#and David looks utterly delighted beyond words
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Okay but this is literally a continuation of Michael being even more unhinged on The Last Leg right before this by "buying" David and saying he was going to keep him in his basement...
Georgia Tennant is so unhinged on Twitter
#michael sheen#welsh seduction machine#david tennant#soft scottish hipster gigolo#georgia tennant#DT's reaction is priceless though#this is giving all the 'other wife' vibes tbh#the fact that Michael decides to buy David and keep him in his sex dungeon#and David looks utterly delighted beyond words#and Georgia just rolls with it#amazing#'justthethreeofus' indeed#ineffable lovers#gifs by me#reblog
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Blurring the Line.
As a new Space Jam film beams down to Earth, Kambole Campbell argues that a commitment to silliness and a sincere love for the medium is what it takes to make a great live-action/animation hybrid.
The live-action and animation hybrid movie is something of a dicey prospect. Itâs tricky to create believable interaction between whatâs real and whatâs drawn, puppeteered or renderedâand blending the live and the animated has so far resulted in wild swings in quality. It is a highly specific and technically demanding niche, one with only a select few major hits, though plenty of cult oddities. So what makes a good live-action/animation hybrid?
To borrow words from Hayao Miyazaki, âlive action is becoming part of that whole soup called animationâ. Characters distinct from the humans they interact with, but rendered as though they were real creatures (or ghosts), are everywhere lately; in Paddington, in Scooby Doo, in David Loweryâs (wonderful) update of Peteâs Dragon.
The original âPeteâs Dragonâ (1977) alongside the 2016 remake.
Loweryâs dragon is realized with highly realistic lighting and visual-effects work. By comparison, the cartoon-like characters in the 1977 Peteâs Dragonâalong with other films listed in Louiseâs handy compendium of Disneyâs live-action animationâare far more exaggerated. That said, thereâs still the occasional holdout for the classical version of these crossovers: this yearâs Tom and Jerry replicating the look of 2D through 3D/CGI animation, specifically harkens back to the shorts of the 1940s and â50s.
One type of live-action/animation hybrid focuses on seamless immersion, the other is interested in exploring the seams themselves. Elf (2003) uses the aberration of stop-motion animals to represent the eponymous character as a fish out of water. Ninjababy, a Letterboxd favorite from this yearâs SXSW Festival, employs an animated doodle as a representation of the protagonistâs state of mind while she processes her unplanned pregnancy.
Meanwhile, every Muppets film ever literally tears at the seams until weâre in stitches, but, for the sake of simplicity, puppets are not invited to this particular party. What we are concerned with here is the overlap between hand-drawn animation and live-action scenes (with honorable mentions of equally valid stop-motion work), and the ways in which these hybrids have moved from whimsical confections to nod-and-wink blockbusters across a century of cinema.
Betty Boop and Koko the clown in a 1938 instalment of the Fleischer brothersâ âOut of the Inkwellâ series.
Early crossovers often involve animators playing with their characters, in scenarios such as the inventive Out of the Inkwell series of shorts from Rotoscope inventor Max Fleischer and his director brother Dave. Things get even more interactive mid-century, when Gene Kelly holds hands with Jerry Mouse in Anchors Aweigh.
The 1960s and â70s deliver ever more delightful family fare involving human actors entering cartoon worlds, notably in the Robert Stevenson-directed Mary Poppins and Bedknobs and Broomsticks, and Chuck Jonesâ puntastic The Phantom Tollbooth.
Jerry and Gene dance off their worries in âAnchors Aweighâ (1945).
Mary Poppins is one of the highest-rated live-action/animation hybrids on Letterboxd for good reason. Its sense of control in how it engages with its animated creations makes itâstill!âan incredibly engaging watch. It is simply far less evil than the singinâ, dancinâ glorification of slavery in Disneyâs Song of the South (1946), and far more engaging than Victory Through Air Power (1943), a war-propaganda film about the benefits of long-range bombing in the fight against Hitler. The studioâs The Reluctant Dragon (1941) also serves a propagandistic function, as a behind-the-scenes studio tour made when the studioâs animators were striking.
By comparison, Mary Poppinsâ excursions into the painted worldâreplicated in Rob Marshallâs belated, underrated 2018 sequel, Mary Poppins Returnsâare full of magical whimsicality. âFilms have added the gimmick of making animation and live characters interact countless times, but paradoxically none as pristine-looking as this creation,â writes Edgar in this review. âThis is a visual landmark, a watershed⊠the effect of making everything float magically, to the detail of when a drawing should appear in front or the back of [Dick] Van Dyke is a creation beyond my comprehension.â (For Van Dyke, who played dual roles as Bert and Mr Dawes Senior, the experience sparked a lifelong love of animation and visual effects.)
Julie Andrews, Dick Van Dyke and penguins, in âMary Poppinsâ (1964).
