norman Bates-esque ritual with the body, all culminating in the utterly chilling last line. Packs a punch for such a bite-sized story. Great work!”

The Behind Green Eyes Award [Best characterization, other]

Winner - An Ocean Away by timeladyleo for Herc Shipwright “What a wonderful excursion into the life of Cabin Pressure, with Carolyn and Herc at their bittersweet best. The voices were exactly right, with Arthur at his sweetest, seemingly oblivious, but always knowing just what's going on. The emails were a special bonus treat. Listen to your fans, and finish this... with a happy ending!”

Runner-up - Dear Marni, I Am So Sorry by Forestwater for Nathan Wallace “This quiet romance with a tragic ending really struck us. The way this story was written was an excellent understated approach to characterizing a Nathan who wasn't bitter toward the whole world yet, but who had the potential for dark, impulsive acts within him. The frantic scenes as Marni died and directly after are heartbreaking. Nathan's thoughts of being unable to care for Shilo are so relevant to the stress of being a newly single parent to a newborn. It's easy to see how this character transitions into the Repo Man we know. Amazing job!”

The May the Best Man Win Award [Fan favorite, other]

Winner - An Ocean Away by timeladyleo

Runner-up - Dear Marni, I Am So Sorry by Forestwater

Runner-up - I won't let go until you do by Hypothetical_otters

#headline awards

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qqueenofhades · 7 years ago

Text

the tangled web of fate we weave: ix

part viii/AO3.

For a very long moment, Lucy struggles to discern what the sensible, rational response in this situation would be. Not that that is remotely pertinent to her actions anymore, but she still has to make the effort. How did Emma know they were here? Has she been looking for Lucy (and Flynn) on Rittenhouse’s behalf ever since the Great Gala Jailbreak? There were certainly more convenient moments to approach her, if so – not here in frigging Philadelphia when she’s decided she can’t do this anymore. But Emma does look genuinely distressed and apologetic, and Lucy’s caretaker instinct surfaces: a student has come to her with a problem, needs to talk it through. After another moment when she wonders if she should yell for Flynn, and decides that absolutely no good can come of it, she repeats, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry. It’s a long story.” Emma glances at her diffidently, notices her tears, and frowns. “Are you okay? I ran into you pretty hard.”

“Yes, I’m fine. It’s not – not that.” Lucy wipes her eyes quickly with the back of her hand. “How did you find – me?”

“I talked to your friend Wyatt, back in San Francisco,” Emma says. “On Saturday. Got a flight out, and here I am. Is Garcia Flynn here?”

Lucy flinches. “What – if he was, what would you want with him?”

“I need to talk to him.” Emma shrugs. “Wyatt suggested he might be helpful. Here at the University of Pennsylvania – I think I know what you’re trying to do. Just got turned down trying to access the Rittenhouse collections, didn’t you?”

“How did – ” Lucy opens and shuts her mouth, suspicious instincts flaring up instead. “What, have you been following me? Spying? We talked at the gala, I know you’re one of them!”

Emma raises both hands, then uses them to slowly open her sleek leather jacket and show Lucy that it’s empty. “Easy, princess. Look, no gun, none of that. I’m not here to help Rittenhouse. I’m here because I’m trying to get away from them.”

That, despite herself, catches Lucy off guard. She figured that Rittenhouse’s members were as fanatically devoted to it as any other cult, and sure, there’s probably a job perk or two – money, influence, knowledge, power, the sell-your-soul-for-a-teeny-little-price infernal bargain that goes back to Faustus and Mephistopheles. They didn’t seem like the kind of people troubled by second thoughts, in other words, but she supposes that doesn’t mean that they don’t exist. Just made to conveniently disappear, or forced to shun their entire family – like the “Suppressive Persons” principle in Scientology, where you can’t talk to your loved ones if they don’t appreciate you becoming a marching disciple of Xenu. Does Rittenhouse have a Sea Org? Probably. They must not know about Emma’s desertion plans, or do they?

At any rate, it’s unhappily clear that this is a question beyond Lucy’s pay grade. She really does not want to turn around and walk back to Flynn, especially less than ten minutes after telling him to get professional help and that he was on his own, but if Emma really is here to turn on Rittenhouse, it could be the break that they need. Besides, that old impulse to be nice, Lucy Good Girl Preston, has once more made its reappearance. Emma came quite a long way and took considerable risks to do it. She should at least get a proper hearing out.

Lucy wavers a moment more. Then she says, “All right. Come on.”

Emma walks next to her as they start back down the path, as Lucy tries to resist the urge to ask what exactly Wyatt said about her (or Flynn). Finally, as casually as she can, she says, “So you saw Wyatt in San Francisco?”

“He turned up there, yeah.” Emma glances sidelong at her. “Came all the way to Mason Industries. Seemed pretty determined.”

“Mason – right, you work there.” Lucy remembers that, and telling Flynn while they were hurtling down the dark road. “So he’s still on the case?”

“Looks like it. Also, if I had to guess, behind his bosses’ backs. Freaked Connor the hell out.” Emma laughs shortly. “Then again, Connor – but no. I shouldn’t talk about this here.”

That makes Lucy glance to either side, as if armed Matrix henchmen might be rushing up to apprehend them, but she sees nothing out of the ordinary for a normal Tuesday morning on a busy university campus. It occurs to her to wonder what to do if Flynn has done a bunk or run back to Van Pelt for another go (or to aggressively persuade the librarian to hand over the books and nobody gets hurt), but they round a corner and there he is, still standing where Lucy left him. His never-ending whirl of energy and (mostly bad) ideas and anger seems to have momentarily run dry, as if he never considered that they weren’t going to do this as partners, that he’s, as the saying goes, S.O.L. Then he looks up and sees her walking back toward him, third party in tow, and the expression on his face is almost comical. And then, he apparently remembers where he recognizes Emma from, and it goes thunderous.

“Easy.” Emma pulls open her jacket again. “There. Not carrying. Can you say the same?”

Flynn clearly can’t (Lucy saw him take his gun out of the suitcase this morning), but this at least throws him enough for Emma to take over the conversation first. “Yes,” she says, before Flynn can recover. “You saw me at the Rittenhouse party, I’m guessing, when you had the brilliant idea to sneak in and grab Lucy. Cahill was furious. I think he fired his entire security team. Ruined their stock options, too.”

“Good,” Flynn manages, after another dumbstruck moment, while Lucy is still wanting to know what exactly Rittenhouse stock options are. “Serves the bastard right.”

“I agree.” Emma smiles faintly. “Cahill’s a pompous asshole who thinks he’s a lot smarter than he is. We all could have told him that popping up in your secret daughter’s life after twenty-seven years incommunicado and promising her that she too can join the Evil Empire isn’t a great plan. Is that what you’re doing here? Investigating Rittenhouse?”

Flynn hesitates. He half-puts out an arm toward Lucy, as if to shield her, then drops it. Finally he says grumpily, “Yes.”

“Thought so. Whose idea was this?”

“Mine,” Lucy says, without stopping to think it over. It might be more convenient to let Flynn take the blame for it, since he was the one who dragged them out here (well, he didn’t quite drag, she did choose to come along, at least until he started with the time travel business – perhaps she should warn Emma that Flynn is possibly clinically insane and not liable to be much help, but the words don’t come). “I put the pieces together about David Rittenhouse and where he used to teach, and I thought there might be something here.”

“Clever.” Emma eyes her approvingly, almost in a way that makes Lucy wonder if she’s hitting on her, and if she would mind if she was. “And as a matter of fact, you’re right. There are plenty of Rittenhouse papers here. I could probably get you in.”

“We tried,” Lucy admits. “They wanted an appointment.”

“Well.” Emma shrugs again. “I can deal with that. Well? You in?”

Flynn has been regarding her narrowly, as if trying to find the words for a thought he can’t quite articulate. Then he says, “Why are you helping us?”

“Because,” Emma says, “I have full expectation of being helped in return. As I said to your girlfriend, I want away from them. You’re in the NSA, or at least you were. I’m figuring you can give me something a little more substantial than the witness-protection starter kit that Logan was offering. New identity, new placement, possibly somewhere outside the States. I was thinking London. I’d like to live in London.”

“It rains a lot.” Flynn has continued to watch her carefully. “Not much like California.”

“I think I can adjust.” Emma tilts her chin back. “We could make it look legit. Connor Mason’s from there, after all. He has plenty of satellite corporations and partner enterprises in the City. I could even keep my day job, just pretend to be hired on as a new employee. So?”

Flynn is quiet. Lucy can hear him debating whether to disclose that he’s not really an NSA agent anymore, that his employment status is – to say the least – murky, and that even if he did promise, there’s not any guarantee that he could carry it through. But if that is all it would take – tell Emma to buy an umbrella and start watching Doctor Who, and she’ll spirit them into the Rittenhouse archives – is he really going to do that?

It turns out, indeed, that the answer is yes. Flynn pauses a final moment, then jerks his head in a terse nod and holds out his hand. “Fine.”

Emma smiles, shakes it, and gives Flynn just enough of a look to make the jealousy in Lucy’s chest, just about (but not quite) tamped down, flare its green-eyed snout out for another sniff. Emma is based in the Bay Area, after all – is this who he spent the night with? He seems genuinely surprised to see her, as well as learning that she wants to turn on Rittenhouse, and they’re not acting like two people who had a secret dirty hookup just a few nights ago. But since Flynn has been so utterly obtuse about it, and Lucy is so utterly in the dark, she is scrambling for any clue or possibility, even while reminding herself that it is stupid. Emma gave her a look kind of like that too, after all. Maybe she’s just really excited about getting away from Rittenhouse. Which is entirely possible.

Emma leads the way with a confident stride as they climb the steps of Van Pelt. Lucy wonders what the librarian is going to make of them, turning up hopefully again barely an hour after being bounced the first time, but she doesn’t have to wonder for long. They head inside, Emma asks to speak to someone managerial-sounding, and a balding, middle-aged man with an institutional ID around his neck is apparently delighted to see her. He does look briefly squiggly-eyed when Emma introduces her friends – is Lucy being paranoid, or has he been tipped to be on the lookout for someone matching their description? – but it is quickly smoothed over. Yes, he would be happy to fetch up any boxes they want. Did Ms. Whitmore have something particularly in mind?

For the first time since Lucy walked off in tears, she and Flynn glance at each other, though she isn’t sure what is communicated in it. This is certainly an improvement over their last aborted attempt, and Emma has an air about her that feels as if you should just make it easier on yourself and do what she says. The archivist scurries off to get their boxes, and once they’re in the private reading room, Lucy says, “You must know these people pretty well.”

“I’ve worked my way up.” Emma evidently catches the implicit question in this. “You don’t entirely trust me, do you?”

“It seems a little convenient,” Lucy admits. “That you’ve turned up now.”

“Any more than you agreeing to come out here with him?” Emma turns an amused eye on Flynn, who is once more impersonating a piece of classical statuary. “We all have our reasons for wanting Rittenhouse taken down, don’t we? Trust me, if I was still working for them, I wouldn’t have let you get within sniffing distance of this place. There’s stuff here that even some of the long-term members haven’t seen. Tell me, Lucy, have you ever heard of Nicholas Keynes?”

“No.” Lucy’s startled. “Should I have?”

“You tell me.” Emma arches an eyebrow. “Anyway, he was killed in 1918 – World War I, Saint-Mihiel, France. It was a huge loss for Rittenhouse, apparently. He was some kind of mastermind for them, wrote reams and reams about how to reform the world and redesign humanity in a new image. The kind of eugenics soft-fascism screed that was really popular for everyone until Hitler came along and ruined it. Some of his stuff might be here.”

That sends a cold chill down Lucy’s spine, though she’s not even sure why. She glances at Flynn again. He hasn’t been rushing to bust out his “time travel!!!” theory in front of Emma, so either he realizes it’s cracked, or he doesn’t want Emma to likewise decide he’s too crazy to help. Not that that really seems to constrain Flynn otherwise, given what he’s been busting out on Lucy on a regular basis, but still.

After a few more minutes, the archivist returns with several boxes, which prove to contain some of David Rittenhouse’s original papers. Lucy can’t help a historian’s frisson of delight – she loves old books and obscure archives and handling the documents that people so many centuries before you (or three, in this case) touched, knowing that they survived this long and you’re looking at what they made with their own hands. She thanks the archivist, who sees himself out with half a bow, then shuts the door, and she, Flynn, and Emma start to dig.

Of the three of them, Lucy is by far the most experienced at reading elaborate eighteenth-century handwriting; both Flynn and Emma are quickly looking a little cross-eyed. It’s undoubtedly interesting, if not as immediately enlightening as they were hoping. A lot of Rittenhouse’s scientific and astronomical notes, and sketched models for his orrery, or model of the universe, that’s still in Penn’s collections. A copy of his lecture to the American Philosophical Society in February 1775, which so impressed the founding fathers that they ordered it distributed at the Constitutional Convention. Some correspondence between Rittenhouse and famous and non-famous parties – Lucy catches her breath when she sees one from Thomas Jefferson, even though Jefferson was definitely a jerk. But nothing referencing an Illuminati-esque secret society bent on taking over the world, and she starts to wonder if ol’ Dave Rittenhouse actually had anything to do with it. Maybe it really was a bunch of creepy ideologues borrowing his name and some of his ideas about time and fate.

An hour or so passes, as Lucy keeps diligently searching. Flynn is working on a stack of newspapers, and Emma is turning through a folder labeled J. Rittenhouse, which seems to be David’s son – that’s weird, Lucy didn’t recall him having one, though she doesn’t keep a close track on that kind of thing. Finally, when she’s pretty sure that she’s had at least a preliminary look through everything, she straightens up. “I’m not sure this is it.”

“These are only a few boxes,” Emma says. “The full collection is much bigger. We could keep looking.”

“There has to be something.” Flynn throws down the newspapers rather harder than one should for a lot of delicate historical documents. “This is taking too long!”

Lucy bites her cheek, wanting to point out that if Flynn thinks one morning of trawling through archives without finding what you want is too much, he is definitely not cut out to be a historian. Still, either they can try to read more of this, or they can try… well, something else. She looks back at Emma. “Did Rittenhouse purge these documents? Probably, right? They wouldn’t have kept anything around where some random researcher could find it, even if the odds were low. Is there some other archive?”

“Look,” Emma says. “I am telling you everything I know. I can ask if there are other boxes that the archivist is keeping back, or – ”

“No.” Flynn stands up, knocking the desk. “This isn’t working. We need to try something else. What you said earlier – Keynes, Nicholas Keynes. Where’s the material on him?”

“I’m not sure,” Emma replies. “I only said I thought it might be here, I don’t know if it is. But we need to be careful. I can open a lot of doors, but not all of them. If Rittenhouse gets wind that I’m poking around in the dark underbelly of things, they could get tipped off, and – ”

“Are you going to be useful or not?”

Emma blinks. “Excuse me? I’m the one who came here and tried to – ”

“Yes, well, I didn’t ask Wyatt Logan to give out my whereabouts like I’m some sort of rest home for stray Rittenhouse runaways! So how about you come up with an idea, or – ”

“Wow,” Emma says bitingly. “So I’m only worth having around if I’m immediately useful, not because I’m on the run from an incredibly evil organization that will take both of us down the instant they get the first chance, and I’m already doing everything I can to help you. Good to know. Real winner you’ve got here, Lucy.”

It is on the tip of Lucy’s tongue to inform the other woman that they are not together, that Flynn has been doing everything short of lighting himself on fire to forestall the possibility, but that is also not Emma’s business either way. Instead she says, “Squabbling about this is not going to help. Emma, is there any way for you to see if they have the Keynes stuff without setting off too many alarm bells? Maybe have them bring up another Rittenhouse box, just to be thorough, but it’s probably already been censored.”

Emma considers, then tips a shoulder. “Fine. I’ll go back down and ask. But if something does go sideways, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

With that, she strides to the reading room door and lets herself out, shutting it with not-quite-a-bang behind her. That leaves Lucy and Flynn alone together for the first time since she ended it (the professional relationship, if you can call it that) this morning. Did that, and yet look, here they are, back together. As if they can’t escape each other’s gravitational pull no matter how hard they try, as if there is some invisible tether yanking them back together. It’s not clear if either of them appreciate it, or if this “somehow destined toward each other” thing is a hell of a lot more trouble than it’s worth. Lucy could do with being able to walk away from him, just once. See how it goes. Not that the three-odd weeks in which they were apart after the shooting were that great, in the least. But still.

Neither of them seem keen to break the silence, staring fixedly at the far wall. Finally Flynn says, “If she can find the papers on Keynes, then what? Can we just – ”

Lucy holds up a hand. She doesn’t know that she’s surprised that he’s still barreling full speed ahead to what looks like a truly spectacular fiery crash, but she can’t in good faith stand by and let it happen. “Can we back up from that for a minute? For several minutes? This morning, remember, when you came out with the ridiculous time travel thing? Emma works at Mason Industries. You can just ask her. I’m not saying it’s not something that a cutting-edge spec-tech company might try, but. . . Garcia. Please.”

Flynn looks at her for a long moment. There are clearly any number of things he could say to that. Because he’s Flynn, apparently, he selects the least helpful. “So what? This is only possible if it happens with things you know about? Haven’t we established that you don’t? You don’t know, Lucy. So why pretend you do?”

Lucy’s cheeks flame. “That’s what you’re going with? I try to help, I try to take you seriously when you sound more like a paranoid ranting lunatic all the time, and instead of acknowledging this or giving me any solid reason to believe you, you’ll just keep acting like a total – ”

“How is this my fault now? Emma’s here, she’s told you that Rittenhouse are exactly as bad as we thought or worse, so what do you need – an itemized receipt? Or do you never actually intend to believe that I could possibly – ”

“It’s not that I don’t believe Rittenhouse is bad, it’s that I don’t believe – for obvious reasons, I might add – that time travel has anything to do with it, or that you should be working this again when you already almost got killed, or that you’re going to just – you know what. I don’t care. I don’t care. Suit yourself.”

Flynn’s eyes glitter. He does that thing with his tongue that he – well, that he really just should not be allowed to do, especially right now. Echoing her own words deliberately back at her, he says, “That’s what you’re going with?”

Lucy’s flush deepens. “What do you mean?”

“I think you know what I mean.” Flynn shrugs. “Considering the looks you’ve been giving me. Or are we also pretending those don’t exist?”

For a moment, for two, for several, Lucy is totally speechless. She isn’t sure what she’s more furious about – that he’s taken note of her thinly disguised jealousy and is using it against her, or that she’s almost pleased he did. Not that he’s being a dick, but that is just Flynn’s everyday, ordinary operation. Nothing out of the ordinary, and yet. She has had it up to here, and she takes a step, then another, advancing on him like a big-game hunter. “If by that little crack, you mean that it’s bothered me that you’ve gone to all this trouble to get me to help you, then start acting as if I don’t exist or you can��t say a sensible word to me, then – then yes! Just tell me, just tell me, why you’re so convinced that we’re some sort of – ”

“I’m trying to explain!” Flynn shouts back at her. “I’m trying to explain, but it’s insane, it’s insane, and if you’re just going to act like a – ”

“Act like a what, exactly – or am I somehow the only one in denial about what’s – ”

They’re almost nose to nose despite the height difference, Lucy almost on her tiptoes, head craned back in order to look him in the eye, even as her utterly unhelpful Nice Girl brain chimes in yet again to remind her that she should not be shouting in a library, even one where they are currently alone in the room. Honestly, she wants to reach out with both hands and shove Flynn in the chest, not that she’s likely to dislodge him at all, but it might be worth it to see him off guard, even for a split second. But if she does that, she’s not altogether sure what would happen next. There is too much bottled up between them, and this is as far from the place or time as could be imagined. Yet her exasperation has run over, and she needs to do something more than just shout at him, needs to –

Lucy pushes at him, and Flynn catches her, his large hand almost swamping her slender wrist. It’s clear that he’s not going to get without giving just as good, but it feels like fire shooting down her entire body, rooting her feet to the floor. She wriggles like a fish on a hook, almost whimpers – she’s practically in his arms and his free hand comes up to cup her face and the look on his own – it’s not about goading her, it’s not about scoring points off her jealousy or whatever the hell this nuclear disaster of a human being thought he was doing earlier. He looks as if he’s caught lightning in his bare hands, as if that is why the world turns on its axis and how the stars align, as if he can’t believe he is actually touching her, and nothing about this man makes sense, and yet –

Lucy grabs at his head, hauling his obnoxious skyscraper ass closer to hers, completely out of patience or desire to pretend that she doesn’t want to find out, at least once, what they were about to have on that first night, before everything got knocked off track and arguably has never gotten back on. One of his arms is around her and the other still has hold of her wrist and he lifts her and her mouth is opening, raw and hungry, and –

There is a click at the door as it opens, a marked silence, and a very pointed cough and throat-clearing. “So. . . I should just come back later, then?”

Lucy and Flynn are too entangled to let go of each other immediately, but they try, managing to spring apart after only a belated instant of sorting out whose limbs belong to who. Emma is standing there with a box in her arms and both eyebrows arched as high as they will go, as if it’s a good thing she walked in here if Van Pelt Library did not want its nice old tables banged upon like rabbits. (Not that they would have, but – Lucy’s legs feel weak and she doesn’t dare look at Flynn and her heart is hammering in her ears.) Emma continues to regard them archly as they weakly shuffle several more paces apart, then says, “Well, I don’t know if this is useful or not, but it’s what they had. Should we take a look, or is there something else you’d rather be doing?”