Generally speaking, and the Mary Poppins sequel aside, more contemporary efforts seek to subvert this feeling of harmony and control, instead embracing the chaos of two worlds colliding, the cartoons there to shock rather than sing. Henry Selickâs frequently nightmarish James and the Giant Peach (1996) leans into this crossover as something uncanny and macabre by combining live action with stop motion, as its young protagonist eats his way into another world, meeting mechanical sharks and man-eating rhinos. Sally Jane Black describes it as âriding the Burton-esque wave of mid-â90s mall goth trends and blending with the differently demonic Dahl storyâ.
Science-classroom staple Osmosis Jones (2001) finds that within the human body, the internal organs serve as cities full of drawn white-blood-cell cops. The late Stephen Hillenburgâs The Spongebob Squarepants Movie (2004) turns its real-life humans into living cartoons themselves, particularly in a bonkers sequence featuring David Hasselhoff basically turning into a speedboat.
David Hasselhoff picks up speed in âThe Spongebob Squarepants Movieâ (2004).
The absurdity behind the collision of the drawn and the real is never better embodied than in another of our highest-rated live/animated hybrids. Released in 1988, Robert Zemeckisâ Who Framed Roger Rabbit shows off a deep understandingânarratively and aestheticallyâof the material that itâs parodying, seeking out the impeccable craftsmanship of legends such as director of animation Richard Williams (1993âs The Thief and the Cobbler), and his close collaborator Roy Naisbitt. The forced perspectives of Naisbittâs mind-bending layouts provide much of the rocket fuel driving the filmâs madcap cartoon opening.
Distributed by Walt Disney Pictures, Roger Rabbit utilizes the Disney stable of characters as well as the Looney Tunes cast to harken back to Americaâs golden age of animation. It continues a familiar scenario where the âtoons themselves are autonomous actors (as also seen in Friz Frelengâs 1940 short You Ought to Be in Pictures, in which Daffy Duck convinces Porky Pig to try his acting luck in the big studios).
Daffy Duck plots his rise up the acting ranks in âYou Ought to Be in Picturesâ (1940).
Through this conceit, Zemeckis is able to celebrate the craft of animation, while pastiching both Chinatown, the noir genre, and the mercenary nature of the film industry (âthe best part is⊠they work for peanuts!â a studio exec says of the cast of Fantasia). As Eddie Valiant, Bob Hoskinsâ skepticism and disdain towards âtoonsâ is a giant parody of Disneyâs more traditional approach to matching humans and drawings.
Adult audiences are catered for with plenty of euphemistic humor and in-jokes about the history of the medium. Itâs both hilarious (âthey⊠dropped a piano on him,â one character solemnly notes of his son) and just the beginning of Hollywood toying with feature-length stories in which people co-exist with cartoons, rather than dipping in and out of fantasy sequences. Itâs not just about how the cartoons appear on the screen, but how the human world reacts to them, and Zemeckis gets a lot of mileage out of applying âtoon lunacy to our world.
Bob Hoskins in âWho Framed Roger Rabbit?â (1988).
The groundbreaking optical effects and compositing are excellent (and Hoskinsâ amazing performance should also be credited for holding all of it together), but what makes Roger Rabbit such a hit is that sense of controlled chaos and a clever tonal weaving of violence and noirish seediness (âIâm not bad⊠Iâm just drawn that wayâ) through the cartoony feel. And it is simply very, very funny.
It could be said that, with Roger Rabbit, Zemeckis unlocked the formula for how to modernize the live-action and animation hybrid, by leaning into a winking parody of what came before. It worked so perfectly well that it helped kickstart the âDisney renaissance' era of animation. Roger Rabbit has influenced every well-known live-action/animation hybrid produced since, proving that there is success and fun to be had by completely upending Mary Poppins-esque quirks. Even Disneyâs delightful 2007 rom-com Enchanted makes comedy out of the idea of cartoons crossing that boundary.
When a cartoon character meets real-world obstacles.
Even when done well, though, hybrids are not an automatic hit. Sitting at a 2.8-star average, Joe Danteâs stealthily great Looney Tunes: Back in Action (2003) is considered by the righteous to be the superior live-action/animated Looney Tunes hybrid, harkening back to the world of Chuck Jones and Frank Tashlin. SilentDawn states that the film deserves the nostalgic reverence reserved for Space Jam: âFrom gag to gag, set piece to set piece, Back in Action is utterly bonkers in its logic-free plotting and the constant manipulation of busy frames.â
With its Tinseltown parody, Back in Action pulls from the same bag of tricks as Roger Rabbit; here, the Looney Tunes characters are famous, self-entitled actors. Dante cranks the meta comedy up to eleven, opening the film with Matthew Lillard being accosted by Shaggy for his performance in the aforementioned Scooby Doo movie (and early on throwing in backhanded jokes about the practice of films like itself as one character yells, âI was brought in to leverage your synergy!â).