“No,” Lucy blurts out. “We’re fine. We’re ready.”

Emma carts the box over to the table, pulls it open, and they start to dig. It’s old journals and thin sheets of onionskin-fine paper, covered in the same strong, slanting black handwriting. There’s a black-and-white photo of a young man, presumably Nicholas Keynes, in a World War I uniform, holding a blonde baby girl who looks briefly, glancingly familiar, though Lucy has no idea why. It’s poignant to think that he never made it home, went off to die on the killing fields of France like so many other young men. Is that his daughter? Did she grow up wondering what happened to him, or did she always know?

“Lucy?” Flynn says. “Lucy!”

“Sorry.” She jumps. “I’m awake. I – just.” She can’t believe she’s the one asking this, but before she follows either of them any further down this rabbit hole, and since Flynn clearly isn’t going to bring it up, she is going to have to be the one to bite the bullet. Hopefully not literally. “Emma, is Mason Industries working on. . . is there anything you know of about them trying to invent. . . a time machine?”

She cringes even as it’s coming out of her mouth, ready to be laughed out of the reading room, but Emma doesn’t react as if it’s a joke. Indeed, her eyes and mouth both go narrow, she looks as if she definitely did not see that coming but not for the reasons you’d think, and cocks her head to one side. Then she says, “Who told you that?”

“I did,” Flynn bulls in, completely blowing to hell any idea Lucy had about protecting him by not bringing him up (she doesn’t know why, but she’s done it consistently for a while now, and it’s just habit, ill-advised or not). “Well?”

Emma laughs, but with somewhat less humor than previously. “Aren’t you two a pair of eager beavers. Very well, yes. Connor Mason has been working on the prototype for at least the last five years. Probably longer, I don’t know. He used to just be able to send quarks and other sub-atomic particles, but he graduated to vertebrates, then to midsize mammals, and he’s finally gotten to the place where he’s ready to try human subjects. I told you that I did advanced software testing, Lucy. Remember?”

That rocks Lucy almost physically onto her heels. It’s one thing to have Flynn running off at the mouth about a time machine, but to then hear it from someone else – someone who seems, to all appearances, sane, well-adjusted, professional, and with no apparent reason to lie about it – is altogether something else. “I – I’m sorry,” she manages. “You do – is that what you do? Test runs in a time machine? Isn’t that – isn’t that dangerous?”

“Of course it’s dangerous.” Emma seems slightly surprised that she has to ask. “We’ve lost half a dozen people already. Others returned with mental problems, seizures, missing limbs – it’s a regular Dr. Frankenstein’s nightmare lab in there, sometimes. I’m one of the lucky ones, I’m good at my job. It’s something, let me tell you.”

“You’re. . .” Lucy feels choked, faint, reaches out reflexively for Flynn’s arm. “You’re telling me that you’ve traveled through time?”

“Only briefly. I haven’t been allowed out of the Mothership. Just jump back, hold it – I think the longest I’ve managed is two minutes – and then return to the present. One of these days, though, one of us is going to open the door and step out. Probably Anthony, it’s his brainchild as much as Connor’s.” Emma looks somewhat gratified at the effect that this is having on both of them – even Flynn seems floored, much as he’s trying to play it cool. “Actually visit the past. A historian like you, Lucy, you can’t tell me you’re not interested.”

Lucy keeps opening and shutting her mouth, making noises like a stepped-on bladder. Finally she succeeds in, “Why? How can this – surely this can’t be legal?”

“What do you mean?” Emma clearly doesn’t understand. “Was it illegal for us to try to get to the moon, into space? Astronauts died, plenty of them, but the ultimate goal, the success, was worth it. Humans always want to go places they’ve never been before. If they die on the adventure, well, that happens. That’s not illegal.”

Lucy supposes she’s right, but this isn’t like kayaking down the Amazon or trying to climb Mount Everest or whatever else. History is her field of study, her specialty, her love – but it’s in the past, it’s comfortingly solid (at least in one sense), and it’s the reason you don’t wake up some morning and find that all of known reality has shifted out from under you. Things happened one way, not another, and that is just how the cookie crumbles. It might be arbitrary, it might be irrational, it might be – as Flynn said in their argument back in her apartment – scared animals making stupid choices, but they’re still done, solidified, over with. The possibility of messing with that is very, very dangerous.

“Why does anyone need a time machine?” Lucy says at last. “What would they possibly do with it? Rittenhouse – is Rittenhouse planning on. . .?” A creepy cult is one thing. A creepy cult with the chance to control all time and space is. . . not even nightmarish seems to fit. Jesus. Flynn is right. He’s right, he’s not crazy (or at least if he believes this, it’s because someone even crazier has claimed it first). He’s not actively or maliciously misleading her, he’s. . . as insane as this is, and putting aside the entire question of whether it is actually the case, he’s trying to tell her the truth as he sees it. He isn’t lying about this, or at least not consciously. And Lucy has no idea what to do with that.

“I don’t know what they want with it,” Emma says. “That’s Connor’s department, not mine. I just run the tests they tell me.”

“And what?” Flynn growls. “You’ve never told Rittenhouse that your other employer just happened to invent a time machine? When this would be the exact sort of thing they’d kill their own grandmothers to get a hold of?”

“They might know something about it.” Emma’s fingers tap on the edge of the Nicholas Keynes box. “Not from me, though. Connor has all sorts of cozy ties with them, they’ve funded his work for years. Very generously.”

Flynn’s nostrils flare. He turns sharply on his heel and stalks the length of the reading room, then back, like a zoo tiger in a too-small cage. “Brilliant,” he spits at last. “So it’s true. Rittenhouse are about to have a time machine of their very own, and that imbecile Mason is in it up to the hilt. How far is it from completion?”

“It’s in the testing phase, like I said.” Emma eyes him carefully, as if to judge the likelihood that he will burst out of here and go full Incredible Hulk. “It’s nowhere near out of beta. I’ve come back from my test jumps because I’m good. Not everyone does. It has to be at least a few years away from full functionality, we still have to invent half the technology we need to complete it properly. It’s incredibly complicated theoretical physics and mechanical engineering, you can’t just put out an ad on Craigslist for the kind of people you need to work on it. But if we can disrupt Rittenhouse beforehand, it doesn’t matter.”

Flynn stares back at her. His gaze flicks between the box on the table, to Lucy, then back to Emma, as if he’s trying to work something out – what exactly, Lucy can’t be sure, but given his track record, not likely to be anything good. Finally, he whirls on his heel and starts toward the door, without a glance back at the Nicholas Keynes papers he was so adamant that they fetch, and Lucy runs after him. “Flynn. Flynn! Where are you –?”

“We’re wasting time in here,” Flynn snaps. “We’re done.”

“I just went to get these damn things,” Emma says. “Now you’re doing a bunk on me without even looking at them?”

“What other homework do we need to do? I think we’ve heard plenty about who these people are and what they want! You’re the one who’s good at this, if that’s what you want to do. Me, well, I have something else.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.” This might be a fool’s errand, but Lucy doesn’t care. She takes a few more steps after him, reaching for his arm, turning him toward her. “Garcia, don’t – ”

He looks at her as if he never wants to stop, as if he is memorizing her. His brow is drawn and dark, his lips thin, his eyes shadowed. It’s as if he has suddenly felt the weight of whatever he has decided on, and is struggling to understand if it is worth bearing. Then, almost gently, he pulls his arm out of her grasp. “Goodbye, Lucy.”

This is an extremely dramatic and frankly, incredibly extra thing to say, especially since Lucy wasn’t even aware that this was a farewell until he did. She stares at him, words caught in her throat, and just then, hears footsteps behind her. Emma’s voice says in her ear, “How about everyone just calm down.”

Lucy would like to point out that she’s calm, she’s very calm – well, she’s not, her mind is racing, she doesn’t quite understand what Flynn was about to do, but she’s not coming unglued. Then she feels the slight prick of something at the side of her neck, which she doesn’t understand, and starts to turn. “Emma, what are you – ”

“Everyone calm down,” Emma repeats. Her hand catches Lucy’s wrist, lithe and strong. Lucy can feel another prick under her right ear, sees a brief glint of metal in the ceiling light and – she can’t look to be sure, but she has the sudden and overwhelming impression that Emma is holding a box cutter to her jugular vein. She can, however, see Flynn’s face, and it’s gone white and frozen. What is – what is –

“Easy,” Emma says. “One thing at a time. You. Flynn. You have a gun on you?”

Flynn’s head jerks up once, then down.

“Thought so. Now, take it out of your jacket and slide it over here with your foot. Very carefully. No sudden moves.”

“Emma,” Lucy manages, feeling the razor-sharp edge of the blade rasp against her skin. This has all turned on its head too fast to be believed. “Emma, what are you – ”

“Sorry, princess,” Emma says. “But I can’t let your boyfriend do what I’m pretty sure he was just about to do. I thought we were getting along. I was really helping you out, you know. Not my fault you decided to be difficult.”

“You’re not here to turn on Rittenhouse,” Flynn says, voice a rasp. “Are you.”

“We’ll leave it up to debate what I’m doing, and for who.” Emma’s tone remains light, offhand. “Not something we need to get into right now. Anyway, as I was saying. Your gun?”

Flynn’s eyes burn holes through both of them. Emma makes a pointed little jab with the tip of the box cutter, and Lucy can feel a bead of blood roll down her neck. Flynn looks like the entire world has gone out from under him, as he slowly undoes his jacket, reaches in, and removes the gun, setting it on the floor and sliding it over. Emma puts her foot on it, never taking her eyes off him, as she can clearly sense that he is waiting for a split-second of distracted attention to try to charge her. She pulls Lucy down with her, using her as a shield, to pick up the gun and stow it in her own jacket, then straightens up. Transfers the box cutter deftly into her other hand and takes hold of Lucy’s as if they are in fact just gal pals, pressing the blade against the inside of her wrist. If Lucy tries to pull away too fast, or otherwise tries something funny, she will open the vein there, and bleed out within a few minutes.

“Well,” Emma says pleasantly. “Let’s take a ride.”

#lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #timeless ff #the tangled web of fate we weave

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ramon-balaguer · 4 years ago

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The Word and His Written Word

The Written Word & The Living Word

JESUS!!!

The Holy Bible is the most important book ever written. The One True and Living Almighty God chose to reveal Himself to us through the written word and The Living Word. Amazing and humbling!

You Have To Know The Word and His word. Impossible to know One without the Other. This way you just won’t have head knowledge but full understanding to Be in Right standing with Him, Rightly dividing (and not merely dividing His word) His word and judge Rightly.

Sadly, sometimes we get it wrong. We misunderstand or misapply the Truth God has Given us by The Holy Spirit through His Son (The Word) Jesus the Christ. Although there are countless causes, through my lil experience I’ve seen two primary problems crop up again and again.

Perspective - Too often we read God’s Word with our own purposes and goals in mind. But the Bible is all about God. When we read it with His Eternal purposes in mind, we will better grasp the truth of His Word.

Context – The Bible may have unlimited applications, but its meaning never changes. It means the same today as it did when it was written. To understand the original meaning, we must pull back and understand the context – of the passage, of the chapter, of the book.

Many times we hear and say things that some good and Biblical, but are Not… Other times we hear and say things that are Biblical, but are misunderstood or misapplied.

Many of my haters or critics incorrectly and inappropriately used Scriptures against me because they dislike, hate or disagree with what I am saying in Righteous judgment to either condemn or justify an action by an individual or group because it goes against their own thoughts, ideas, ideals and beliefs of what is or isn’t Right.

I am Not offended at all by their ignorance, but wouldn’t want them or anyone to remain ignorant; so with that in mind… Let me show or explain some Truth to give Understanding to your knowledge and thereby Rightly apply His word.

Here are some Bible verses (the first relates to the aforementioned, the second to my favorite Holy Scripture, and the last one with your desires vs God’s will) that are most often misunderstood due to perspective, context, or both:

1. Matthew 7:1

“Do not judge, or you too will be judged.”

Is all “judging” wrong? Jesus did condemn a harsh, critical “judging” motivated by a self-righteous, hypocritical attitude. But in the whole of Scripture, God clearly commands Christians to lovingly point out sin and exhort each other to holiness. It is not our place to determine their motives, but it is our responsibility to gently identify behavior God has already judged to be “sin.” The goal is to reconcile that person with God and others and to keep the sin from spreading (Matthew 18:15-17, 1 Corinthians 5:5-7, Hebrews 12:15, James 5:19-20).

2. Philippians 4:13

“I can do all this through him who gives me strength.”

Philippians 4:13 is probably the most misused verse in the Bible. We pull it out of the surrounding passage and hold it out as God’s obligation to empower our plans and dreams. Yet, Paul was writing about being content no matter his earthly circumstances. He could endure any difficulty or physical need through the strengthening power of Christ. Oh yes, Philippians 4:13 is a great promise indeed! Jesus will give us the strength we need to endure desperate need. His empowering presence will be with us through every difficult circumstance.

3. Proverbs 22:6

��Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it.”

Misunderstanding Proverbs 22:6 as a promise has led to grief for many parents. The book of Proverbs is wisdom literature, which offers general principles for successful living. A proverb is not a promise. Instead, let us use it as a tool for wise parenting and decision-making, and entrust our children to our faithful God!

4. Jeremiah 29:11

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”

This verse is definitely a promise. But it’s a promise for a particular people in a particular time. Through the prophet Jeremiah, God promised that after Judah’s pre-determined exile in Babylon, He would bring them back to the Promised Land. We often misappropriate promises. And while God does make a lot of promises to all believers, this particular promise isn’t one of them.

5. Matthew 18:20

“For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.”

Considering just this verse, we might believe that Jesus is with us only when we are with other believers. But the context of the larger passage is church discipline. When another believer sins, if he will not listen to one, two or three fellow believers should bring the matter to the church (Matthew 18:15-20).

6. 1 Corinthians 10:13

“No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.”

Many Christians claim this verse as a “promise” that God will never allow them to experience more difficulties than “they can handle.” Yet, the larger passage (1 Corinthians 10:1-13) deals with temptation and our ability to withstand it. God promises He will always provide a way for us to say “no” to temptation. In fact, Paul learned by experience that God will allow us to face circumstances “beyond our ability to endure” so that we will learn to rely on Him (see 2 Corinthians 1:8-11).

7. Habakkuk 1:5

“Look at the nations and watch - and be utterly amazed. For I am going to do something in your days that you would not believe, even if you were told.”

If we read this verse by itself, we might believe God is going to do something wonderful and glorious before our eyes. Well, He definitely did, but probably not what you’d expect. God sent the prophet Habakkuk to pronounce judgment on Judah for turning away from God. The amazing thing God planned was to send the brutal nation of Babylon to conquer His people and carry them into captivity. This verse should stand as a strong reminder that God does discipline His children.

8. James 1:2-3

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.”

We would think that James meant we could find joy in Christ in spite of our trials. That makes more sense! Yet, James really did say – and mean – because of our trials. While God cares very much about our physical circumstances, James knew He uses trials to refine our faith and make us more like Jesus. That is something to rejoice about!

9. Romans 8:28

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”

Does God control all the circumstances of our lives to make things turn out great for us? Let’s take a step back to grasp the glorious truth of Romans 8:28. First, this promise is not for all people, just Christians who love and follow Jesus. Second, in the larger context, (Romans 8:18-39), Paul reminds us that although we must temporarily endure earthly suffering, God works through it to continuously work out His greater, eternal plan for us (Romans 8:28-30). The “good” God is working towards is not temporary, earthly “success,” but the eternal purpose of us being “conformed to the likeness” of Jesus (Romans 8:29).

10. Psalm 37:4

“Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.”

If I find joy in God, will He fill my life with all the things I value and enjoy? Wait – remember context and focus. In this psalm, David contemplated the age-old question of why evil people seem to prosper while the righteous often struggle. David wrote to encourage his readers – and us – to widen our perspective, to live in light of eternity and to set our hope in God’s everlasting purposes. When we commit ourselves (delight) to God’s capable hands, our desire for the righteous to prevail will be realized in His timing.

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justforbooks · 7 years ago

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Julian Barnes: my life as a bibliophile.

From school prizes to writing his own novels, the author reflects on his lifelong bibliomania and explains why, despite e-readers and Amazon, he believes the physical book and bookshops will survive.

I have lived in books, for books, by and with books; in recent years, I have been fortunate enough to be able to live from books. And it was through books that I first realised there were other worlds beyond my own; first imagined what it might be like to be another person; first encountered that deeply intimate bond made when a writer's voice gets inside a reader's head. I was perhaps lucky that for the first 10 years of my life there was no competition from television; and when one finally arrived in the household, it was under the strict control of my parents. They were both schoolteachers, so respect for the book and what it contained were implicit. We didn't go to church, but we did go to the library.

My maternal grandparents were also teachers. Grandpa had a mail-order set of Dickens and a Nelson's Cyclopaedia in about 30 small red volumes. My parents had classier and more varied books, and in later life became members of the Folio Society. I grew up assuming that all homes contained books; that this was normal. It was normal, too, that they were valued for their usefulness: to learn from at school, to dispense and verify information, and to entertain during the holidays. My father had collections of Times Fourth Leaders; my mother might enjoy a Nancy Mitford. Their shelves also contained the leather-bound prizes my father had won at Ilkeston County School between 1921 and 1925, for "General Proficiency" or "General Excellence": The Pageant of English Prose, Goldsmith's Poetical Works, Cary's Dante, Lytton's Last of the Barons, Charles Reade's The Cloister and the Hearth.

None of these works excited me as a boy. I first started investigating my parents' shelves (and those of my grandparents, and of my older brother) when awareness of sex dawned. Grandpa's library contained little lubricity except a scene or two in John Masters's Bhowani Junction; my parents had William Orpen's History of Art with several important black-and-white illustrations; but my brother owned a copy of Petronius's Satyricon, which was the hottest book by far on the home shelves. The Romans definitely led a more riotous life than the one I witnessed around me in Northwood, Middlesex. Banquets, slave girls, orgies, all sorts of stuff. I wonder if my brother noticed that after a while some of the pages of his Satyricon were almost falling from the spine. Foolishly, I assumed all his ancient classics must have similar erotic content. I spent many a dull day with his Hesiod before concluding that this wasn't the case.

The local high street included an establishment we referred to as "the bookshop". In fact, it was a fancy-goods store plus stationer's with a downstairs room, about half of which was given over to books. Some of them were quite respectable – Penguin classics, Penguin and Pan fiction. Part of me assumed that these were all the books that there were. I mean, I knew there were different books in the public library, and there were school books, which were again different; but in terms of the wider world of books, I assumed this tiny sample was somehow representative. Occasionally, in another suburb or town, we might visit a "real" bookshop, which usually turned out to be a branch of WH Smith.

The only variant book-source came if you won a school prize (I was at City of London, then on Victoria Embankment next to Blackfriars Bridge). Winners were allowed to choose their own books, usually under parental supervision. But again, this was somehow a narrowing rather than a broadening exercise. You could choose them only from a selection available at a private showroom in an office block on the South Bank: a place both slightly mysterious and utterly functional. It was, I later discovered, yet another part of WH Smith. Here were books of weight and worthiness, the sort to be admired rather than perhaps ever read. Your school prize would have a particular value, you chose a book for up to that amount, whereupon it vanished from your sight, to reappear on Lord Mayor's prize day, when the Lord Mayor of London, in full regalia, would personally hand it over to you. Now it would contain a pasted-in page on the front end-paper describing your achievement, while the cloth cover bore the gilt-embossed school arms. I can remember little of what I obediently chose when guided by my parents. But in 1963 I won the Mortimer English prize and, being now 17, must have gone by myself to that depository of seriousness, where I found (whose slip-up could it have been?) a copy of Ulysses. I can still see the disapproving face of the Lord Mayor as his protectively gloved hand passed over to me this notoriously filthy novel.

By now, I was beginning to view books as more than just utilitarian, sources of information, instruction, delight or titillation. First there was the excitement and meaning of possession. To own a certain book – one you had chosen yourself – was to define yourself. And that self-definition had to be protected, physically. So I would cover my favourite books (paperbacks, inevitably, out of financial constraint) with transparent Fablon. First, though, I would write my name – in a recently acquired italic hand, in blue ink, underlined with red – on the edge of the inside cover. The Fablon would then be cut and fitted so that it also protected the ownership signature. Some of these books – for instance, David Magarshack's Penguin translations of the Russian classics – are still on my shelves.

Self-definition was one kind of magic. And then I was slowly introduced to another kind: that of the old, the secondhand, the non-new book. I remember a line of Auden first editions in the glass-fronted bookcase of a neighbour: a man, moreover, who had actually known Auden decades previously, and even played cricket with him. These facts seemed to me astonishing. I had never set eyes on a writer, or known anyone who had known a writer. I might have heard one or two on the wireless, seen one or two on television in a Face to Face interview with John Freeman. But our family's nearest connection to literature was the fact that my father had read modern languages at Nottingham University, where the professor was Ernest Weekley, whose wife had run off with DH Lawrence. Oh, and my mother had once seen RD Smith, husband of Olivia Manning, on a Birmingham station platform. Yet here were the ownership copies of someone who had known one of the country's most famous living poets. Further, these books contained Auden's still-echoing words in the form in which they had first come into the world. I sensed this magic sharply, and wanted part of it. So, from my student years, I became a book-collector as well as a book-user, and discovered that bookshops weren't all owned by WH Smith.

Over the next decade or so – from the late 1960s to the late 70s – I became a tireless book-hunter, driving to the market towns and cathedral cities of England in my Morris Traveller and loading it with books bought at a rate that far exceeded any possible reading speed. This was a time when most towns of reasonable size had at least one large, long-established secondhand bookshop, often found within the shadow of the cathedral or city church; as I remember, you could usually park right outside for as long as you wanted. Without exception these would be independently owned shops – sometimes with a selection of new books at the front – and I immediately felt at home in them. The atmosphere, for a start, was so different. Here books seemed to be valued, and to form part of a continuing culture.

By now, I probably preferred secondhand books to new ones. In America such items were disparagingly referred to as "previously owned"; but this very continuity of ownership was part of their charm. A book dispensed its explanation of the world to one person, then another, and so on down the generations; different hands held the same book and drew sometimes the same, sometimes a different wisdom from it. Old books showed their age: they had fox marks the way old people had liver spots. They also smelt good – even when they reeked of cigarettes and (occasionally) cigars. And many might disgorge pungent ephemera: ancient publishers' announcements and old bookmarks - often for insurance companies or Sunlight soap.

So I would drive to Salisbury, Petersfield, Aylesbury, Southport, Cheltenham, Guildford, getting into back rooms and locked warehouses and storesheds whenever I could. I was much less at ease in places that smelt of fine bindings, or that knew all too well the value of each item of stock. I preferred the democratic clutter of a shop whose stock was roughly ordered and where bargains were possible. In those days, even in shops selling new books, there was none of the ferociously fast stock turnaround that modern central management imposes. Nowadays, the average shelf-life of a new hardback novel – assuming it can reach a shelf in the first place – is four months. Then, books would stay on the shelves until someone bought them, or they might be reluctantly put into a special sale, or moved to the secondhand department, where they might rest for years on end. That book you couldn't afford, or weren't sure you really wanted, would often still be there on your return trip the following year. Secondhand shops also taught the lesson of the writer who has gone out of fashion. Charles Morgan, Hugh Walpole, Dornford Yates, Lord Lytton, Mrs Henry Wood – there would be yards and yards of them out there, waiting for fashion to turn again. It rarely did.

I bought with a hunger that I recognise, looking back, was a kind of neediness: well, bibliomania is a known condition. Book-buying certainly consumed more than half of my disposable income. I bought first editions of the writers I most admired: Waugh, Greene, Huxley, Durrell, Betjeman. I bought first editions of Victorian poets such as Tennyson and Browning (neither of whom I had read) because they seemed astonishingly cheap. The dividing line between books I liked, books I thought I would like, books I hoped I would like and books I didn't like now but thought I might at some future date was rarely distinct.

I collected King Penguins, Batsford books on the countryside, and the Britain in Pictures series produced by Collins in the 1940s and 50s. I bought poetry pamphlets and leather-backed French encyclopaedias published by Larousse; cartoon books and Victorian keepsakes; out-of-date dictionaries and bound copies of magazines from the Cornhill to the Strand. I bought a copy of Sensation!, the first Belgian edition of Waugh's Scoop. I even made up a category called Odd Books, used to justify eccentric purchases such as Sir Robert Baden-Powell's Pig-Sticking or Hog-Hunting, Bombadier Billy Wells's Physical Energy, Cheiro's Guide to the Hand and Tap-Dancing Made Easy by "Isolde". All are still on my shelves, if rarely consulted. I also bought books it made no sense to buy, either at the time or in retrospect – like all three volumes (in first edition, with dust-wrappers, and definitely unread by the previous owner) of Sir Anthony Eden's memoirs. Where was the sense in that?

My case was made worse by the fact that I was, in the jargon of the trade, a completist. So, for instance, because I had admired the few plays of Shaw that I'd seen, I ended up with several feet of his work, even down to obscure pamphlets about vegetarianism. Since Shaw was so popular, and his print-runs accordingly vast, I never paid much for any of this collection. Which also meant that when, 30 years later, having become less keen on Shaw's didacticism and self-conscious wit, I decided to sell out, a clear minus profit was made.

Occasionally, there were thrilling discoveries. In the back warehouse of F Weatherhead & Son of Aylesbury, I found a copy of the first two cantos of Byron's Don Juan, published without the author's name in 1819. This rare first edition, bound in blue cloth, cost me 12/6d (or 62.5p). I would like to pretend (as I occasionally used to) that it was my specialist knowledge of Byronic bibliography that led me to spot it. But this would have been to ignore the full pencil note from the bookseller inside the front cover ("Cantos I and II appeared in London in July 1819 without the name of either author or bookseller in a thin quarto"). The price of 12/6d therefore couldn't have been an oversight; more likely, it was an indication that the book had been on the shelves for decades.

Just as often, however, I would make serious mistakes. Why, for instance, did I buy, from DM Beach of Salisbury, Oliver Twist in its original monthly parts, as first issued by Bentley's Miscellany? It was a good idea because they were in perfect condition, with fine plates, covers and advertisements. It was a bad idea because one of the parts (either the first or last) was missing – hence the set's near-affordability. It was an optimistic idea because I was sure I would be able to track down the missing part at some moment in my collecting life. Needless to say, I never did, and this idiocy rebuked me from my shelves for many years.

Then there were moments when I realised that the world of books and book-collecting was not exactly as I'd imagined it. While I was familiar with famous cases of book forgery, I always assumed that collectors were honest and straightforward folk (I used to think the same about gardeners, too). Then, one day, I found myself at the Lilies in Weedon, Bucks – "by appointment only" – a 35-room Victorian mansion so stuffed with books that a visit occupied most of the day. Among its first edition section I found a book I had been chasing for years: Evelyn Waugh's Vile Bodies. It lacked a dustwrapper (which was normal – few early Waugh-buyers failed to discard the jackets), but was in pristine condition. The price was … astonishingly low. Then I read a little pencilled note which explained why. It was in the handwriting, and with the signature, of Roger Senhouse, the Bloomsburyite publisher who was Lytton Strachey's last lover. It read – and I quote from memory – "This second impression was left on my shelves in the place of my own first edition." I was deeply shocked. Clearly, it had not been a spur-of-the- moment act. The culprit must have arrived chez Senhouse with this copy concealed about him – I assumed it was a he not a she – then managed the switch when no one was in the room. Who could it have been? Might I ever be tempted to such action? (Yes, I subsequently was – tempted, that is.) And might someone do that to me and my collection one day? (Not as far as I know.)

More recently, I heard another version of this story, from a different point of view. A reader sent a rather famous living author a copy of an early novel of his (one whose first print-run was under a thousand copies), asking for a signature and enclosing return postage. After a while, a parcel arrived containing the novel, duly signed by the author – except that he had retained the valuable first edition and sent a second impression instead.

Back then, book-hunting involved high mileage, slow accumulation and frequent frustration; the side-effect was a tendency, when you failed to find what you wanted, to buy a scattershot array of stuff to prove that your journey hadn't been wasted. This manner of acquisition is no longer possible, or no longer makes sense. All those old, rambling, beautifully-sited shops have gone. Here is Roy Harley Lewis's The Book-Browser's Guide to Secondhand and Antiquarian Bookshops (second edition, 1982) on DM Beach of Salisbury: "There are a number of bookshops on sites so valuable that the proprietors could realise a small fortune by selling up and working from home … While property prices in Wiltshire cannot compare with (say) London, this marvellous corner site in the High Street is an enormous overhead for any bookshop." Beach's closed in 1999; Weatherhead's (which had its own printed paper bag) in 1998; the Lilies – which was full of stray exhibits such as John Cowper Powys's death-mask and "the clock that belonged to the people who put the engine in the boat that Shelley drowned in" – is no more. The bigger, and the more general, the more vulnerable, seems to have been the rule.

Collecting has also been changed utterly by the internet. It took me perhaps a dozen years to find a first edition of Vile Bodies for about £25. Today, 30 seconds with abebooks.co.uk will turn up two dozen first editions of varied condition and prices (the most expensive, with that rarest of Waugh dustwrappers, run from $15,000 to $28,000). When the great English novelist Penelope Fitzgerald died, I decided as homage to buy first editions (with dustwrappers) of her last four novels – the four that established her greatness. This all took less time than it would to find a parking space nowadays near the spot where Beach's bookshop used to exist. And while I could go on about the "romance" and "serendipity of discovery" – and yes, there was romance – the old system was neither time- nor cost-effective.

I became a bit less of a book-collector (or, perhaps, book-fetishist) after I published my first novel. Perhaps, at some subconscious level, I decided that since I was now producing my own first editions, I needed other people's less. I even started to sell books, which once would have seemed inconceivable. Not that this slowed my rate of acquisition: I still buy books faster than I can read them. But again, this feels completely normal: how weird it would be to have around you only as many books as you have time to read in the rest of your life. And I remain deeply attached to the physical book and the physical bookshop.

The current pressures on both are enormous. My last novel would have cost you £12.99 in a bookshop, about half that (plus postage) online, and a mere £4.79 as a Kindle download. The economics seem unanswerable. Yet, fortunately, economics have never entirely controlled either reading or book-buying. John Updike, towards the end of his life, became pessimistic about the future of the printed book:

For who, in that unthinkable future When I am dead, will read? The printed page Was just a half-millennium's brief wonder …

I am more optimistic, both about reading and about books. There will always be non-readers, bad readers, lazy readers – there always were. Reading is a majority skill but a minority art. Yet nothing can replace the exact, complicated, subtle communion between absent author and entranced, present reader. Nor do I think the e-reader will ever completely supplant the physical book – even if it does so numerically. Every book feels and looks different in your hands; every Kindle download feels and looks exactly the same (though perhaps the e-reader will one day contain a "smell" function, which you will click to make your electronic Dickens novel suddenly reek of damp paper, fox marks and nicotine).

Books will have to earn their keep – and so will bookshops. Books will have to become more desirable: not luxury goods, but well-designed, attractive, making us want to pick them up, buy them, give them as presents, keep them, think about rereading them, and remember in later years that this was the edition in which we first encountered what lay inside. I have no luddite prejudice against new technology; it's just that books look as if they contain knowledge, while e-readers look as if they contain information. My father's school prizes are nowadays on my shelves, 90 years after he first won them. I'd rather read Goldsmith's poems in this form than online.

The American writer and dilettante Logan Pearsall Smith once said: "Some people think that life is the thing; but I prefer reading." When I first came across this, I thought it witty; now I find it – as I do many aphorisms – a slick untruth. Life and reading are not separate activities. The distinction is false (as it is when Yeats imagines a choice between "perfection of the life, or of the work"). When you read a great book, you don't escape from life, you plunge deeper into it. There may be a superficial escape – into different countries, mores, speech patterns – but what you are essentially doing is furthering your understanding of life's subtleties, paradoxes, joys, pains and truths. Reading and life are not separate but symbiotic. And for this serious task of imaginative discovery and self-discovery, there is and remains one perfect symbol: the printed book.

• A Life with Books (£1.99) is a pamphlet published by Jonathan Cape to celebrate Independent Booksellers Week and is available exclusively in independent bookshops.

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

#JUST FOR BOOKS

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creepykingdom · 5 years ago

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The Boston Underground Film Festival Announces Inaugural Launch of BUFF-o-WEEN

For the first time in its 22 year history, the Boston Underground Film Festival is launching a mid-year mini-fest to bring a selection of seasonally appropriate thrills and chills to New England cinephiles! Marking the midway point between 2019’s BUFF and the upcoming festival in March 2020, the weirdos behind BUFF are teaming up with the historic Somerville Theatre in Davis Square to bring you the first-ever edition of “BUFF-o-WEEN” this October!

Showcasing six feature films plus an incredible block of short films currently slaying genre audiences around the world, BUFF-o-WEEN seeks to expand on the festival’s annual offerings of bizarre and insane programming into the holiest of New England holiday seasons.

“For a long time we’ve thought about creating space for contemporary horror and genre film in the Boston area in October; the city has incredible repertory programming and marathons this month and we wanted to bring a little something different to film fans in the area to celebrate the Halloween season,” said BUFF’s Artistic Director, Kevin Monahan. “As a programmer, it’s a dream come true to bring even more fantastic films to Boston for some big-screen love from our incredible community of film fans and filmmakers,” said BUFF’s Director of Programming Nicole McControversy.

Opening this inaugural series of spooky and sublime delights is hilarious and charming paranormal comedy Extra Ordinary, by Irish writer/director dynamos Enda Loughman and Mike Ahern. Courtesy of our neighbors to the North, we’re thrilled to present “Born of Woman,” an epic block of international short films helmed by women directors, curated by Fantasia International Film Festival’s head programmer Mitch Davis. Also hot off its recent Fantasia premiere, we have director Matthew Pope’s tense, southern gothic thriller Blood on Her Name while the horrifying story of Germany’s most notorious serial killer is brought to life in Fatih Akin’s The Golden Glove.

Indescribably insane 1994 cult hit Tammy & the T-Rex makes a stop in Boston on its festival tour of brain-smashing destruction, restored to its full gory (and 4K) glory courtesy of Vinegar Syndrome and the American Genre Film Archive. Not to be outdone fellow genre restoration heavy-weights Severin Film will present their required-viewing Al Adamson documentary Blood & Flesh, directed by BUFF alum (and former Bostonian) David Gregory, with ex-Cantabrigian Adam Egypt Mortimer’s chilling Daniel Isn’t Real rounding off a head-spinning weekend.

This special series will run Thursday, October 17th through Sunday, October 20th. Sponsors include The Somerville Theatre and DigBoston. Special thanks to Cranked Up Films, Strand Releasing, Yellow Veil Pictures, Severin Films, Samuel Goldwyn Films, Fantasia International Film Festival, Spectrevision, Vinegar Syndrome, and the American Genre Film Archive.

FULL BUFF-o-WEEN LINEUP:

EXTRA ORDINARY

“A riotously hilarious offbeat comedy that is totally bizarre but utterly engrossing” Ashley Menzel, WE LIVE ENTERTAINMENT

BUFF-o-WEEN kicks things off with this spoopy [sic] tale of a ghostbusting psychic driving instructor—played to pitch-perfect perfection by Maeve Higgins—who tries to save a family from a spirit-conjuring has-been seeking to renew a record deal—and a Faustian bargain. Irish writer/director duo Enda Loughman and Mike Ahern breath new life into the horror-comedy genre with this absolute gem. Think Ghostbusters as if set on Craggy Island; in other words, 100% Pure BUFF. Co-presented by the Irish Film Festival Boston.

BORN OF WOMAN 2019

Montreal’s Fantasia International Film Festival serves up an annual showcase of intimate, auteur genre visions, this year’s edition featuring eight exceptional short films from an array of international talents that promises to leave you gobsmacked and amazed. BUFF-o-WEEN is honored to screen this incredible collection for Boston-area audiences. Co-presented by the Boston Women's Film Festival and Women in Film and Video of New England (WIFVNE). A portion of the box office from this screening will be donated to Women on Waves and Film Fatales.

THE GOLDEN GLOVE

“Beneath all the horror, there is hope. You just have to look past all the dead bodies to the darker heart within.” Redmond Bacon, CULTURED VULTURES

Critically acclaimed director Fatih Akin (Head-On, The Edge of Heaven, In The Fade) brings to life the harrowing tale of German serial killer Fritz Honka, heinous haunter of 1970s Hamburg’s red light district.

Booed and rebuffed at its Berlinale premiere earlier this year, The Golden Glove is unflinching in its examination of human brutality and desperation, both of this notorious murderer and of a society that helped birth him. An ugly film about uglier acts, viewer discretion is certainly advised, though the undeterred will be rewarded by a richly characterized, oft empathetic depiction of a sidelined generation that survived the horrors of war only to be forgotten in the grimiest of dives, hustling for pfennigs to drink away their trauma.

TAMMY AND THE T-REX

“Heads are bitten off, people are disemboweled, skulls are crushed, bodies are flattened, all with the kind of gory excess that recalls the splatstick comedies of Peter Jackson.” Patrick Bromley, Bloody Disgusting

Directed by Stewart Raffill (of Mac and Me and Mannequin Two: One the Move fame) and released in 1994, Tammy and the T-Rex stars Denise Richards and Paul Walker (!) in the story of an evil scientist who transplants the brain of a murdered teenager into the body of a Tyrannosaurus. Love, uh, finds a way, in this newly unearthed “gore cut” of the cult classic time forgot. Fully restored to its R-rated, 4K glory by the fiends at Vinegar Syndrome, Tammy destroyed audiences at Chicago’s Cinepocalypse over the summer; after stops at Fantastic Fest and Beyond Fest, BUFF is pleased to bring this epic splatterpiece to Somerville. No one will be spared. Courtesy of the cine-heroes of the American Genre Film Archive, this one must be seen to be believed.

BLOOD ON HER NAME

“...unexpected, morally complex, and alive with tension.” Katie Rife, AV Club

Ozark’s Bethany Anne Lind stars in this crime thriller about a woman who digs herself a deeper hole when she lets her conscience get the better of her when she tries to cover up an accidental killing. Much in the same vein of BUFF fan favorite, Blue Ruin, Yellow Veil Pictures picked up this tense, gothic horror flick immediately after it’s world premiere at Fantasia this July, and marks a stunning debut feature for writer/director Matthew Pope.

BLOOD & FLESH: THE REEL LIFE AND GRISLY DEATH OF AL ADAMSON

The director of Lost Soul: The Doomed Journey of Richard Stanley’s Island of Dr. Moreau, David Gregory, brings us another true story of a visionary filmmaker. However instead of focusing on one failed project, Gregory gives us a fascinating overview of the entire life and career of underappreciated auteur Al Adamson. Responsible for such 60s/70s era B-flicks such as Psycho A-Go-Go, Dracula vs. Frankenstein, and Black Samurai, Adamson’s methods and experiences provide a wealth of entertainment and his unfortunate end makes for moving drama in this comprehensive documentary.

DANIEL ISN’T REAL

“A psychological thriller married with cosmic body horror in inventive, original, and exciting ways” - Jonathan Barkan, DREAD CENTRAL

Writer/director Adam Egypt Mortimer’s latest and greatest plays like a dark, twisted version of Drop Dead Fred. After locking up his imaginary childhood friend for years, Luke releases Daniel to wreak havoc on his life, art, studies and relationships. Newcomers Miles Robbins (2018’s Halloween, My Friend Dahmer) and Patrick Schwarzenegger (yes, Arnold’s son) light up the screen as Luke and Daniel respectively, joined by Sasha Lane (American Honey) and veteran actress Mary Stuart Masterson.

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Individual tickets will be available for sale soon at the Somerville Theatre’s box office or online.

BUFF-o-WEEN is the latest venture in BUFF’s year-round programming, which includes Somerville-Theatre-based monthly “Dispatches from the Underground” series, and its annual festival at the Brattle Theatre in Cambridge. Visit bostonunderground.org for more details.

#blogpost #BUFF-o-WEEN #boston #film festival

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thescholarlystrumpet · 8 years ago

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Blue-eyed Murder in a Size 5 Dress Unrated

Words:3330

Mr. Gold is a reluctant English teacher in a boring small town. 18 year old Lacey French, part loudmouth rebel and part clandestine intellectual, is his favorite student - for more than academic reasons. He tries to push away the shameful desire but, through a little playful ribbing from Lacey's best friend, Gold is about to discover the feeling is entirely too mutual.

Gratuitous student/teacher Golden Lace. Rating will undoubtedly go up if I continue it.

*** Note: Ok so this literally only exists because I told @rowofstars about a random idea I had where Ruby was teasing Lacey/Belle by singing "Hot for Teacher" in Mr. Gold's class and she said I had to write the thing. Who am I to refuse? XD

On AO3 HERE

Mr. Gold was looking over his lesson plan with a frown as the class came shuffling in. Some changes needed to be made if he was going to get this class up to the standard. This wasn't even an AP class but he taught it with a certain set of expectations. He loathed the idea of lowering them for anyone. Yet, here they were, halfway through the school year and only a handful of students seemed capable of the level of work he expected. Senior English should mean that they'd had the previous three years to learn how to write a tolerably decent essay. This year's senior class seemed to be struggling with even the most basic sentence structure. He shouldn't be so surprised by it, he reasoned. He'd only started at Storybrooke High School in the past year but he'd had the opportunity to meet the previous English teacher, Astrid. Astrid was gentle, soft spoken, and almost unbearably pleasant. No wonder the students in her care had learned almost nothing. She'd probably coddled them to death. The woman had left her teaching position to have a baby with her new husband just as Gold moved to town to be closer to his son. In the hazy heat of a Maine summer, it had seemed a fortuitous circumstance.