Daffy Duck with more non-stop banter in âLooney Tunes: Back in Actionâ (2003).
Back in Action is even more technically complex than Roger Rabbit, seamlessly bringing Looney Tunes physics and visual language into the real world. Donât forget that Dante had been here before, when he had Anthony banish Ethel into a cartoon-populated television show in his segment of Twilight Zone: The Movie. Another key to this seamlessness is star Brendan Fraser, at the height of his powers here as âBrendan Fraserâs stunt doubleâ.
Like Hoskins before him, Fraser brings a wholehearted commitment to playing the fed-up straight man amidst cartoon zaniness. Fraser also brought that dedication to Henry Selick's Monkeybone (2001), a Roger Rabbit-inspired sex comedy that deploys a combo of stop-motion animation and live acting in a premise amusingly close to that of 1992âs Cool World (but more on that cult anomaly shortly). A commercial flop, Back in Action was the last cinematic outing for the Looney Tunes for some time.
Nowadays, when we think of live-action animation, itâs hard not to jump straight to an image of Michael Jordanâs arm stretching to do a half-court dunk to save the Looney Tunes from slavery. Thereâs not a lot that can be fully rationalized about the 1996 box-office smash, Space Jam. It is a bewildering cartoon advert for Michael Jordanâs baseball career, dreamed up off the back of his basketball retirement, while also mashing together different American icons. Never forget that the soundtrackâone that, according to Benjamin, âmakes you have to throw assââincludes a song with B-Real, Coolio, Method Man and LL Cool J.
Michael Jordan and teammates in âSpace Jamâ (1996).
Space Jam is a film inherently born to sell something, predicated on the existing success of a Nike commercial rather than any obvious passion for experimentation. But its pure strangeness, a growing nostalgia for the nineties, and meticulous compositing work from visual-effects supervisor Ed Jones and the filmâs animation team (a number of whom also worked on both Roger Rabbit and Back in Action), have all kept it in the cultural memory.
The films is backwards, writes Jesse, in that it wants to distance itself from the very cartoons it leverages: âThis really almost feels like a follow-up to Looney Tunes: Back in Action, rather than a predecessor, because it feels like someone watched the later movie, decided these Looney Tunes characters were a problem, and asked someone to make sure they were as secondary as possible.â That attempt to place all the agency in Jordanâs hands was a point of contention for Chuck Jones, the legendary Warner Bros cartoonist. He hated the film, stating that Bugs would never ask for help and would have dealt with the aliens in seven minutes.
Space Jam has its moments, however. Guy proclaims âthere is nothing that Deadpool as a character will ever have to offer that isnât done infinitely better by a good Bugs Bunny bitâ. For some, its problems are a bit more straightforward, for others itâs a matter of safety in sport. But the overriding sentiments surrounding the film point to a sort of morbid fascination with the brazenness of its concept.
Holli Would (voiced by Kim Basinger) and Frank Harris (Brad Pitt) blur the lines in âCool Worldâ (1992).
Existing in the same demented⊠space⊠as Space Jam, Paramount Pictures bought the idea for Cool World from Ralph Bakshi as it sought to have its own Roger Rabbit. While Brad Pitt described it as âRoger Rabbit on acidâ ahead of release, Cool World itself looks like a nightmare version of Toontown. The film was universally panned at the time, caught awkwardly between being far too adult for children but too lacking in any real substance for adults (thereâs something of a connective thread between Jessica Rabbit, Lola Bunny and Holli Would).
Ralph Bakshiâs risquĂ© and calamitously horny formal experiment builds on the animatorâs fascination with the relationship between the medium and the human body. Of course, he would go from the immensely detailed rotoscoping of Fire and Ice (1983) to clashing hand-drawn characters with real ones, something he had already touched upon in the seventies with Heavy Traffic and Coonskin, whose animated characters were drawn into real locations. But no one besides Bakshi quite knew what to do with the perverse concept of Brad Pitt as a noir detective trying to stop Gabriel Byrneâs cartoonist from having sex with a character that he drewâan animated Kim Basinger.
Jack Deebs (Gabriel Byrne) attempts to cross over to Hollie Would in âCool Worldâ (1992).
Cool Worldâs awkwardness can be attributed to stilted interactions between Byrne, Pitt and the animated world, as well as studio meddling. Producer Frank Mancuso Jr (who was on the film due to his father running Paramount) demanded that the film be reworked into something PG-rated, against Bakshiâs wishes (he envisioned an R-rated horror), and the script was rewritten in secret. It went badly, so much so that Bakshi eventually punched Mancuso Jr in the face.