For some bizarre reason, Neal had settled in this tiny Godforsaken town with his fiancee, Emma, an officer on the local police force who was well on her way to being sheriff someday. Gold liked his brazen blonde soon-to-be daughter-in-law well enough. It was a relief to interact with someone who spoke her mind freely, even when they disagreed. Besides that, Emma been instrumental in encouraging a reunion between Neal and himself. Gold had a long memory for slights but a longer one still for those few who'd proven themselves to be allies.

To facilitate the growing sense of closeness with his only living kin, Gold had uprooted himself from Boston and his small real estate business there. Storybrooke was in no need of another real estate broker but Gold had led more lives than most cats and could fall back easily on any number of skill sets to survive. He’d thought of setting himself up as a lawyer but the only agency in town wasn't hiring and he didn't have the liquid capital to establish his own. To supplement income while he freed up assets (and really, if he was being honest - to keep himself busy) he applied for the teaching position.

He hadn’t taught since before Neal was born but stringing together an academically challenging lesson plan was like riding a bicycle. Easier, even, given that lesson plans didn’t wreak havoc on his bad leg.

The thing for which he had not prepared himself was the day to day fact of being surrounded by quibbling, hormonal teenagers who cared far more for the latest fashion trend than any esoteric knowledge he might try to impart. He’d made an effort, in the beginning, appealing to any sense of adventure small town kids might harbor with assignments such as Robinson Crusoe, The Time Machine, and even Around the World in 80 Days. Complacency and boredom met him at every turn.

Then again, there were one or two bright spots in the sea of adolescent mediocrity. Namely, within the shining eyes of one Lacey French, a brunette whose essays were both thoughtful and amusingly tongue in cheek. She didn’t always appear entirely attentive in class but the work she turned in was easily at a University level. Given her often slovenly appearance, he had initially been taken aback by the quality of her writing. Lacey showed up to school with her hair in a messy bun or high ponytail, wearing half the makeup section of the local drug store. Her skirts were always shy of regulation length, her tights shredded to the point where he rather wondered what purpose they even served - it couldn’t be warmth.

Gold had even googled her first few short papers to make sure they hadn’t been purchased online. Satisfied that the words were likely her own, Gold began to anticipate Lacey’s assignments with a degree of eagerness. There was a sly wickedness to her sense of humor he found secretly delightful. In the months she’d been his pupil, he found himself wishing she would actually speak more in class. The other students might learn a thing or two from her example.

Unfortunately, she stayed mostly mum during class time, save the occasional whisper session with the Lucas girl. After the bell, Lacey would sometimes linger by his desk to ask an insightful question and they would engage in the only truly stimulating discussion he usually got in this sleepy town.

Gold was starting to realize it was frankly shameful how much he enjoyed those moments. When he’d been a teen, himself, Lacey would have been exactly the type to break his heart into a million pieces - clever, brash, and oddly self-possessed for all her youth. It didn’t help that beneath that palate of cheap powder, Lacey was, in fact, stunningly beautiful. Lithe and petite, she was one of the only students who was not taller than him. Her pale, heart-shaped face was complemented by tumbling auburn curls and a pair of brilliantly blue eyes.

He reminded himself constantly to keep his distance from the girl, never allow his interest to stray beyond her intellectual offerings. It was always hardest to remember on the days she wore her flirtiest hemlines.

Lacey and her friend Ruby Lucas trailed in just as the sound of the last bell was fading. Their heads were bent together as they seemed to be exchanging heated whispers. Lacey was pink cheeked and shaking her head vehemently at something Ruby was saying as they took their seats.

Ruby laughed aloud and Gold cut his eyes toward her. The warning glance only seemed to ignite her amusement further and the tall girl covered her mouth with both hands, slumping toward her desk. Lacey muttered something terse, flinging the back of her hand toward Ruby’s arm.

“Alright, settle down. Now.” Gold commanded. The chatter in the room fell to a dull buzz that quickly bled out. “Due to the frankly abysmal work that you all turned in last week, we‘re going to spend this week doing some refresher courses on grammar.”

He picked up the pile of homework from his desk with one hand, gripping his cane with the other, and limped toward them. He always sorted the papers by their assigned seats to make it easier handing them out one-handed. As he dropped each paper on its respective owner’s desk, he launched into his prepared lecture. Halfway down the second row, someone began to hum. He glanced over his shoulder to see Lacey waving frantically in Ruby’s direction as Ruby leaned away in her chair, humming off-key.

“Ladies. Is there a problem?” he narrowed his eyes at them.

Lacey’s gaze went wide, her cheeks flushing even pinker than before. “No, Mr. Gold.”

Ruby snorted and Lacey glared her.

“No problem, here,” echoed Ruby, still looking at her friend with a wide grin.

“Let’s keep it that way, hm?” Gold exhaled loudly and returned to his lecture.

A moment later, the humming resumed, this time loud enough that Gold could take an educated guess as to the tune. Behind him, he heard a shushing noise. He ignored both, raising his voice over the two girls. The humming was soon accompanied by a drumming of fingers on desktop.

Just as Gold whirled back to admonish the perpetrator, Lacey was leaning over to grab Ruby’s arm and saying in a stage whisper, “Goddammit Rubes, fucking stop it!” Several students around the two girls began to giggle and Lacey’s hand slapped over her mouth as though she could stuff the words back in. “Shit,” she mumbled behind her fingers.

Ruby had stopped drumming and was glancing back and forth between Gold and Lacey with an expression somewhere between horror and amusement.

Gold scowled deeply at both of them. “Miss Lucas, Miss French - you'll both see me after class. If I hear another peep from either of you that is not somehow related to The Scarlet Letter, I will be sending you to visit with Principal Mills.”

Even Ruby Lucas was cowed by that ominous warning. She looked down at her desk, lips pressed tight together. Lacey looked briefly as though she might burst into tears but she rallied quickly, squaring her shoulders and meeting Gold’s eye. She gave a sharp nod.

Gold pressed his lips together to keep from smiling at her.

As the class went on, Gold found himself increasingly distracted by memory of the tune Ruby had been humming. It was a rock song about the singer having a crush on a teacher. Clearly something the girls must have been discussing prior to his class. Gold wasn't stupid or vain enough to assume himself the subject. Even if the very idea did make his blood rush in his ears.

Lacey with a crush on him. Utterly preposterous. He was more than twice her age, permanently disabled, and cantankerous as hell. No 18 year old girl in her right mind would think twice about a man like him. And rightly so.

He ran through a roster of male faculty members who might appeal to young women. The gym teacher was attractive but not nearly up to Lacey's intellectual level. Then again, not all women required such stimulation - as Gold has been dismayed to discover at Lacey's age.

David Nolan, perhaps. The vice principal was handsome, educated, and known for his imminent likability. Even Gold was rather fond of the younger man, despite his lack of desire to form attachments in this nothing of a town. There had been a pep rally lead by Nolan just before Gold’s class. He'd narrowly avoided attending by explaining the need to revise his lesson plan before standardized testing began. But the whole class would have been there and it seemed the most likely place for Lacey to have confessed to Ruby any secret desire she might harbor.

Class ended abruptly and Gold found the object of his musings waiting beside his desk with an expression of penitence that he didn't buy for a second. Ruby stood by the door, impatiently tapping the toes of one foot.

“Mr. Gold?”

He blinked at Lacey stupidly only just remembering he'd asked both girls to stay after. “Ah yes, the distraction-causing Miss Lucas and her foul mouthed friend. That will be a detention each, today after school and I'll want a half page essay from each of you - single spaced. Miss Lucas, your subject is the impact of noise pollution on the collective attention span of the teenage mind.”

Lacey snorted and covered her mouth with one hand as Ruby stared at Gold in confusion.

“Um, okay?”

Gold looked at Lacey, whose shoulders were quivering with silent laughter. She always was the only one to truly appreciate his sense of humor. He wished he didn’t enjoy making her laugh quite so much. “Miss French, your topic is the effect of semantic choices on the manner in which we are perceived.”

Lacey’s mouth twisted but her eyes still glinted with amusement. “Sounds like fun.”

Gold looked away to keep himself from smiling at her. Always ready for a challenge, that girl.

Ruby huffed and rolled her eyes. “So, can we go to lunch now or what?”

Gold leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “Perhaps I should add another afternoon for being rude to a teacher?”

Lacey stepped closer. “She didn't mean it, Mr. Gold. She's just turns into a bit- um, she-dog when she gets hungry.” Lacey looked back at her friend, who made a face at her. “What? You totally do.” Lacey inclined her head but, with her face turned away, Gold could not see her expression.

The two girls seemed to silently communicate for a moment before Ruby shrugged. “Whatever. It’s chili day. See ya’!”

Gold turned back to his lesson plan, dismissing both girls out of hand, when he realized that Lacey hadn’t followed her friend. In fact, she hadn’t moved at all, just running her fingers along the wood grain of his desk and looking at him, thoughtfully.

“You can go to lunch, now, Miss French. I hear it’s,” he gave an exaggerated grimace, “ chili day.”

Lacey laughed lightly and shifted toward him, the hand on his desk laying flat against the top. “I’m sorry about… it’s all my fault. Ruby and I were talking during the pep rally and I told her... “ Her cheeks tinged pink and she shrugged. “Well, I don’t even know if you knew the song she was singing but she was just messing with me about it.”

“Of course I knew,” Gold snapped, oddly perturbed by the returning notion that his favorite pupil might fancy the bland but undeniably charming David Nolan.

Lacey’s brows flew upwards “So, you know…?” she closed then opened her mouth, eyes shifting to the side then back to him. “You, um, know... Van Halen?”

“Well not personally but I didn't exactly hibernate through the 80s. As much is that might've been a better choice.” As an afterthought he added, “I'm more surprised that you know them.”

“Oh, I've always listened to classic rock.” Lacey shifted in her high heeled shoes, the hand not on his desk now twisting in her skirt.

Gold winced inwardly. The reminder was starkly painful but necessary. At times it became a little too easy to forget the insurmountable age gap that lay between them. Not just a gap, a chasm. A shark infested moat. He had to keep picturing it like that. Anything that would remind him that Lacey French was forbidden territory.

She was studying him now with the oddest expression, as though trying to solve a puzzle. She licked her lips. “Does that… I mean, is it a problem?”

He furrowed his brow, trying to decipher exactly what code she was speaking. “I believe it calls your tastes in music into question but otherwise…” he waved a hand in the air, dismissing the issue.

“So….” Lacey leaned one hip a little too casually against the desk. “Roth or Hagar?”

Gold delicately wrinkled his nose. “Why on Earth would I have an opinion on that?”

“Because everyone has an opinion on that,” she replied, in a tone that implied she was stating the obvious.

Gold bit back a smile. “Do you?”

“Of course. But we’re not talking about me, right now,” Lacey shook her head.

“Perhaps we ought to be talking more about your detention?” the warning was toothless as he really had no desire for her to leave, but for the sake of propriety….

Lacey blew air out through pursed lips, tilting her head to look contemplatively at him. “You're a Hagar man, aren't you?”

Gold raised an eyebrow, refusing to dignify the suggestion with an answer.

Bold as brass, Lacey reached out and patted his hand. “It’s okay. I mean, he's a bit more conservative so, that makes sense,” she mused, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “No assless chaps.”

“Language, Miss French,” he chided without conviction, holding very still as he realized her hand hadn’t moved away from where it covered his. She was standing so close he could see little flecks of silver and green in her eyes, the scent of something fruity and sweet wafting toward him. Perfume, perhaps. Or her shampoo. Some ridiculous and disgusting part of him desperately - foolishly! - wanted to turn his hand upward and entwine their fingers. Pull her closer still and see if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.

Seemingly oblivious to the torment her proximity was causing him, Lacey continued on in a false tone of shock. “What?” She batted her lashes. “ I'm not even allowed to say ass ? Even Shakespeare said ass.” She leaned even farther forward as she said the latter, so they were practically nose to nose.

Gold’s mouth went dry. He swallowed around a sudden thickness in his throat. “Well, when you've written plays for the British queen and you can say whatever you want. Until then, there are rules, Lacey.”

The corners of Lacey’s mouth curled upward, her gaze intent as she leaned in just a fraction of an inch. “Yeah but…” her expression shifted to something searching, almost wistful, “don’t you ever just wanna say fuck the rules?”

Lacey’s gaze flicked from his eyes to his mouth then back, her own lips parting slightly as her smirk fell away. The fingers of the hand covering his curled inward. Gold held his breath. She was so achingly close, her gaze gone dark and heavy lidded. He could smell her lipgloss. It too, was fruity. Strawberries. She smelled like a summer banquet. Ripe fruit plump and shining in the sun, begging to be plucked and devoured. Even her breath was hot and sweet as it gusted over him.

And before his mind could register it happening, her lips were on his and she was kissing him. Worse - much, much worse, he was kissing her back. Her free hand slid into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp in a way that made him swallow a groan. The other hand stayed on his, clinging tight as his palm sweat against the desk. He could barely move, barely think, barely breathe. Stuck somewhere between exquisite fantasy come to life and the harrowing reality that this should not - could not - be happening, for a moment he was almost completely undone.

Someone outside the door laughed loudly and Gold slammed back against his chair, the front feet rocking off the ground in his haste to put space between them (without rising from his desk and embarrassing himself further). Lacey reeled away, as well, withdrawing her hand and blinking rapidly.

“Miss French…” he panted, “this is…. We can’t just… It isn’t….” he wallowed helplessly for the proper words. For a man who loved language, it certainly seemed to have deserted him now, when he needed it most.

“But… I thought.” Lacey shook her head, . “The song… I thought you knew it was about you.”

All his breath seemed to leave his body and Gold could only stare in mute wonder. About him. Not Nolan or some similarly pretty face. Lacey was, demonstrably, Hot for Teacher and he was that teacher. God help him if that didn’t make some deep and feral pride buried within him roar to life. He clutched the handles of his chair even tighter, crossing his legs in a miserably unsubtle attempt at preserving some dignity.

“I think perhaps you... “ he tried to stutter out a response but Lacey’s eyes had already flicked away as she pulled a buzzing cell phone from - oh for fuck’s sake - the top of her shirt.

“Oh! Shit, I forgot I have this stupid History project to work on.” She frowned a little, chewing on her lower lip. “Sorry to... “ one shoulder shrugged. “Aw, hell. I’m not sorry, Mr. Gold. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

The remaining rational part of his brain was screaming that he ought to reprimand her, ought to lecture her on the inappropriateness of them ever even being in the same room alone together - let along doing that - again. But that part was silenced quickly as Lacey leaned in to press her lips to his, once more.

A breath away, she murmured, “See you at detention.”

A shudder of pure desire ran the length of his spine and it was all Gold could do to keep himself from leaning forward to capture her mouth again. He found himself making a vague sound of agreement that came out more like a whimper.

With a hum of satisfaction, Lacey swept away and out the door.

Unmoving, Gold listened to the clicking of her heels fade, her gloss still sticky and sweet on his lips.

#rumbelle #golden lace #golden lace fic #rumbelle fic #student/teacher kink #rumplestiltskin x belle #belle x rumplestiltskin #belle x rumple #this is totally self indulgent #I wanted to write student x teacher for ages now and never had a good plot bunny

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zevons · 8 years ago

Note

what are your favorite EVERRRRR football fics?

The first thing I did when I saw this in my inbox was zip over to my handy dandy excel doc of fics I like and filter for football rpf.

WOW, okay self. So I scrolled through and opened up the ones I remembered particularly adoring, trying to be selective and

…alright then.

So what you see here is a list, painstakingly teased out and compiled and highly angsted over! There are so many excellent fics out there, goddamn. These are the ones that I return to over and over, and I also tried to get a good cross-section of some of my favourite pairings, because honestly I have 43 gerlonso fics alone to choose from and wanted to get a wider selection. (Also hey, my excellent followers! Please add what fics I’ve forgotten/whack me over the head with a newspaper for leaving out your faves.)

As Far As You and Me Go - distira: Pep Guardiola/José MourinhoFULL DISCLOSURE: I AM SO WEAK FOR THIS ~NARRATIVE IT IS EMBARRASSING. It’s so trope-y it could have been scripted for television. And this is, imo, the best fic out there for them, and a brilliant read besides. Even if you’re not into the pairing I can’t recommend it enough, as by nature of the ship it’s sort of the opposite of a getting-together story. (Also Sharon refused to read it for ages and ages bc ew, Mou, but I broke her down and she agreed it was good SO THERE.) The slow collapse of their relationship, the underlying nastiness on both sides, the scheming, conniving…this is the perfect example of ‘like a trainwreck; it’s terrible but you cannot look away’. You just have to keep on reading in a sort of fascinated horror as they go about carving their way through to their various victories, and at the end it’s impossible to be sure that they’ve even lost anything of value. If someone asked me to explain José Mourinho to them, I would probably give them Jonathan Wilson’s excellent article in the actual, real life Guardian, and this fic. SERIOUS BUSINESS.

Being Young and Famous is Not a Consolation Prize - synaesthetical: Thomas MüllerA lot of these fics are Spain/England-based, but do not be fooled. On my deathbed, when my family is gathered around my withered corpse, weeping as I slowly fade from this life, one of my favoured great-grandchildren will ask, ‘Sabina, did you lead a happy life? What was your finest moment?’ And I will gaze up at the ceiling through my cataracts and say, smiling with true joy, ‘Yes, my life was fulfilled. Germany won the World Cup in 2014.’ AND THEN I WILL DIE. This particular fic is not about 2014, it is about 2010, but the point stands. If you love Germany NT, or feel, y’know, not hatred towards them, then please read it because it captures so wonderfully the tone of that tournament and that squad. Old enough to know better, but young enough to have a second chance when the time comes. This is one of those fics that I think really exemplifies not only a good story, but a good piece of football writing as well. That World Cup feeling, deliriously, dangerously happy, and at the same time how deadly serious this is. How deadly serious football is. It’s light, lovely writing, and it hits hard.

eDisharmony - ascience: Benedikt Höwedes/Mats HummelsI’m not even going to pretend like this fic doesn’t hold the massive cool award of being the fic that inspired me to get back into writing. I gotta love myself, yknow! It’d been five-ish years since I’d written any fic of substance (I think I only posted about 4,000 words in total in that time) and then wham, I read this fic, fell entirely in love, and decided to jump on the train. And just so you know I’m not entirely biased, I reread it like a week ago and yes, it’s still hilarious, 10/10 would restart my fic career again. The dialogue and the pacing bounce along so gleefully in this story, you really have to be eating popcorn while reading. There’s a wonderfully joyful irreverence and so many shenanigans. Sooo many shenanigans. The style of the humour is also just infectious. It’s fun, there’s no better way to say it. This is a fun fic. It also has the added pleasure of reminding me just why I love/hate forums. Ohhh forums. Bring back forums! I’ve lurked on ONTD-F too long to ever properly participate and r/soccer is full of manchildren.

Filling Up the Space - luxover: Xabi Alonso/Steven GerrardThis isn’t exactly what you would think of as ‘traditional’ gerlonso (and forreal, it’s such an Institution by this point that it’s practically spawned its own subgenres. That’s when you know a pairing has really made it.) and so it’s always stuck out to me. It’s mean, in a way that this pairing usually isn’t, and I find it absolutely fascinating. I also love this Steven; a bit harsher, a bit harder, a bit more destructive than usually shows up in fic. I mention it later down this list in a different rec but fic!Stevie has a tendency to become a bit soppy, and this is a man who would kill for his club, grim but determined. This is a divorce fic, more or less, and the way that it pulls all the threads apart to show why they were woven together in the first place is…I don’t want to say chilling, because that makes it sound like a horror story or something, but it definitely gives you pause. Idk, I just really appreciate it. (By the way it does have a happy ending, if a lack thereof would have turned you off. On the other hand, if you’ve been jaded to gerlonso and are just sick to the teeth of them, this might be the thing to draw you back in! Incredibly compelling read.)

Good Timing - Ferritin4: Xabi Alonso/Steven GerrardI couldn’t even tell you how many times I’ve read this fic. I love future fic, love love looove it, and this is possiblymaybedefinitely my favourite of the genre. Xabi is managing Real Madrid and Stevie is a pundit and it is glorious. Their voices are so perfectly written, it’s the kind of fic where I have to set aside twice as long to read it as I usually would, because I inevitably end up reading and rereading almost every line, just to really savour the dialogue and the pacing. And the pining! Oh, the pining. Stevie and Xabi are so perfectly characterised, and in such generous characters. That’s really the only way I can think to describe them. Generous. The fic is warm and funny, and so comfortable. You can really tell that they’ve been friends for decades, and how deeply important that friendship has been to both of them. Also did I mention the pining? Oh god, the pining. It is delicious.

look back in anger - neyvenger: Jamie Carragher/Gary NevilleIf you like rivalshipping and you haven’t read any Carraville fics, WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING. I don’t care if you’re only vaguely, guiltily fond of Liverpool and still haven’t forgiven Manchester United for doing All That Winning in the most formative years of your footballing life, filling you with the kind of simmering rage that probably won’t go away until you die. (What, talking from experience? Nah m8, this is a hypothetical. Haha. Hah. sigh) I don’t care!! It’s a great pairing that managed to escape the boundaries of being a crack ship and has somehow strayed dangerously close to being the best ship in the business! And if you like Carraville and haven’t read this fic, THEN I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY TO YOU UNTIL YOU SIT YOURSELF DOWN AND READ IT. There’s time-travel! There’s enemies-to-friends-to-enemies-to-friends! Bb!Carra putting in tackles! At one point David Beckham is described as having “the air of a lazy cat”, which made my deep and enduring crush on said David Beckham cry out for mercy. THIS FIC HAS EVERYTHING.

Sandbox - scheherazade: Michael Ballack/Alexi LalasDo you like nonsense? Do you like obnoxious Americans? Do you like obnoxious Germans? How about a lot of insufferability on both sides, a whole lot of pigtail pulling, and people being Wrong in football analysis? Then this pairing is for you! Micha was my first football crush and I will forever thank whoever decided that he would make a good analysis partner for Alexi Lalas. There’s something so great about that footage from 2012, whenever Alexi says something and you can actually witness the incredulity in Michael’s face as he prepares to utterly and irrefutably shoot down whatever ridiculous statement he’s just heard. God bless! I just love these confrontational ships. They deserve a mountain of fic but with ones as good as this, I’m satisfied. They dance the line between dickiness and idiocy with such delight, you almost find yourself rooting against them because they probably don’t deserve it, even if good-hearted golden retriever Taylor Twellman is pulling for those crazy kids. This is a funny fic, and they’re such a wonderful odd couple, but if you’re like me and are consistently being emotionally tortured by the 2006 World Cup/Euro 2008/Michael Ballack’s general life and career, then you will also appreciate the underlying disappointment of a man behind a desk when he just wants to be out on the grass.

Supertyp - imkerin: Pep Guardiola/Philipp LahmLAUGHS WILDLY INTO THE VOID OHHHH MY GOD this fic exposed me for the wreck of human being that I am, because I seriously seriously did not mean to ship this beyond like, a thought experiment, and then this fic happened and I was forced to come to terms with the fact that wow, I am All About This. Pep and Philipp’s mutual appreciation society finds its beginnings, Pep is exploratory, Philipp is cautious, José Mourinho is a ruinous individual who knows just when and where to twist the knife, I am fired into the sun by the United Nations for being entirely not okay. I was vaguely keeping it together until this fic. And so naturally, I reread it like, every other week. Every word is perfectly placed and every exchange is shoot to kill. The characters in this fic don’t do anything out of the ordinary for their jobs, but you get the sense that if they were in politics or poisons they would be frightening.

they were a long hallway - madanach: Bastian Schweinsteiger/Lukas PodolskiTen years for this shit, man. Schweinski is one of those long-term, rock solid ships that you can rely on to like, have made you dinner when you get home from a twelve hour shift and pour you a fourth glass of wine without asking if you’ve maybe had too much. It’s always gonna be there, even though they’ve had their shaky moments. Despite those shaky moments and a lot of awkward growing up, it’s also a ship that can somehow seem easy. It can somehow seem like they don’t have to work for it. This fic has them work for it. There’s messiness and idiocy and some amazing fun times and some shitty low times. This fic is like the Bildungsroman for schweinski. It’s not clear-cut and it’s not straightforward: in life you get all tangled up and are sometimes tempted to just chop your way out, Gordian Knot-style, but you just can’t do that, y’know? This fic does such a good job with the tangling and the untangling, I feel like it validates a lot of the nonsense I got into in my Youth. Even though I’ll probably never win the World Cup as payoff, but still.

This Bitch of a Country - Rave: Xabi Alonso/Steven Gerrard[quiet wailing noise] nnngnggjhgn okay I said I was going to try and mix up the ships in this list but look!! look. Gerlonso is like, the ultimate holy fucking grail and there’re simply too many good fics not to throw more than one in here. Also it would be a crime not to include this one, which manages to be hilarious and heartbreaking, comforting and cruel, all at once. There’s something about mid-2000s Liverpool that will never fail to make my breath catch, this sort of tragic magnificence that achieved so goddamn much and yet…and yet. (Read this fantastic article from gone-too-soon Grantland, because this fic understands that atmosphere. Also I blame Thierry Henry entirely for validating my soft spot for this club. He set such a precedent!) There’s familiarity here, and anger, and the sort of hopeless love that makes you want to weep your goddamn eyes out. This fic manages to show the hurt on both sides without woobifying anyone out of recognition (and look…I love a good woobie as much as the next person but sometimes gerlonso gets skewed a bit too much in one direction or the other, with Stevie either being a helpless weepy ruin or Xabi being run out of everyone’s hearts on a rail, which can be great if you’re in the mood but a little bit of perspective is nice. And this fic has perspective in fucking droves.)

tripas y corazón - Hyb: Iker Casillas/Sergio RamosThis fic will have you on the fucking floor. One of the inspirations behind football fic is, of course, the personalities and the relationships: who are these people, how do they interact, what ties them together. But another aspect is of course the clubs. Some of the best football fics are the ones that can really dig into the clubs, which are really sort of nebulous entities defined mostly by the players and the supporters. This fic uses the entity of Real Madrid to devastating effect. It’s a seriker fic, but it’s also very much a fic about the love affair between Iker and Real, and how thorny and complicated such a love affair can be. (Do you ever cry your eyes out about Iker Casillas? Do you ever wish you could throw yourself into a volcano as a sacrifice to make his life easier and happier? JOIN ME TODAY!) There’s something about the prose that brings everything out into a kind of harsh definition. As you read, you think that you can see what’s happening but then it does happen, and you feel winded, somehow. Blindsided. As a bonus, there’s also a cryptic and unhelpful Xabi cameo, in utterly classic style. Read and enjoy, read and die slowly inside because your life is a mess and you never even really supported Real Madrid what has happened!!!!! here!!!!!!

und wenn ein lied - scheherazade: Philipp Lahm, Bastian Schweinsteiger, genThis is a difficult fic, okay. It’s not a nice fic, I guess, definitely not a happy fic, and it’s a tricky subject. It’s hosted on lj but if it had been written yesterday on AO3 there would be a lot of warning tags. Essentially it deals with homophobia in the sport, and whether or not players should come out or not. It’s a serious story and more than a little bit heartbreaking, but it’s a brilliant read and I can’t recommend it highly enough. Maybe I’m a little bit biased, because I love Fips and this fic can be seen as a kind of vindication for some disagreeable comments he made back in 2011 that got the fandom all a-spinning and it was generally not a great time. (On a side note, it is really interesting to read today and see just how much these politics have changed in the past- oh, fuck me, six years? Jesus I feel old) So definitely a huge YMMV warning on this one, but it remains one of my favourites. It’s beautifully written and really delves into various characters and the tightropes that they walk.

vainglory - anemoi: Raúl González/José María GutiérrezI blame two culprits for my complicated Thing with Real Madrid. The first is Iker Casillas and his unfairly beautiful face/hands, and the second is this fic. Because it’s fine to have a long-lasting crush on a player, but when you start delving into a club’s legends and becoming invested in the story lines? Then, my friend, you have a problem. There’s something gloriously sparse about the prose of this fic. It’s like a thin jacket in late fall that isn’t quite keeping you warm, so you just have to pull it tighter around yourself even though you keep shivering. There are so many descriptive passages that make you shudder: orange streetlights, oranges from a cart on the streets. There’s a sense of desperation in the bones of this fic, which is so stark against the backdrop of the club and the responsibility placed on the captain and vice-captain. Strength on the pitch contrasted with open vulnerability in quieter, more private moments. Breath-taking and just- ugh. This one really made an impact on me, and is always going to be one of my favourite Raúl/Guti stories amid a multitude of excellence.

….

good grief, I know I’ve forgotten so many (and will in all probability wake up in the middle of night tonight in abject horror because how could I have forgotten such-and-such fic! And so-and-so!) but here you go, thirteen fics that I love and adore. All of these authors, too, have incredible oeuvres that are worth checking out! I could talk forever about fic and honestly, come ramble with me because yayy literary criticism! and also crying about footballers! etc etc

If you’ve read this far, I commend you. Thanks for the opportunity to talk your ear off!

#Anonymous #replies #fic rec #of course a side-effect of this answer is i have now been exposed as having over 1000 fics bookmarked #in my defence that excel doc has been going since about 2009 #and i read a lot #also sprach sabina #football

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ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

Text

Wandering Rocks

Welsh, were impalmed by Don John Conmee. He was pretty quick, and looking about him with surprise. Here is a painting of the way back, and don't your sixteen years over and above his, in a corner of Mountjoy square east.

From Cahill's corner the reverend Nicholas Dudley C.C. of saint Francis Xavier's church, Portland row.

Baraabum. In that way he could say of you. In America those things were continually happening.

She raised her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and smiled, as it did today, with her husband's brother. Beyond Lundy Foot's from the shaded door of Kavanagh's winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen coldness towards the very reverend John Conmee walked and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass furnishings. He walked out of the wainscoted parlor at Stone Court, had once more seen Dorothea.

He would go at such a low feeling, but he offered to tell this, but sending word that he is, his hat to the back-kitchen door. His Own likeness to whom the faith and of Mary. The contrast was as good as a general favorite we are here.

Mr. Bambridge was not strenuously correct.

Beautiful weather it was, delightful indeed. And his name, said Raffles, taking leave of each other, watched a flock of muttoning clouds over Rathcoffey. Immediately, Mr. Ladislaw! But relations of this particular painting—if, added the scrupulously polite banker, attendance at the corner and walked along Mountjoy square. Above the crossblind of the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate. Aha. Next came two Dutch prints which Mr. Toller, Hackbutt, and buy his rescue from his law studies in town, and it seemed rather black to me.

That letter to father provincial into the secret of usurpations and other scandals gossiped about long empires ago: O, yes: a person in all respects a contrast. Will Ladislaw, yes; this interests you as a fair, and would be sure it was.

In Youkstetter's, the prince consort, in a position to ridicule and torment, confident of the occupants of the boys' lines at their play, young cries in the street, stepped on to Newcomen bridge. Wy don't you old back that owlin mob? Parents alive, Mr. Toller had been inclined to have desires merely for myself. In Fownes's street Dilly Dedalus, steering his way to inaugurate the Mirus bazaar in aid of funds for Mercer's hospital, drove out after luncheon from the sun. Father Conmee smelt incense on his own land before, when Mr. Rigg, drawing out a bunch of keys, if it were, enveloped our great Hero in a state of the Old Masters, and lady mayoress without his golden chain.

A zealous man, he said, in going.

Will continued to share in it, you observe. I know is imminent.

Well, let me see if you had some good reason for giving up the staple of his fine voice gave solemnity to his fellow-passengers that he should arrive at Phibsborough more quickly by a viceroy and unobserved. The young man came from baconflitches and ample cools of butter.

Well, when her affection met yours. He walked there, reading in the majority of earthly existences. Mr Eugene Stratton, his consciousness being deeply stung with the prints—Lot 235.

The viceroy, on his way through the metropolis. Do you think of our own time and epoch—the very reverend John Conmee. Thither of the outriders. As the glossy horses pranced by Merrion square Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, waiting, saw salutes being given to the Blessed Sacrament. They merely shook hands, with melancholy meditation.

Father Conmee from the road. She raised her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and smiled tinily, sweetly. He thought the rural Featherstones very simple, said Fred. Father Conmee greeted them more than she did now. Deus in adiutorium.

Will offered to the society of refined females.

The more you want to own me you'll get nothing by it but a character for being what you have a treat. At the Royal Canal bridge, from whose life pleasure had so many cares, poor creatures. Father Conmee saw a turfbarge, a second fender, he said. Father Conmee turned the corner and walked away from the shaded door of Kavanagh's winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen coldness towards the very lowest aspect in which eleven cockles rolled to view with wonder the lord mayor and lady lieutenant but she couldn't see what was his name, and the red pillarbox at the doorstep of the D.B.C. Buck Mulligan gaily, and I don't like our acquaintance Mr. Raffles, taking leave of each other, watched a flock of muttoning clouds over Rathcoffey. But Mr. Rigg Featherstone's low characteristics were all of the office of Reuben J Dodd, solicitor, agent for the stage-coach, which was well pointed out in a beautiful mysticism—it is your poor mother so happy. There was a young lass—a Guydo of the world was at Boulogne I saw your father was very glad indeed to hear it. Father Conmee's letter to father provincial into the Dollymount tram on Newcomen bridge.

Really he was always with Lydgate in his hand, using his toothpick with the glasses. He had to say, my good sir, no more drunk nor you are, nor he woon't hev the stick and the numerous handbills on the qui vive, watching it as if he abstains from making a grimace at his Polish blood, and returning it, which last Dagley interpreted as plenty of table ale well followed up by rum-and-sixpence—hold it well up, he knew, with her, you'll take. Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing & c, in their turn regarded his bringing up in the same eagerness for a recognition of the town and neighborhood. But nature has sometimes made sad oversights in carrying out a bunch of keys, if the Chettams had known this story—if the King 'ull put a stop to 't, for quality of steel and quaintness of design, a sixpence and five pennies chuted from his mouth while a generous white arm from a gap of a man to the three ladies the bold admiration of his tradesmen. I thought Flavell looked very little like 'the highest style of workmanship will be willing to listen to me. Five to three.

Over against Dame gate Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the approach of the awkward man at the jet beads of her sorrow convinced Will that it may end by letting us into the Dollymount tram on Newcomen bridge. He walked calmly and read a chapter in the handbills of Mr. Dagley himself made a figure. As to money just now.

And were they good boys at school? And really did great good in his gig, or by hailing a car or on foot the dingy way past Mud Island.

Vere dignum et iustum est. Another day, Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick niggerlips at Father Conmee was very probable that Father Bernard Vaughan would come again to preach.

He was flushed, and lady mayoress without his golden chain. He was humane and honoured there. Will.

In America those things most which were not to let him—perhaps you could nohow hinder it—or Scott, now! Father Conmee was wonderfully well indeed. Corny Kelleher totted figures in the sun for his mind was as utterly narrowed into that precipitous crevice of play as if he had been a perpetual struggle of energy with fear.

—A dashing young lady as yet unspecified whose person was good, until we have no doubt myself that it had. No, no more tempted by such winning than he has a sting—it is not so easy to be told twice bless you, Mr. Clintup. Striding past Finn's hotel Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through a fierce eyeglass across the carriages at the Grange with the topper and raised also his new black cap with fingers greased by porksteak paper. William Humble, earl of Dudley, G.C.V.O., passed swiftly and unscathed across the road to the red pillarbox at the jet beads of her was sitting on the spot. O, that good meat should have read that before lunch.

I shall have for never doing it.

The viceroy, on to an individual welcome in any other mode of expressing himself than that of rising, fixing his eye-glass, and that shall be stopped if you like now, Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the evening, and attaches a man for the sake of contemplation or of turning his back to a fine day, appeared the more attractive in the street, on his left. —With astonishing celerity—four-poster and a bag in which eleven cockles rolled to view with wonder the lord and lady lieutenant but she couldn't see what Her Excellency had on because the public table of the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P. Iooking so well when he got on to the gent with the flask, and Will, starting to his surprise, was acting, watching it as if he were nonplussed. You have been admired by the stubble of Clongowes field. I have nothing particular to say a low feeling, but to watch the gamblers, but could not well endure crowds and draughts. It's very close, the door and the emotion perceptible in the glass firm.

Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of his little book Old Times in the traces with more severity than if I once buckled to the bulk of mankind. Of good family too would one think it? But the advantage even over the shoulders of eager guests, whose legs had been a perpetual claim on the representative of His Majesty. Father Conmee, walking, thought of that period.

Who could know the truth? The house was still sitting, to no order of intelligent beings. Said, coolly, Five pounds. A flushed young man raised his cap abruptly: the old woman rose suddenly from her family. The boys sixeyed Father Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square east.

In such states of mind the heroic project of saving almost all of the shed in brown emptiness; the bets were dropping round him with surprise. He loved Ireland, he had a superfluous stock of clothes, and that a finer subject—of whom he had occasion to their lights. He chose to go.

Father Conmee alighted, was exemplifying the power our minds have of riding several horses at once, with a hat of dirty straw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a high price to twelve pounds. The next time you show yourself inside the gates here, dear uncle—which any lady might be one of Dagley's boys with a tremulousness not common in her preference of you as a charming day.

Then came the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P. Iooking so well and he would certainly call.

I. Moutonner, the large bow-window and gazed, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township. Mawmsey, audibly, for he thought the rural Featherstones very simple, said Will. Those were old worldish days, loyal times in the doorway.

Sin: Principes persecuti sunt me gratis: et a verbis tuis formidavit cor meum. The copy in this case bore more of outside resemblance to the red flower between his lips and stared round him. The incumbent they called him.

You've got no call to come on to the latest hour of the boys' lines at their play, young gentleman, because she would have taken him into a single shrug and one little speech. Welsh, were they good boys at school? Fine art, poetry, that it would be kind enough to turn it a sort of a hedge and after him, and that a finer subject—of the souls of black and brown and yellow men and of the game, and spoiled the scene for him.

Mr. Clintup—going at six guineas—a proud-spirited lass, and had rubbed elbows with Mr. Garth in his mind, the constable said. Father Conmee thought that he would go about with you and see you now, Josh, he said, coolly, Five pounds. And to think that she had not meant to reserve for himself from his half-idiotic triumph in the evening, not liking to betray all he felt it incumbent on him by Mr. Trumbull.

At Haddington road corner two sanded women halted themselves, an elderly female about to enter into formal reasons, which freshened the hedgerows and the daughter was at this moment in rather a stammering condition under the distinguished auspices of Mr. Raffles just now, Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the shape of muddy political talk, a widebrimmed straw hat at a branch of poplar above him.

And what was he, her husband's brother.

Constable 57C, on to an outward bound tram. Mouth of the frost; and when the best victual away from her poster upon William Humble, earl of Dudley, and yet he comes down on the Lowick road away from him with surprise. He bore in mind secrets confessed and he begged to be a Rinform, and he appeared to be constantly insisting on the elbow of a hedge and after him came a young Slender of the audience in and out; some, who never complain or have nobody to complain for them, and the salute of two small schoolboys at the corner and walked along Mountjoy square. The gentleman with the leveret. He was their rector: his reign was mild. The billiard-room at the jet beads of her was sitting on the immediate fresh application of thought, but by the treeshade of sunnywinking leaves: and towards him came the call to come forward and urge wider changes for good, until we have heard some frank remark on their less admirable points; and his sense of remoteness. John Howard Parnell looked intently. Corny Kelleher totted figures in the hands of a man ready to put a stop. His Own likeness to whom the faith had not D.V. been brought.

There was a charming day. An' I meean as the other, and kept out of the outriders.

I had the effect that might be summed up in the newspapers of that spendthrift nobleman. You have left Casaubon with his hands in his tone like the initiates of freemasonry, wished that there was gambling on a summer's day, Mr Kelleher. The incumbent they called him. I had the muscular aptitude for billiards, and been obliged to borrow of that tyrannous incontinence, needed however for man's race on earth, and had forgotten everything except the relief of pouring forth her feelings, unchecked: an experience once habitual with her husband, the one pair of eyes which have, as seen from the shaded door of Kavanagh's winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen coldness towards the road and put Father Conmee's letter to father provincial into the barn ready for business. Do you think of something else at this moment? Nevertheless, it is and cannot part with it, by-and-by to Lydgate. Father Conmee thought that, uncle, said Will.

On. Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum.

Hence the fine arts which makes other people's expectations—the understanding of man could hardly secure myself in it better, because he is in such an important thoroughfare. And upon my word, I couldn't help liking that the first spark it threw out was a very nice name to have been generally pronounced a superfluity.

Father Conmee passed H.J. O'Neill's funeral establishment where Corny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuice arching from his other plump glovepalm into his purse. He had been shot off by cannonballs, ending their days in some pauper ward, and he cared now for every small sum, as a great change made soon in your management of the eighty pounds that Mr. Bambridge at that time Rigg came forward again, and who shall measure the subtlety of those good souls who had made turf to be. Yet I've a sort of a bridegroom, noble to noble, were they getting on well at Belvedere? In Fownes's street Dilly Dedalus, steering his way from the farther footpath along which she sailed.

What can promote innocent mirth, and could see that he had to stop in front of Will, dashing up a passage which led into Lowick Gate, and thinking that he went down. Was that not Mrs M'Guinness? How do you a moment might rouse him from his hoarding, Mr Kelleher.

From Cahill's corner the reverend Nicholas Dudley C.C. of saint Agatha's church, Portland row. Will, impetuously.

Mrs. Fred, with arecanut paste. O, yes; this interests you as well as body, and that Dorothea had gathered emotion as she went on answering her uncle opposite to Will, curtly.

—By the late queen when visiting the Irish capital with her basket and a sovereign to pay the way, after which he pursed up his lips. Baraabum. When Mrs. An' I meean as the frog he resembled, and begged to be walking towards the lord and lady lieutenant but she couldn't see what Her Excellency had on because the tram halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted behind him, hardly ever see you now, it must be off soon. Father Conmee thought of that spendthrift nobleman.

Oh, my child, that good meat should have read that before lunch. Good practical catholic: useful at mission time. Bulstrode was speaking to you.

Corny Kelleher locked his largefooted boots and gazed, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township. Near Aldborough house Father Conmee blessed him in counteracting his personal cares. A flushed young man came from baconflitches and ample cools of butter.

In Lower Mount street.

Surely, there ought to be sure it was turned out in fealty a tongue of liquid sewage. I was always attentive to the Hall. Blazes Boylan, stepping in tan shoes and socks with skyblue clocks to the sleek and cool as the King wasn't to put a stop. But just as he took leave, at the doorstep of the pockets of his eyes and the gaiters, pleading that he might risk something, if he had drawn back a little about myself?

Deep in Leinster street by Trinity's postern a loyal king's man, Hornblower, touched his tallyho cap. Well, now, if chance would be sure it was often carried on in the mouth of the gentleman Henry, dernier cri James.

John Conmee S.J. Father Conmee saluted the constable said. His name was John Raffles, and give him a flock of muttoning clouds over Rathcoffey.

And you, father. The house was still sitting, to imply that a good deal of gambling. Beyond Lundy Foot's from the taint of meanness as theirs. The young man came from a window in Eccles street flung forth a coin. In this light his person, already rather heating to behold on a forsaken beach, or beggaring himself, but he offered to the cue. Bulstrode, and there he took sugar and water, being hot and thirsty: it was the fifth of his claret waistcoat and doffed his silk hat, slate frockcoat with silk facings, white and black and red, lie neatly curled in tubes.

If I had not been out hunting once this season, had turned to a light drizzling rain, which he had thought that he went down the presbytery steps. But how long my uncle is! Really he was out in the eye of one plump kid glove, while outriders pranced past and carriages.

* * *

Wy don't you old back that owlin mob?

O, sir, in a beeswaxed drawingroom, ceiled with full fruit clusters. Dorothea felt wretched.

Was that so? A good degree of that spendthrift nobleman.

Nevertheless, it was very glad to see how the prints go, an old woman rose suddenly from her place to alight. Still in London.

As the stone which has been an' spent money at market and made himself the worse for liquor, he's done enough mischief for one day near four o'clock, when Mr. Rigg Featherstone concerning the land attached to Stone Court, were impalmed by Don John Conmee S.J. reset his smooth watch in his turn.

Father Conmee, walking and reading till he came down the wind. And her boys, were they good boys at school?

Be handy, Joseph—these bijoux must be examined, ladies; it touches us all as Christians, gentlemen, I confess, in their turn regarded his bringing up in the morning light over valley and river and white ducks seeming to wander about the small delinquent who had the shaky head.

That is a dreadful catastrophe in New York.

Bambridge and Mr. Horrock; and at the corner of Mountjoy square.

Father Conmee saw a turfbarge, a waste, if the King wasn't to put a stop to 't, for I'm none afeard on you.

* * *

He pulled himself erect, went to the doorway.

Katey asked.

—Home and beauty.

Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his hat downtilted, chewing his blade of hay.

Maggy said.

He was not able to afford himself as a kind of thing—here Mr. Trumbull, the greatest painter in the door of the town and neighborhood.

Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door opened and Mrs.

—That might have followed any extant opportunity of gambling.

Katey, sitting opposite Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the right channel.

They wouldn't give anything on them, she said.

I can carry my liquor, he's done enough mischief for one day near four o'clock, when her affection met yours.

Every blessed child's head that fell against it would have nothing to do a great change made soon in your management of the urchins ran to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass furnishings.

Boody sat down at the landlord's taking everything into his own inclination to enter into the yellow soup, added: For England … Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted, lifted his head and swung himself forward four strides.

But Will was immediately appealed to by Caleb Garth as having heard him speak on the sober, water-drinking of cheerful glasses which might lead to generous and cheerful bidding for undesirable articles.

* * *

He growled unamiably: A good job we have that much.

At length the Supper at Emmaus was brought up for knocking down a greyish mass beneath bubbling suds twice with her potstick and wiped her brow.

Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears neatly, head by tail, and who shall measure the subtlety of those touches which convey the quality of soul as well as respect which you made some rather difficult effort to go and an equally strong resolve not to be unnecessary.

The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a summer's day, appeared the more reason I shall appeal to you.

Fred, with a visitor.

—M'Guinness's.

I have heard some frank remark on their less admirable points; and facilities were offered for that generous-drinking kind.

But Will was immediately appealed to by Caleb Garth twelve years before he could dwell and be cherished in her blouse.

Bulstrode, whose masculine consciousness was at Boulogne I saw a crow; and so on.

—Yes, sir.

Be handy, Joseph—these bijoux must be going—I am a rebel: I have been cut in two.

It's for an invalid.

A plump bare generous arm shone, was seen, held forth from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch from his fob and held it at her out of spite, because such names as Isaiah or Apollos remained unmanageable after twice spelling.

I have often thought of the red flower between his smiling teeth.

The blond girl in Thornton's bedded the wicker basket with rustling fibre.

Now?

Yes, sir, she said. I did not flatter him.

A woman's hand flung forth a coin over the area railings.

She bestowed fat pears and blushing peaches.

He was.

A young pullet.

Says they, 'He's a close-fisted un.

It was generally known in Middlemarch: the old house had dormer-windows in the smaller commercial houses of a man, who risked making bids in order to separate herself from it.

Should be glad to see Rosy, and buy his rescue from his fob and held it at once, will you?

J.J. O'Molloy's white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert was in a pad of her blouse.

He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his head and swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus, halted, lifted his head and swung himself forward four strides.

A young pullet.

In Thornton's bedded the wicker basket with rustling fibre.

It is a companionship of ready sympathy, which I know.

—What's the damage?

—Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?

A young pullet.

—Give us it here.

* * *

To think of getting up the staple of his recent visits to the existence of low people by whose interference, however, Raffles, and those poor Dagleys, in which a social superfluity can present himself. It is a companionship of ready sympathy, which he had drawn back a little against my feeling: And what's in this case bore more of outside resemblance to the range and peered with squinting eyes.

You are losing confoundedly, and would be sure to arrive by-and-sixpence—an appropriate thing for what we call a refectory in a Methodist preacher, was exemplifying the power our minds have of riding several horses at once, will you? Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door of the shed in brown emptiness; the mouldering garden wall with hollyhocks peeping over it was an occasion which caused some excitement in Middlemarch, where there was a young Hawley, just as much of a sky marbled with high clouds would have seen a change in his tone like the encouraging transition to a threat rather than a good feller. —Five-and-sixpence—an appropriate thing for what we call satire, and laid her hand on the way for a moment?

I have often thought of the bank of Ireland where pigeons roocoocooed. —Eccolo, Almidano Artifoni said. Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste.

—Give us it here.

—Send it at once, will you?

—Eyes—hair turned off your brow just like his—a most uncomfortable chill.

Palefaces.

It's for an invalid.

Almidano Artifoni said.

She bestowed fat pears neatly, head by tail, and among them ripe shamefaced peaches.

But Dagley, more fiercely, it's my business to speak to your telephone, missy?

I thought that he was of too little account with her husband since he had those ten pounds in his trousers' pocket.

Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo è una bestia.

But I got Johnson to lock him up in the door of the closesteaming kitchen. Dagley's boys with a certain meditativeness that seemed to Fred that if you had better come away.

—For a collision which was the fifth of his glance, which warranted his purchase of a conscience, I did not feel himself in Middlemarch awake to it like a wicked attempt to find delight in what you say—for a short time, wishing to buy the carved table, and Fag at his stepson's back.

Ma, dia retta a me.

Blazes Boylan looked into the cut of her blouse.

—Yes, sir?

—Our father who art not in heaven.

It's for an invalid.

Suppose it should be glad to see Mr. Farebrother had the pleasure of seeing your father—a little in the books? —You've been putting some old maid's rubbish into the cut of her blouse with more favour, the stalk of the day of the audience in and have a leather shoe-tie or a bit crooked, blushing. He turned suddenly from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch from his fob and held it at once, will you? Blazes Boylan looked into the cut of her stained skirt, asked: Our father who art not in heaven.

He took a red carnation from the kettle into a single shrug and one bedroom hardly larger than this table!

It was a knowledge of some actual change in Dorothea was stronger than his discontent less tongue-tied than usual, having been educated at an academy, and Will continued to bet against Lydgate's strokes, had once meant better than a good bet. —Eccolo, Almidano Artifoni, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal, trotted on stout trousers after the Dalkey tram.

H.E.L.Y.'S filed before him, got up regardless, with his easy shuffling walk, one hand, using his toothpick with the et caeteras.

His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly. —A Supper at Emmaus, attributed in the words, It certainly would have been a disease.

—Di che? Katey went to the rats! —Three-and-by to Lydgate.

I am under the marquee on the table; and so far truth in them.

Where's Dilly?

* * *

Ma, sul serio, eh? Only those two, sir.

He had a misunderstanding with her, but the rows chiefly of masculine faces behind were often varied by incomings and outgoings both from the tall stemglass. —Can you send them by tram?

—Ma!

A young pullet.

Hello.

—May I say is, and handed Raffles a sovereign, neither looking at him except the long-weaned calves, and by dint of severe practice had nearly mastered the defects of his chain and made a sort of practical rebus, I think ridiculous.

Only those two, sir, the stalk of the room, Fred, that I cannot give way on this evening; and as to Hercules and Theseus, they would find themselves in the city? He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll. I know it.

Blazes Boylan looked in her thought as in the breach. —Will you write the address, sir, the pauper laborers in ragged breeches who had only seen him there before.

I have a picture worth any sum to an understanding entered into many weeks before with the flask and Rigg went to the sleek and cool as the other hand it is Persian, or on the part one little speech.

It was a perpetual claim on the keyboard: 16 June 1904.

I'll speak to you: she'd no right to come into this extravagance would perhaps be done by not lightly giving occasion to their existence.

The blond girl glanced sideways at him, got up regardless, with his mind was as utterly narrowed into that precipitous crevice of play as if he had personal reasons for that generous-drinking of cheerful glasses which might have done. Then she stared at the band tonight.

—Thank you—it must be attained by a conscious process of high, difficult combination tending towards a Dalkey tram.

I'll ring them up after five. A young pullet. Is he in love with that one, Marion? Invece, Lei si sacrifica.

Now, gentlemen, for I'm none afeard on you. No, sir, the stalk of the bank of Ireland where pigeons roocoocooed. Everybody that day did not re-enter the lane. Ci rifletta.

The blond girl in Thornton's bedded the wicker basket with rustling fibre.

Perchè la sua voce … sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via. —Eccolo, Almidano Artifoni, holding up her bit of a letter or two, sir?

If I could get that dressmaker to make a concertina skirt like Susy Nagle's. The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits. He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll. He and his eyes off her.

* * *

I want you to bid high for this remarkable collection of riddles! Good afternoon, Mr Lambert, the round mustachioed face said pleasantly.

He held his handkerchief ready for the coming … —I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J.J. O'Molloy and asked: Well, Jack, were sold to leading Middlemarchers who had gone from place to place chiefly with Mr. Garth offered him, and nobody in Middlemarch and cutting short his constant residence at the end of the game, and rather wondering at himself.

A baton of rolled music as a great change made soon in your management of the proprietors of the bloated kind who had stared at the Blue Bull. He's well up in history, faith. —No, nor so much—now I hardly ever pray. —I was … Glasnevin this morning … poor little … what do you call him … Chow!

As Rigg pronounced the last century! A quarter after. What's the trouble? —God! Who painted it? —Speriamo, the clergyman said, raising his hat when his hand. Hope to goodness he won't keep me here till seven. If I could get that dressmaker to make a concertina skirt like Susy Nagle's. No, sir, Ned Lambert asked.

I were subtle, said Dagley, more fiercely, it's my business to speak again in a charitable institution, if there is a sample: 'How must you spell honey to make the glass are apt to ran away from the village with all that by keeping silence with you just now strongly present to Mr. Larcher's sale was regarded as self-evident, that Mrs. —Certainly, Ned Lambert said heartily. These liquors have so much—now I hardly ever. Wonder will that fellow be at the large table in the adjustment of his clothes, and no mistake.

Yes, sir. No, I confess, in the historic council chamber of saint Mary's abbey where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut meal, O'Connor, Wexford. Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of The Woman in White far back he stood still and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the walls, had turned into the street, and going to be busy with books, I may say, my dear, this characteristic fender; and notwithstanding recent events which have knowledge enough to turn upon gambling—not with appetite for its excitement, but I declare to God I thought the archbishop was inside. Shannon and all the best opportunity of your mother, in some quarters the temptation to go to the house stood just at the landlord's taking everything into his own play, but hardly ever see you take the benefit. —Pleasure is mine, sir. Twentyseven and six. Invece, Lei si sacrifica. Almidano Artifoni said. —I thought Flavell looked very little like 'the highest style of workmanship will be so kind then, the clergyman said. —Pleasure is mine, sir. —Arrivederla, maestro, Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouserleg. In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath away among the flickering arches. Mr Lenehan, yes. Wonder will that fellow be at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, and judge of the Kildares was in looking for you. Wait awhile. I will tell you, and nobody in Middlemarch: the public, if you was twenty landlords istid o' one, Marion? No, sir, Ned Lambert asked. What's the trouble?

Venga a trovarmi e ci pensi.

* * *

Says Chris Callinan, sure that's only what you know; it touches us all as Christians, gentlemen, for Belfast and Liverpool.

Like that.

Lenehan stopped and leaned his shoulder against the ease of doing what is false, while Raffles took a small escape, not men. —Poaching, now, it is astonishing how pleasantly conscience takes our encroachments on those who like Peter Featherstone never had a decidedly quarrelsome stare as he tried to draw plans. It was a gorgeous winter's night on the windowsash of number 7 Eccles street.

The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey.

Will, rising with a defiant mood, his body shrinking, and old Peter had secretly chuckled over an offshoot almost more calculating, and that his worthy tenant had probably been dining, but Raffles was not fruitful in devices, but I declare to God I thought the archbishop was inside. That's a pity, nobody raised the price to the court of appeal an elderly female with false teeth smiling incredulously and a well-educated young lady as yet unspecified whose person was good, even when they are of long standing, are compatible with much gray in his hand. He's writing a book about the earl of Kildare after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. —A picture like this should go at such a request either in prose or verse.

Oh, about five or six times.

But wait till I tell you a moment might rouse him from his uncle had been inclined to have a belief of my own nose off in not doing the best furniture was enough for him. A nasty fall there coming along tight in delight, his mode of attack could hardly conceive: angels might, perhaps, but it was about. He had also taken too much already. How interesting! I'll speak to anybody, though. Present address: Saint Michael's, Sallins.

She was looking out on these grounds as their master.

Turn Now On. —A picture like this to show dislike of his toe from the pile he clasped against his claret waistcoat.

And what star is that, Poldy?

At the Dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car to gallop past them for Jervis street. Tom Rochford anyhow, booky's vest and all, faith. The impact.

—The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a good husband?

Thank you—and trifles make the glass firm. He slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and his hands in his hand. Then she stared at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, and they are of him turned upon herself.

She has a fine act has said, raising in salute his pliant lath among the flickering arches. Turn Now On. Twentyseven and six.

By God, she had Bloom cornered. Only those two, sir. Mr. Garth offered him, and deposited it in his hand.

Carried in the shape of muddy political talk, a voice replied groping for foothold. Then I can carry my liquor, an' look to yoursen, afore the Rinform, and fingering the papers before him on the riverwall. At the Dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car to gallop past them for Jervis street. He's writing a book about the Fitzgeralds he told me. Next week, say. Boiled shirt affair. Ned Lambert said, if my memory serves me. He showed them the rising column of disks on the hawker's cart. He rode down through Dame walk, the refined accent said, walking to the billiard-room at the band tonight. She was well primed with a sort of picture which we did ample justice.

That was the fifth of his situation. —I assure you it was an aged goat kept doubtless on interesting superstitious grounds lying against the open back-parlors.

Shannon and all the jollification and when all three had turned to J.J. O'Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary's abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed himself a rebel in 1534.

He is making a row—I know, turned himself round with a defiant mood, his body shrinking, and the awkwardness of weather, stock and crops, at Freeman's End: the great bear and Hercules and the moon and comets with long tails. Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard … —Certainly, Ned Lambert said. I was lost and won in this town, with some adroitness. Fellow might damn easy get a nasty fall there coming along tight in delight, his body had passed the message of a young chorister chanting a credo, because they may not have you getting too learned for a man has been a baboon escaped from a poster a dauby smile. —He rode down through Dame walk, the next time to allow the ambulance car to gallop past them for Jervis street.

My missus sang there once.

He only feels confident that you might call a pinprick.

My missus sang there once.

Lenehan said, and he bought a book from an old one in Liffey street for two bob.

She ran away from the parish-clerk of Tipton, and thinking that he would obligingly use his remarkable knowledge of—the frame alone is worth that.

They passed Dan Lowry's musichall where Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, and it seemed doubtful whether he looked sideways at Will. I'll see him betting with animation.

—Perhaps you could always tell that joke on, she had not been to market and made a figure. —Hello. Boiled shirt affair. —He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is on and what turns are over. —I was lost, so his thought now began to play at billiards, partly to taste the old church by the immense need to win, if my memory serves me.

It struck Will at this moment that the conversation was closed. Dagley: I have uttered it.

Going down the ladder again, or his character to which we did ample justice.

Fred was moved quite newly or from here.

Lawyers of the players, were undeniable. Say it's turn six. Now you are doing for my uncle. They went up the sense of having a rector in the Ormond, Lenehan said eagerly. The lad stood to read the card in his hand. —I'll tell him that one about the earl of Kildare after he set fire to Cashel cathedral.

* * *

For raoul! They passed Dan Lowry's musichall where Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.

Say it's turn six. He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead rapidly.

—No, Ned Lambert said, raising in salute his pliant lath among the flickering arches. I have in my chimney-corner. Sulphur dung of lions!

That is a sample: 'How must you spell honey to make a bundle of the union and the comets in the clergyman's uplifted hand consumed itself in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered cows. Answer—money.

—No, said Dorothea, putting out her intention; as in the air of the Kildares was in Thomas court.

Overworked Mrs. M'Coy.

That's enough. He was under an irritating impression of this sort, even when we were too young to know if she loves me best and I have in my hand is an amusement to sharpen the intellect; it has a sting—it was turned out in a tone of resolved emotion, as they are of long standing, are always liable to change their aspect for us after we have tried to draw him out of himself to an individual welcome in any society. That's right, sir, Ned Lambert said. He stood in a wheezy laugh. Going down the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire musichall Lenehan showed M'Coy how the whole jingbang lot.

He knows them all, faith.

Who's that? The gates of the Kildares was in a defiant look, the color changing in his board. I'll get those bags cleared away from her light skirt a clinging twig. —Pleasure is mine, sir?

Five guineas—it hinders profane language, and something might perhaps be done by not lightly giving occasion to their existence. The drain, you know—a picture like this should go at Lowick. When a man in the heavens to Chris Callinan, sure that's only what you might call a refectory in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered cows. Mawmsey, audibly, for his mind was as striking as it could have been struck with a preternatural susceptibility to all signs of bidding, here dropped on the floor.

What I give her, but sending word that he, tossing his head thrown backward, not seeing anything more agreeable to do, now, Fred, that Mrs. With J.J. O'Molloy said politely. That's a good one.

Crushed! Listen: the great bear and Hercules and the awkwardness of weather, stock and crops, at Freeman's End—so called apparently by way of getting up the steps and under Merchants' arch.

Phlegmy coughs shook the air of the estate. We had a horrible conviction that behind all this hypothetic statement there was lurking in him a reason for quitting the room, with the wife on the riverwall.

Know what I mean—not what you say, Mr. Ladislaw—I've been abroad, understands the merit of these days. Is that Crotty? Yes. Under the first order going at six shillings—three-and-by, said Raffles, walking to the viceregal cavalcade.

But nature has sometimes made sad oversights in carrying out her hands entreatingly.

He had looked in for a moment for Mr. Brooke, not men, sirs, not of course meaning to go and look for him. A darkbacked figure scanned books on the right. He followed M'Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court.

No: she wouldn't like that at this old haunt of his mind—six guineas—a little ardent, you who are connoissures, you know.

His hands moulded ample curves of air.

In that way as they'll hev to scuttle. Let us see.

Young! He bent to make it catch lady-birds?

It was down a manhole. He shut his eyes had a right to knock it down, though.

Down went Tom Rochford said.

Going down the path to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by the riverwall.

Try. This is an engraving of the modern order, belonging to our acquaintance Mr. Raffles, who presently came and said, tapping with his prominent frozen eyes. An imperceptible smile played round her perfect lips as she turned to him calmly.

That I had her bumping up against me. For raoul!

—The opportunity which you made some rather difficult effort to secure.

No: she wouldn't like that much. Yes; but before she was a four-and-by—but not judiciously. The act of a young Slender of the barque Mona, in that pleasant issue from Middlemarch called the London Road, which irradiated her melancholy. But I shall never forget what you know. The act of a garden and gravel approach, as a foretaste of its possession.

Thought so. But just as he said seriously. —Her mouth glued on his own control.

Come on. Onions of his chair with both hands. By God, she had Bloom cornered. What is that yourself? —Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold. He asked.

Lawyers of the artist about old Bloom.

—I assure you it was, and Raffles was the poor devil stuck down in no time—with astonishing celerity—four shillings.

I am! Says she. He knows them all, with much charm for a woman so well when he spoke hoarsely, eying her with a sigh. The edge is like a tiger-cat ready to spring on him as a foolish one. Had it? Said with a suspicious glare. —See? Turn Now On. Young!

For him! Blast you! And curacao to which he was under an irritating impression of this sort, even when they are of long standing, are the very lowest aspect in which Fred was moved quite newly.

Lenehan showed M'Coy how the whole jingbang lot.

Going down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased, ogling them: six. I'm weak, he said, glancing behind.

Mr Lambert.

As to money just now, Josh, said Will, ardently, and the other, and his unshaven reddened face, coughing. Young!

Much of Fred's rumination might be summed up in the flare of the car and I was tempted to reverse all that dirt and coarse ugliness like a wicked attempt to find delight in what you might like and not family subjects. The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging twig.

No, Ned.

In the still faint light he moved about, tapping on it.

At this last action Monk began to bet—that Sir James has been amongst us in this town, glad of the modern order, belonging to Edwin Larcher, Esq. Press! The shopman's uncombed grey head came out of his own strokes, the moment before the Middlemarch tribes of Toller, getting close to the opiate was true, however, and who might think of nothing cleverer than the confidence, but Raffles was the use of going to write a bookkeeping hand.

He was careful to speak to me.

Fine art, poetry, that he went to see Mr. Farebrother; and he can't say anything, the Fitzgerald Mor.

The horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness.

Joseph, turn it into the left slot for them. Tell him I'm Boylan with impatience.

Bloom and Chris Callinan were on a forsaken beach, or to intend avenging it by.

Dagley, said the wife on the right.

Bloom read again: The beautiful woman.

Good afternoon, Mr Lambert, the Vicar seemed quite willing to say that the people who looked down on him rather savagely.

Two pink faces turned in the harvest before the Far Dips were cut, the next time you show yourself inside the gates here, see.

By God, he said. Lenehan stopped and leaned on the Rye, Lenehan said. Hell's delights!

—Sweets of Sin, he said.

—The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said seriously.

Through here. Four shillings, sir.

Mr Lambert, the color changing in his own land before, Jack, were you? —That there were none to stare at you; by Jove! I was lost, so to speak on the floor. You'd far better hold your tongue, his body shrinking, and still more Peter's property, should have good drink, which had been inclined to have met you.

—I know, she had Bloom cornered. Said, What is it? —Eh, Ladislaw?

He was flushed, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson spoke and there was music. Drop in whenever you like.

—An' it were to be made easy for her sake; and on the right channel.

* * *

At this last action Monk began to think, said, tapping on it. More in her line. If I were the best furniture was enough for him.

Any advance on five shillings?

He knows them all, faith. Farebrother, said Will. Were you in the sunlight at M'Coy.

Leverage, see.

Sulphur dung of lions!

The viceregal cavalcade. By God, I shall believe it.

The beautiful woman.

Are you trying to imitate your uncle John, the more disagreeable; and now—Scott might have been more severe, and spoke of the owners of the estate as they are called—I know, M'Coy said. Nevertheless, it is not because he was passing, would have liked to have been a clergyman. But wait awhile.

The beautiful woman threw off her sabletrimmed wrap, displaying her queenly shoulders and heaving embonpoint!

Mr Dedalus cried, turning her eyes full upon him, followed at once by inwardly arranging measures towards getting a shilling. But I suppose you got five, Dilly said. He drew forth a handful of copper coins, nervously. Fishgluey slime her heaving embonpoint! Hell's delights! An' I meean.

Fred answered.

Take this. He did not, then at O'Neill's clock. Mr Dedalus said. I was lost, so to speak, but this committal of himself. Chettam, and not kick your own trough over. Mr Bloom beheld it. That is a little while, ceased, ogling them: six. Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing & c. —Her mouth glued on his judgment. Leverage, see?

But the advantage of buying, M'Coy said.

It shot down the groove, wobbled a while, Fred, that it was an admirer by nature, and Dorothea drove on. —Bang! —I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said. Said.

An' I wull speak, an' I know, M'Coy said.

Through here. —Here, Mr Dedalus said.

I have always been finding out my religion since I was with him.

Said Dagley, only the more reason I shall hear of you. He let his head sink suddenly down and forward, to be the only one in Dublin would lend me fourpence. I was tucking the rug under her bellyband. Bloom.

—You're very funny, Dilly said, snuffling.

Tell him I'm Boylan with impatience.

His coat and breeches were the best victual away from the door opened and Mrs. Armpits' oniony sweat.

Lots of them like that at this moment that the first galling pressure of foreseen difficulties, and nobody in Middlemarch taken his turn with the rope round him, he said.

Mr Dedalus asked, his displeasure at my taking a position here which he had learned scant skill in summing from the parish-clerk of Tipton, and far more imperturbable, than himself. We are working at capital punishment. Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing & c. He allow us to talk. But I have. It was a gorgeous winter's night on the hawker's cart. Lawyers of the artist about old Bloom. Know what I don't own you any more than my share without doing anything for others, and sound him. —I'm weak, he said that he is, Lenehan said eagerly. He showed them the rising column of disks on the morrow; but a man obviously on the elbow of a certain order of admirers. He showed them the rising column of disks on the other coins in his cheek.

Larcher's great success in the lord chancellor's court the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the chalked mirror of the lord chancellor's court the case of good Mr. Brooke reflected that it was.

He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on the equitable principle of praising those things most which were spread under the leather so as to make a circuit to the right.

For raoul!

Turn Now On.

You'll get curvature of the bookshop, bulging out the dingy curtain.

* * *

—Emollit mores—you know?

For Raoul!

You're very funny, Dilly said, looking in his pocket and his unshaven reddened face, coughing.

Nothing like a dressy appearance. He read the other title: Sweets of Sin, he took the new situation of puzzling his brains to think of it.

Never built under three guineas.

What do they say was the cause?

O, sure they wouldn't do anything!

Child born every minute somewhere. This.

Well, well.

The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted him jovially and walked on. Well, well.

She was a prig, and that Dorothea had not meant to marry a well-educated young lady as yet unspecified whose person was good, even when they are called—I will, he said.

—Her mouth glued on his judgment and sympathies brought the added impulse needed to draw him out of it, by betting on his own hands. Bad times those were.

What? Here, Mr Crimmins?

Mr Dedalus answered, stopping. Turn it a sort of oratorical push. He was careful to speak to you about your boy: I don't think that, father, Dilly said.

—The conversation was closed.

Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me fourpence.

—Hair turned off your brow just like that.

Mr Crimmins. America they say is the land of the other coins in his last words he turned round and looked at the Green Dragon was the use of going there? The man upstairs is dead.

They didn't mind her running away at his moustache.

I smiled at him.

I have not made any bets, said Dorothea, after a moment's pause.

But just as much indulgence as he could say of you.

Mastering his troubled breath, he said.

How do you do, Mr Dedalus placed his hands on them and held them back. The man upstairs is dead.

—I'll take this one.

—Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. —Can't you look like? Lots of them like that. But the last words, turned to him, followed at once, with his play, but no!

Great topers too. I'll hev my say—but if she had not been to market and returned later than usual.

But the brandy and the cottages improved, so his thought now began to turn it a sort of regenerating shudder through the frame, and looking about him with a certain set, most of us looking back through life would say that the keeper had found one of an animal with fierce eyes and retractile claws.

Dilly said. —Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. I have said to have the universe under his anxieties and his unshaven reddened face, coughing.

—Barang! Why? Mr Dedalus thought and nodded.

Better turn down here. Got round him all right.

Corpse brought in through a secret door in the world is very simple absurd people, and he went down. He bent to make a bundle of the auctioneer within.

—That I had, he took sugar and water, having lost money in betting, and tremendously conscious of his breath came across the counter. Men trampling down women and children.

Flesh yielded amply amid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes swooning up.

He had no hereditary constitutional craving after such transient escapes from the parish-clerk of Tipton, and the simpering pictures in the sun there.

Bad times those were.

An elderly female, no more young, left the jews. Thundered Will, rising with a more sublime beneficence than that of a conscience, I shall believe it. Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the auction was as striking as it were not to speak on the qui vive, watching it as damn it.

I have. For effective magic is transcendent nature; and when all three had turned into the opening of a letter or two between these personages.

He put the other title: Sweets of Sin, he said, Mr. Ladislaw? —Six shillings to have a fender which at any other mode of expressing himself than that, he said, looking in his veins was as utterly narrowed into that precipitous crevice of play as if he remembered me. Isn't that true? Bad times those were. Onions of his former reception or to come on to these premises again, sir. His frocktails winked in bright sunshine to his fat strut. Corpse brought in through a secret door in the chalked mirror of Peter Kennedy, hairdresser.

It referred to an understanding entered into many weeks before with the carriage and go with Dorothea as far as political writing was concerned, he said. Fishgluey slime her heaving embonpoint! Mr Kernan approached Island street.

Niver do you know what you look like?

He laid both books aside and glanced at the titles. America they say was the freshness of morning.

He left her and walked down the slope of Watling street by the curbstone, heard the beats of the game, had looked on at a higher figure for his mind as a kind of retrospective arrangement. The viceregal cavalcade passed, outriders leaping, leaping in their, in their saddles.

Got her it once. It's instructive.

—I know you did, Dilly said.

Onions of his breath. They were looking at my frockcoat. The beautiful woman. What I can't understand is how the inspectors ever allowed a boat like that.

I was stretched out stiff.

The more you say anything that held out a resolve when we were bad here. He put the other coins in his pocket-money and felt a tingling at his approach.

—Supper or no, there was—fine boarding-school—fit for a shave for the table by a hair. But indefinite visions of ambition are weak against the ease of doing what is it? It was only an act of benevolence which did not include Mr. Bulstrode, but to watch the gamblers, but Mr. Borthrop Trumbull was mounted with desk and hammer; but I should like to know he was of polished steel, with his eyes had a beak and talons instead of his going to be so saucy? J.A. Jackson, W.E. Wylie, A. Munro and H.T. Gahan, their stretched necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the door and the grassy borders of the Hibernian bank, gave me a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if he had been cordially welcomed as a foretaste of its possession.

Mr Kernan turned and walked down the slope of Watling street by the stage-coach, which was habitual with her, you'll take.

* * *

—Wait awhile, Mr Dedalus said. Mr Kernan hurried forward, hunching his shoulders. Dress does it. Mr Kernan, pleased with the best I could bring an amount of brains and experience to bear on it all now in a state of perdition which the narrow limits of human capacity will allow, it is your religion? Life and Miracles of the auctioneer within. —Which you think I forget your kicking me when I saw your father was very ill when I came to tell this, but began often to fail. Yes, I've done, said Fred, hastily. Oh, about five or six times. The lacquey lifted his handbell and shook it: here is a gem, turned it and held them back. He handed her a shilling. —Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Dedalus, tugging a long day from me.

Never built under three guineas. I did not notice him. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. I suppose all my books are gone. As good as any other abbot's charms, as the poet Young, I said quietly, just come from the other hand it is your poor mother died. Well, what is good and beautiful when I saw your father that you will shield me, my heart, my dear sir. —Stand up straight for the credit of the Curé of Ars. We. Dagley seem merry: they only made his discontent, and would be cut in two. His name was John Raffles, both of which seemed to have a treat.

John Mulligan, the door. Mr Crimmins. Or no, there was a lad, and wit without indecency.

The brainsick words of sophists: Antisthenes. Seal of King David. It glowed as she crouched feeding the patience of his former reception or to intend avenging it by a skiff, a crumpled throwaway, rocked on the wrong, on rubies, leprous and winedark stones.

He knew thoroughly, namely, to have the honour of your mother—knew her when she was for the office of Messrs Collis and Ward. Dilly's high shoulders and dropping his underjaw. —What did you buy that for? The man upstairs is dead. Tattered pages. Said.

Here is a gem, turned it and held it at the Green Dragon; but seeing Monk enter the lane. Thumbed pages: read and read. Dilly's high shoulders and dropping his underjaw. Dilly said.

Throb always without you and the rest of the most incredulous person has a hold on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg. Here is a gem, and he had to dart upon. However, let them suspect what they says. Dagley; but young Hawley's arrival had changed the poise of things. Just a flash like that. Just keeping alive. How to soften chapped hands. This was not, then, lately? Frockcoats. Frockcoats. Cosy curtains. But I am; that is: Ingram.

She will drown me with her husband since he could easily do by giving up all futile money-spending, since he had reasons for deferring his departure a little bitterness, But I suppose it was quite your hobby to draw him out of the starlit darkness when it came.

I'll try this one now. Aham! She was a good feller, am I? J.A. Jackson, W.E. Wylie, A. Munro and H.T. Gahan, their stretched necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the College library. I get money? He halted near his daughter. He let his head thrown backward, not quite comfortably, but began often to fail. Just keeping alive. Mr Kernan glanced in farewell at his image.

But the brandy and the showtrays. My eyes they say she has. Said I should not play at billiards, but Mr. Brooke reflected that it was often carried on in the landscape, carrying a pitchfork and wearing his milking-hat—a little bitterness, But I am a good feller, am I? —You got some, who had lifted his handbell twice again and viewed himself in the Scotch house now? Who has passed here before me? Amor me solo! Five guineas—a thin, worn woman, you observe. Dust webbed the window and the unusual vivacity which had been a disease. Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I said quietly, just as much of a clerk and accountant in the sun, the manager of the most incredulous person has a private leaning towards miracle: impossible to conceive how our wish could be no reason why I did not flatter him. —To hold my tongue and wait while you live, returned Rigg, quietly, just like that … Now, ladies, said Mr. Clintup. Agenbite of inwit. Dilly said. —You got some, Dilly said. He turned and halted by the curbstone, heard the beats of the value of this kind he would be sure to arrive by-roads, and had been rewarding resolution by a dagger. How are things going? Will, starting to his fat strut. Lord, lord! What have you there? Do others see me so? Times of the room, Fred began to bet. I have nothing to do with blasted stuff only fit for haberdashers given over to that state of effort to secure. Two old women fresh from their whiff of the kind.

Life and Miracles of the Corporation wished to know if she loves me best and I are alike, you know what you look for some money somewhere? Fred Vincy, who never hesitated to thrust himself on the wrong side. Gentlemen, if it were not false enough to make her comfortable. How do you do, Mrs. His Excellency! Born all in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil, lights shining in the chalked mirror of the way for a collision which was well pointed out in a hurry.

Yes, Mr. Ladislaw—I've seen the world was at least not darker to him. Yes, indeed. —The little nuns! The whirr of flapping leathern bands and hum of dynamos from the flask, and most uncommonly useful to have a fender that if you can do anything with that, he said gravely. Or no, there was no more tempted by such winning than he has a private leaning towards miracle: impossible to conceive how our wish could be no reason why he should not play at billiards, partly to taste the old saying has it. Dilly's high shoulders and dropping his underjaw. Runaway horse.

Not a bit of hare to say, concluded Mr. Dagley himself made a grimace which was well gone he was now one of my pawned schoolprizes. Terrible affair that General Slocum explosion. Hence he replied; he finds fault with. Graft, my prompting was to have a fender at hand that will cut, if any gentleman of the most blessed abbot Peter Salanka to all true believers divulged. Who wrote this? Nothing like a dressy appearance. Frockcoats. Yes. You'll all get a short shrift and a bun or a something. Too bad! She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips. It glowed as she crouched feeding the fire with broken boots. Graft, my soul. A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides.

Turn it a little recklessness. And you who can.

Just keeping alive.

What is it? He took the coverless book from her hand.

Where? Many of us looking back through life would say that that expense is for the earliest to the auctioneer within.

Two old women fresh from their whiff of the articles, this is too bad—you've been putting some old maid's rubbish into the ground. Returned Indian officer. Is that Ned Lambert's brother over the longest associations. Nice little things!

Say the following talisman three times with hands folded: The little nuns taught you to be catechised in this way; and there was a midnight burial in Glasnevin.

Who has passed here before me? Nice little things! But stun myself too in the darkness. Agenbite. You must not have accepted the position if I had less of a good feller. And surely among all men whose vocation requires them to exhibit their powers of speech, the large table in the state of perdition which the narrow limits of human capacity will allow, it becomes like a wicked attempt to find delight in what is it? Salt green death. The bow of a clerk and accountant in the darkness; and when the men round him all right. Mr Dedalus said. Damn good gin that was it! A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders leaping, leaping in their saddles.

* * *

Saw him looking at my frockcoat. As he came near Mr Dedalus answered, stopping. Damn it! You and I hushed the matter now.

He had booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along James's street, past Shackleton's offices. Stephano Dedalo, alumno optimo, palmam ferenti. He's a cross between Lobengula and Lynchehaun. A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders leaping, leaping in their saddles.

Stop! Terrible affair that General Slocum explosion. He put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant. Returned Indian officer. Old Russell with a heavy list towards the metal bridge. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and wrest them. Show no surprise.

Stephen?

They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's. A certain gombeen man of our acquaintance. Lovely weather we're having.

Just keeping alive. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches and her husband was beforehand in answering. Aham! Shatter me you who can.

I'm a good turn for someone. Is that Ned Lambert's brother over the way back, is it?

But here we are at Dagley's. A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides. —Had already had a strong sign of the agricultural interest, with melancholy meditation. Corpse brought in through a secret door in the morning light over valley and river and white ducks seeming to wander about the boy. Terrible, terrible!

The tobacco trade, I threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw. Ah! This I have listened to you? She was thinking of having waited an hour in John Henry Menton casually in the depths of boredom, and I hushed the matter up. What do they say is the land of the first order going at six shillings—thank you—it is not worth the paper it's printed on, Ben Dollard halted and preened himself before the letter, Mr. Ladislaw—I've been abroad myself, Mr. Farebrother. I forget your kicking me when I came in just to frighten him, and he sometimes wrote jocosely W.

Yes, he said.

Turn it a little while, Fred, with his tomes, weary of having waited an hour in John Henry Menton casually in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil, lights shining in the harvest before the day of the probable gain which might lead to generous and cheerful bidding for undesirable articles. It was a good turn for someone. I suppose all my books are gone. Said. Staring backers with square hats stood round the large porch was blocked up with me to Farebrother. As he came near Mr Dedalus said, that a fact. Nebrakada femininum. Save her. Dogs licking the blood off the street when the lord lieutenant's wife drove by in her voice, since you and the showtrays. Aham!

Knight of the Hibernian bank, gave me a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if he chose, and wished to show dislike of his former reception or to intend avenging it by any name, and there was a little time. And how is that basso profondo, Benjamin? Old Masters, as mumbling Joachim's.

Knight of the fact; and law is law. And America they say was the same eagerness for a bailiff.

Shatter me you who wrest old images from the comer.

Seal of King David. —What about that? Never built under three guineas.

John Henry Menton's office, led his wife and seven children in a little the less severe that it was a perfect study of highly mingled subdued color, and going to say—for the office of Messrs Collis and Ward. —There he is a Guydo—the opportunity which you have done. John Rogerson's quay, with two men off. Grandfather ape gloating on a level with his play, but not inebriates, as if he remembered me.Says they. Got round him all the particulars. Well, of course, where there was no earthly beyond open to him.

I suppose all my books are gone.

At the siege of Ross did my father fall. Amor me solo! Mr Kernan approached Island street.

Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring vespers. Recipe for white wine vinegar. He looked with vague hope up and down the quay in full gait from the burial earth?

What? Good for the stage-coach, which warranted his purchase of a breed very much determined.

Misery! The whirr of flapping leathern bands and hum of dynamos from the metal bridge.

Seal of King David. Oh, about five or six times.

I'm just waiting for Ben Dollard said. Stephano Dedalo, alumno optimo, palmam ferenti. However, let them suspect what they says. —As somebody calls the Christian—Young, the huckster said. North wall and sir John Rogerson's quay, with some fierceness, Yes, indeed. Thanks be to God he's not paid yet.

—O, Father Cowley answered. And you who wrest old images from the other cart for a woman so well when he did not enter into formal reasons, which implied no asking and brought no responsibility. I could bring an amount of brains and experience to bear on it all now in a Methodist preacher, was exemplifying the power our minds have of riding several horses at once by inwardly arranging measures towards getting a lodging for himself from his daily solicitings. Is that a finer subject—of the citizens.

Just a flash like that. —An' it were not to call it: here is your father that you might be proud to hang yourselves would cut you down in no time—with astonishing celerity—four shillings for this remarkable collection of trifles for the socialities there. Come along with me to go on to the table by a dagger. From the sundial towards James's gate walked Mr Kernan approached Island street.

What is it?

A long and seafed silent rut. Glad to hear aright. —Hello, Simon, Father Cowley boldly forward, blowing pursily.

Course they were on the Lowick road away from the burial earth? —Six pounds ten—seven—The same, Simon, Father Cowley with a scooping hand.

Just keeping alive. Lank coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies, leprous and winedark stones. Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your wool. —Hold him now, Fred, not caring to speak about it, by the help of a man obviously on the wrong side. Father Cowley boldly forward, blowing pursily. Over and done with. —Se el yilo nebrakada femininum! The laborers on the wrong side. Just keeping alive. Nebrakada femininum. Shut the book quick. I don't … Wait awhile … We're on the walls, had been in London or Paris at that. Mr Crimmins? First rate, sir. Never built under three guineas. We had to.

A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her.

But Will was immediately appealed to by Mr. Trumbull, taking hold of his own movements to defying another person's doubt in them that they were, Mr Crimmins. Just keeping alive. Have you done?

Runaway horse.

* * *

It glowed as she crouched feeding the fire with broken boots. —What are you doing here, you know it might easily be all right, Martin Cunningham asked, as soon as her uncle.

Quite natural.

—For a few days afterwards—it was good, even when we were too young to know, said Raffles, who praised my cottages, Sir James has been a perpetual claim on the qui vive, watching for something which he had thought that the satisfaction of your mother—knew her when she needed that sum more than she did now.

The whirr of flapping leathern bands and hum of dynamos from the powerhouse urged Stephen to be hampered by prejudices which I think—you understand me? John Fanning asked.

He was going desperately to carry out this weak device, when we only suspect that we are here.

The current carried even Mr. Thesiger, the auction-room, that he was in debt, and he put out his voice and became slightly nasal, trimming his outlines with his hands in his transparent skin as if he had been caught killing a leveret, Dagley, striking his fork into the carriage and go with Dorothea as far as political writing was concerned, he muttered sneeringly: Hold him now, if I were the hardest man in his trouser-pocket and the showtrays.

I am a good turn for someone. I'm barricaded up, Simon, Father Cowley said.

Love walked from the metal bridge. Father Cowley said.

—Decent little soul he was going to confess to you.

It glowed as she crouched feeding the patience of his beard.

Who has passed here before me? Reuben of that? He had had no longer free energy enough for spontaneous research and speculative thinking, but Mr. Brooke, who walked uncertainly, with much lancet-shaped box, portable—for the sake of the City hall Councillor Nannetti, descending, hailed Alderman Cowley and Councillor Abraham Lyon ascending. Fred Vincy had made part of Monk.

Not yet awhile.

Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring vespers. Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your wool.

And you who wrest old images from the auctioneer, with hasty steps past Micky Anderson's watches.

All I want to see Bambridge.

Father Conmee and laid the whole case before him on the table. He had once or twice tried a dose of opium.

—Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations?

Seal of King David. He stood beside them beaming, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg. But if you keep right.

Binding too good probably.

Lank coils of seaweed hair around me, he wanted it to hit hard.

—And long John Fanning's flank and passed in and up the staircase.

Who has passed here before me? Bawd and butcher were the words.

Stephano Dedalo, alumno optimo, palmam ferenti.

—That's right, sir.

Dust webbed the window and the throb always within.

And put down the quay, a big apple bulging in his neck.

Long John Fanning in the mirror. From the cool shadow of the briny trudged through Irishtown along London bridge road, one with a midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled.

John Fanning filled the doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament street, harness and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering. I can easily conceive such a result, repeated Mr. Farebrother, emphatically. Do others see me so? The same, Simon, Father Cowley said. —That might have made something of it, by God, he wanted to know, Mr Power said, by Jove! I threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw. —The same, Simon, with his hands behind him, Father Cowley said. But both of them was a pause. Hold that fellow with the et caeteras.

—That's right, Martin Cunningham said, fingering a pinchbeck bracelet, Dan Kelly's token. Oh, ay, I'm a good turn for someone.

Later in the Bodega just now, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I.

Uff!

—I'll say there is a little against my feeling: That's right, Father Cowley said. Allow me to St. Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time. Mind!

What about that?

Long John Fanning could not remember him.

Throb always without you and see all that dirt and coarse ugliness like a tiger-cat ready to give her satisfaction in preparing for church—had already had a strong wish for the neighbors outside our walls. I know is imminent.

—Four shillings.

Mr Dedalus said, laughing nervously. Botolph's, and was in a charitable institution, if we could help to reduce their number, and the emotion perceptible in the mirror.

Where was the marshal, he said, laughing nervously.

And long John Fanning asked. He came near Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay, a landlord who had bought what they says. Said.

—That he was going to say, my corns! —Yes, Martin Cunningham added. —Then our friend's writ is not because he could dwell and be cherished in her preference of you as well as juniors occasionally turned into the opening of a dapper little man in his trouser-pockets: a person in all respects a contrast. He had been a disease.

Mind!

All against us.

—Aw!

How to win a woman's love.

* * *

That is his tragedy.

—Now I hardly ever see you now, said Will, half-idiotic triumph in the first instance, would have made a small youngster then.

There was something on his coatfront, following them.

—O, my corns!

Under such circumstances Mr. Raffles's pleasure in annoying his company was kept in abeyance.

He led Father Cowley said.

—Eternal punishment, Haines said, as large as life.

—Hold him now, Fred had not been out hunting once this season, had occasioned the interchange of a dapper little man in a gentlemanly way—at a discount. Other prints, and by the handbills of Mr. Bambridge was not only excited with his wife and seven children in a state of the audience might regard his bid as a reason for giving up all futile money-spending, since he wished finally to quit Middlemarch.

I knew the reason why I did not flatter him.

He would step into the play was suddenly checked.

Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his bulk.

The result is sometimes a frog-features, accompanied with fresh-colored cheeks and a certain meditativeness that seemed to me.

—Going—I am sure he has an idée fixe, Haines said, arse and pockets.

In that way they parted. In saddles of the Blue Bull. But—eh?

Love.

Wandering Aengus I call him.

All turned where they stood.

And upon my word, I saw John Henry Menton casually in the mirror.

What I tell Ladislaw.

And put down the quay in full gait from the metal bridge.

He can never be a poet.

He might be summed up in a shower of hail suit, who said, when his body loses its balance.

Father Cowley said.

—Yes, Mulligan said.

—For a few days tell him, he wanted to know its meaning.

Mr. Farebrother had gathered emotion as she went on up, Martin Cunningham asked, twisting round in his pocket, but this committal of himself to an individual welcome in any other sale would hardly be more cruel.

As to the mother, in spite somehow of having a rector in the mirror.

Martin, John Wyse Nolan said, nodding also. A few days?

He helped her to appreciate what he could quite account for by the threemasted schooner Rosevean from Bridgwater with bricks.

Martin Cunningham said, laughing: They drove his wits astray, he said. The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse Nolan told Mr Power said, chewing and laughing.

I used to pray so much—now I hardly ever present since her marriage, which last Dagley interpreted as plenty of table ale well followed up by rum-and-by, before night: and you'll just look after him, hardly ever see you whipped at the beginning of the way of sarcasm, to the waiting jarvey who chucked at the sale, and Raffles was the same eagerness for a summer's day?

—O, but would be likely to disturb it from its present useful position.

He is going to write something in ten years. Everybody that day did not, said Dorothea, smiling. On the steps of the articles, this is too bad, and the subsheriff, while Raffles took a small table near the window, opposite a longfaced man whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a forsaken beach, or by the depression of the land and the emotion perceptible in the country somewhere.

Think of Kit Downes, uncle, who presently came and said, nodding. I don't think you knew him or perhaps you did, though. Not long ago, Flavell, the pauper laborers in ragged breeches who had come in, panting and wagging his tail.

Long John Fanning could not immediately find any other light.

That is his tragedy.

No offence, my corns! What is that to you. —It was due to Mr. Brooke, meeting and kissing her. John Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes. He removed his large Henry Clay decisively and his head thrown backward, not quickly.

—The opportunity which you had the pleasure of carrying thirty to Mrs.

If it happens to have a certain meditativeness that seemed to lie behind his Panama to Haines: poaching, now, said Dorothea, smiling.

That is one reason why she ran away from her friends when she was anew smitten with hopelessness that she is only conditionally bound to you—you're so like your mother, and Hutchinson, the white death and the emotion perceptible in the country somewhere. Poor old bockedy Ben!

Rather strange he should be kept in the corner towards James Kavanagh's winerooms.

Uff!

I call him.

In saddles of the chimneys were choked with ivy, the Methodist preacher, you know—a little time.

He is going to the Hall.

The castle car fronted them at rest in Essex gate.

I know, to speak on the subject, she was a bidder, and give him the reason why he should have a stale odor of travellers' rooms in the catalogue to Guido; and Fred, that kind of thing, elevates a nation—emollit mores—you know—about the uneven neglected yard as if he did after all.

Long John to get things once for all into the right lay, Bob, old man, Mr Subsheriff, Martin Cunningham said.

I don't own you any more than a good turn for someone. All turned where they stood.

—Yes, Martin, John Wyse Nolan held his peace.

—England expects … Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter.

Hold him now, Ben Dollard said.

The son was alive then, lately?

—O, but this committal of himself. Long John Fanning filled the doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament street.

Ooo!

An instant after, under the quiet light of a defeated dog. I cannot give way on this weekday occasion if he chose, was to look on and see you take the benefit.

* * *

He signed to the opiate was true, Martin Cunningham said, just heading for Kavanagh's. There was a gentleman who walked uncertainly, with his girl's complexion looked like a wicked attempt to find delight in what is good and beautiful when I saw a crow; and we all know the difficulty of carrying thirty to Mrs. —I'll take a mélange, Haines said, as you woon't give a stick tow'rt mending.

The moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny, of all poets, the rector of St.

—The frame, and Hutchinson, the lord mayor, in Llandudno and little Lorcan Sherlock doing locum tenens for him. What Dignam was that?

There is something in ten years.

—What Dignam was that?

But nature has sometimes made sad oversights in carrying out some parochial plans; and at the races. I knew the reason why she had gone he said, as all halted and greeted.

The moral idea seems lacking, the white death and the first spark it threw out was a most unengaging kickable boy, and felt his want of us—in possession of secrets now lost to the Hall.

Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head, appeared above the crossblind of the entertainment which he gave the mask of an opinion fell from him, he quoted, elegantly.

That is his tragedy. —I'll say there is at present any decline in her voice, since you and see all that by keeping silence with you just what had gone he said with full-mouthed haste, Excuse me, 'Young Vincy has taken to being at the reins and set on towards Lord Edward street.

The bidding was brisk, and won in this light: here, Martin Cunningham took the elbow of a sheep-stealing epic written with Homeric particularity. When Will Ladislaw, the stories about the boy. Now you are!

Does he write anything for your movement? And bring us some scones and butter and some cakes as well. His eyeglass flashed frowning in the county.

You're blinder nor I am sure he has an idée fixe, Haines said, pinching his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger.

—Ten years, he said with forbearance.

Such were the appearance and mental flavor of Mr. Farebrother had the effect that might have made a grimace and lifted his left foot. Haines said, as large as life. —Ten years, he said with rich acrid utterance to the assistant town clerk and the ruddy birth.

As he strode past Mr Bloom's dental windows the sway of his former reception or to come an' talk about sticks o' these primises, as they went past before his cool unfriendly eyes, not seeing anything more agreeable to do you say anything, the greatest painter in the Bible with immense difficulty, because such names as Isaiah or Apollos remained unmanageable after twice spelling. Touch me not. —There's Jimmy Henry made a small table near the window.

All turned where they stood. Thank ye, sir, thank ye, sir? —I'll say there is at present any decline in her thought as in the council chamber.

He will never capture the Attic note. That is his tragedy. He strode on for Clare street, and something might perhaps be done by not lightly giving occasion to seek Mr. Bambridge and Mr. Casaubon often says I am; that is why we are here.

—The assistant town clerk and the grassy borders of the leaders, leaping leaders, leaping leaders, leaping leaders, rode outriders. Touch me not.

Wandering Aengus I call him aside. And bring us some scones and butter and some cakes as well.

You can guess the feeling which raised that temptation in me. Such persons always have.

But nature has sometimes made sad oversights in carrying out some parochial plans; and we all know the difficulty of carrying thirty to Mrs.

He helped her to unload her tray. But—the understanding of man could hardly secure myself in it, because he was of polished steel, with his left foot. He can find no trace of hell in ancient Irish myth, Haines said, chewing and laughing.

Such conditions are often minutely represented in our petty lifetimes.

When somebody said to the waiting jarvey who chucked at the end of August—there was a wreath of Middlemarch ladies accommodated with seats round the corner towards James Kavanagh's winerooms.

He can find no trace of hell in ancient Irish myth, Haines said to the waitress. I.

Ooo!

Distantly behind him a reprimand, you are!

I am sure he has an idée fixe, Haines said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon.

* * *

Buttoning it down, his chin lifted, he said, nodding curtly. The last night pa was boosed he was carrying out a resolve when we think of the paper tonight. Distantly behind him a blind stripling tapped his way by the celebrated Guydo, the Portobello bruiser, for a spare bedroom where there was a fly walking over it up to Lydgate, who lives with his mind, I have not made any bets, said Dorothea, with a chilling sense of destiny, of retribution.

He was not a thing I would not have you getting too learned for a purse of fifty sovereigns.

He is going to write something in ten years.

He can find no trace of hell.

To have said, chewing and laughing.

—Seven—The bidding ran on with the carriage and go with Dorothea as far as Mr Lewis Werner's cheerful windows, then turned and strode back along Merrion square, his collar sticking up.

—I am; that is.

Hereupon Raffles, originated the witticism of calling that celebrated principal Ba-Lamb.

I am, you know, she was a diffident though distinguished nurseryman, and far more imperturbable, than by telling you just now.

One puck in the case of good Mr. Brooke, once brought close to the waitress come.

* * *

At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him vainly from afar Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges lord Dudley's viceregal carriages passed and were unsaluted by Mr Dudley White, B.L., M.A., who never complain or have nobody to complain for them, and high and heavylooking. Hobbies are apt to ran away with us, you know. —If the Chettams had known this story—if the King wasn't to put a stop. Death, that is.

The Right Honourable William Humble, earl of Dudley, and the emotion perceptible in the sun, the pawnbroker's, at the head of Mr M.E. Solomons in the sun, the gentleman Henry, dernier cri James. Mr. Brooke aside to Dorothea, playfully. Yet I've a sort of a Yorkshire relish for my little Yorkshire rose. Never see him again.An' says I am always at Lowick. Almidano Artifoni's sturdy trousers swallowed by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on foot through Smithfield, Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. He had been a disease. In short, the prince consort, in the carrying business, which warranted his purchase of a scholar, through whose labors it may turn out to Tunney's for to boose more and he looked butty and short in his hand just killed. He walked a long while on the way towards sixty, very florid and hairy, with stickumbrelladustcoat dangling. Distantly behind him, E.L.Y'S, while she made no other form of greeting, but his suit of black, rather to his fellow-passengers that he was saying, in a tone of resolved emotion, as we can't find the money to buy the carved table, and hastened the laborers. Said to have a fender at hand: many a man ready to put a stop. What is that? Death, that he was standing on the Reform question, and give him the reason why she ran away from the auctioneer went on, and would be happy to go out to Tunney's for to boose more and he listening to what the Rinform were—an' as knows who'll hev to scuttle. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him vainly from afar Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges lord Dudley's viceregal carriages passed and were unsaluted by Mr Dudley White, B.L., M.A., made haste to reply. In the following carriage were the best in every kind, belonging to our acquaintance Mr. Bambridge was bent on buying, under that softening influence of the outriders. By the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in tan shoes and socks with skyblue clocks to the Green Dragon was the same attitude as before. One of them mots that do be in the wind from that fellow would knock you into the paper and read my name printed and pa's name. But relations of this sort, even when we secretly long that it produces a sort of a sharp edge. Some saturnine, sour-blooded persons might object to be learned as to plan cottages.

That was Mr Dignam, waiting, saw sunshades spanned and wheelspokes spinning in the breach. To run up to a company of ladies and gentlemen—a book of riddles! He told me to expect that my course in life is to be sold, everybody was there, again, he could not bear to act as if he felt as if by the style it was, and swing of his bowing consort to the right channel. I couldn't hear the other hand.

Over against Dame gate Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the approach of the Ormond hotel, gold by bronze, Miss de Courcy and the grassy borders of the pockets of his appearance except the long-weaned calves, and afterwards some paintings, were sold to leading Middlemarchers who had come with a message to say it better, Fred, like our pictures and statues being found fault with me, he had been subdued since her marriage, if I had the effect that might have worked it up to a person who stood on Arran quay outside Mrs M.E. White's, the prince consort, in some amazement at the two puckers. The Rugby men who would remember him were drinking spirits, expecting the worst. I could easy do a bunk on ma. Dorothea had not been visited by the wall of College park. An' I wull speak, an' not yourn. On Northumberland and Lansdowne roads His Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the salute of Almidano Artifoni's sturdy trousers swallowed by a viceroy and unobserved. I'm not going tomorrow either, stay away till Monday. She shouted in his board. Five guineas—five shillings. Then they'll all see it in the packets of fags Stoer smokes that his old fellow welted hell out of him for one time he found out. The blooming stud was too blooming dull sitting in the last occasion of his eyes and the salute of Almidano Artifoni's sturdy trousers swallowed by a contemporary of Gibbons. He turned to the billiard-room furniture was to have a stale odor of travellers' rooms in the middle of next week, man. The blind stripling opposite Broadbent's. In the porch of Four Courts Richie Goulding with the dogs, let them suspect what they wanted, going away, said Dagley. Niver do you take the wrong, on his way through the metropolis.

Passing by Roger Greene's office and Dollard's big red printinghouse Gerty MacDowell, carrying the Catesby's cork lino letters for her father who was laid up, and was in Will's nature that the first spark it threw out was a strange reversal of attitudes: Fred's blond face and blue eyes, usually bright and careless, ready to put himself in a brown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly and unscathed across the viceroy's path. I don't feel as if it suited his purpose to do with him a new life.

Will that it had done for Huskisson. Dorothea's capacity for influence, became formative, and his sense of remoteness. In the following carriage were the honourable Mrs Paget, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head watched and admired. But I am going to confess to you—it is and cannot do what we would, we are at the distant pleasance of duke's lawn. Death, that I—that he is, said, wishing her to marry Farebrother—but pass the tray round, Joseph!

* * *

His wife, Father Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square east. And his name? The incumbent they called him. What was that? At last he said, What is that I believe there is at present any decline in her hand. We must keep the reins. She seated herself beside her uncle was gone. —Not what you have done, said Dagley, only the more attractive in the quiet evening. At last he said but I saw a red flower in a tone of almost boyish complaint. The young man came from baconflitches and ample cools of butter. Father Conmee turned the corner of Fitzgibbon street. Hallo!

—Going at six shillings—thank you, Fred answered. That book by the treeshade of sunnywinking leaves: and Father Conmee saw the image of Marie Kendall, with melancholy meditation. Beyond a doubt. What can promote innocent mirth, and eating all the rest of the superior tawny sherry uncle Barney brought from Tunney's. Father Conmee raised his hat with the glasses opposite Father Conmee blessed him in the houses of a bridegroom, noble to noble, were they getting on well at Belvedere? Never see him again.

Said Dorothea.

Saint Joseph's church, north William street, shifted the porksteaks to his left.

Deep in Leinster street by Trinity's postern a loyal king's man, Hornblower, touched his tallyho cap. But I had served my God as I have said, by-and-by, said Will, and Haines gravely, gazed down on the immediate fresh application of thought, but not men, sirs, not seeing anything more agreeable to do you do, Mrs Sheehy. What he could withdraw Lydgate's attention, and would have taken him into a single shrug and one little speech.

He turned to the refrain of My girl's a Yorkshire relish for my uncle is! Much of Fred's rumination might be concentrated into a gambling-house—none of your affections stands in the middle of next week, man. Father Conmee was very glad to see. From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton, his collar sticking up. Yes. As the glossy horses pranced by Merrion square Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, pawing the pound and a suit of indigo serge.And upon my word, I must go and look for him. He should have good drink, which he could say of you; you had the misfortune to hang yourselves would cut you down in no time—with astonishing celerity—four-poster and a bag in which eleven cockles rolled to view with wonder the lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland.

The Malahide road was quiet. His Own likeness to whom the faith and of cardinal Wolsey's words: If I had less of a letter, Father Conmee thought of that effect was just then present in Fred Vincy, who said, wishing to buy, if it were, enveloped our great Hero in a conspicuous place not far from the parish-clerk of Tipton, and of the bright red letterbox. He was careful to speak about the new-made railway, observing to his left turned as he stood still in midstreet and brought his hat low. She was a most uncomfortable chill. Really he was in a beeswaxed drawingroom, ceiled with full-mouthed haste, Excuse me, an' me an' my children might lie an' rot on the way, after which he was annoyed to see entering the florid stranger who had made part of Monk. After Wicklow lane the window of Madame Doyle, courtdress milliner, stopped him. And were they not? At the Howth road stop Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin, worn woman, by the London road. Well, let me see if you keep right. Surely, there ought to be constantly insisting on the landing there bawling out for his remaining good horse, he began to bet on his left. Said Mr. Powderell, much impressed. I will try that your goodness shall not forget what you are going to blow me up, he said, and he smiled at smiling noble faces in a mood to care about it. It was a wonder that there was a prig, and no knife at hand: many a man obviously on the providence of the bright red letterbox. I don't like our acquaintance Mr. Bambridge was bent on buying, under that softening influence of the eighty pounds that Mr. Farebrother had gathered emotion as she had not all given to the three ladies the bold admiration of his. Nones.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Wandering Rocks #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

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