While Cool World averages two stars on Letterboxd, there are some enthusiastic holdouts. There are the people impressed by the insanity of it all, those who just love them a horny toon, and then there is Andrew, a five-star Cool World fan: âOn the surface, itâs a Lovecraftian horror with Betty Boop as the villain, featuring a more impressive cityscape than Blade Runner and Dick Tracy combined, and multidimensional effects that make In the Mouth of Madness look like trash. The true star, however, proves to be the condensed surplus of unrelated gags clogging the arteries of the screenâin every corner is some of the silliest cel animation that will likely ever be created.â
There are even those who enjoy its âclear response to Who Framed Roger Rabbitâ, with David writing that âthe film presents a similar concept through the lens of the darkly comic, perverted world of the underground cartoonistsâ, though also noting that without Bakshiâs original script, the film is âa series of half steps and never really commits like it couldâ. Cool World feels both completely deranged and strangely low-energy, caught between different ideas as to how best to mix the two mediums. But it did give us a David Bowie jam.
âSpace Jam: A New Legacyâ is in cinemas and on HBO Max now.
Craft is of course important, but generally speaking, maybe nowadays a commitment to silliness and a sincere love for the mediumâs history is the thing that makes successful live-action/animation hybrids click. Itâs an idea that doesnât lend itself to being too cool, or even entirely palatable. The trick is to be as fully dotty as Mary Poppins, or steer into the gaucheness of the concept, Ă la Roger Rabbit and Looney Tunes: Back in Action.
Itâs quite a tightrope to walk between good meta-comedy and a parade of references to intellectual property. The winningest strategy is to weave the characters into the tapestry of the plot and let the gags grow from there, rather than hoping their very inclusion is its own reward. Wait, you said what is coming out this week?
Related content
Rootfish Jonesâs list of cartoons people are horny for
The 100 Sequences that Shaped Animation: the companion list to the Vulture story
Jose Morenoâs list of every animated film made from 1888 to the present
Follow Kambole on Letterboxd
#kambole campbell#mary poppins#ralph bakshi#hayao miyazaki#ghibli#disney#who framed roger rabbit#roger rabbit#spongebob squarepants#spongebob#animation#live action animation#live action animation hybrid#stop motion animation#stop motion#wes anderson#brad pitt#bob hoskins#genre#space jam#space jam a new legacy#michael jordan#lebron james#looney tunes#bugs bunny#daffy duck#warner bros#2d animation#letterboxd
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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 peopleâs 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 charactersâ future. Clarkâs Auctioneer does create a properly grand feel, and Bartonâs Raoul does sound heartbroken, but what Iâm 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. Asheâs Carlotta sounds deliciously dramatic and her high note on âRomeâ 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 Caesarâs Carlotta. She takes her time with all her lines, to excellent effect, and her âspare a thought for meâ is both genuinely pretty and utterly distinct from Hallâs Christineâs. I also adore the alternating weepiness and shoutiness she puts into her âthese things do happenâ tirade, and you can hear her clapping during âall the time!â. And then her âthis thing does not happen!â is gloriously over-the-top. Meanwhile, Hallâs Christineâs 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 âthat oh so distant day.â She sounds pure and innocent but yet still clearly classically trained, and damn, she can project. I love the way she sings âthink of me, think of me waking silent and resignedâ especially. And then that final âthink of meâ cadenza is perfect. She makes the high notes seem effortless and theyâre buttery smooth. Baileyâs 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 Crawfordâs Phantomâs absolutely haunting âbravi, bravi, bravissimi.â And then I adore Devenishâs Meg â 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 ââI watched your face from the shadows / distant through all the applause. / I hear your voice in the darkness, / yet the words arenât yoursâ to the one that Devenishâs Meg sings here, âChristine, you must have been dreaming, / stories like this canât come true. / Christine, youâre talking in riddles, / and itâs not like youâ (because come on now, talking in riddles is one of Christineâs defining personality traits). Brightmanâs Christine sounds gorgeous on the high notes, especially when she sings softly, and I love her on her âfather once spoke of an angelâ part.
4. Little Lotte/The Mirror - Sarah Brightman as Christine Daae, Steve Barton as Raoul de Chagny, Michael Crawford as the Phantom (Original Broadway)
Bartonâs Raoul will always be my favorite. Thereâs 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 Brightmanâs Christineâs âyou remember that too.â And most of all, I like Crawfordâs Phantomâs powerful âinsolent boy!â that manages to sound both scary and strangely far-off and echoey â Iâd believe he was an angel too. And then the gentleness in his âflattering child, you shall know meâ seems more book accurate and likable to me. Crawford has a unique quality to his voice that makes me love his rendition of the âangel of musicâ motif the best of any actorâs. I am a little sorry that the end of Bartonâs cry of âangelâ 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)
Brightmanâs 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 â I mean, just listen to that last high E. It sounds effortless. And everything in between is good too; her first âthe phantom of the opera is there, inside my mindâ has a breathtakingly haunting quality. Crawfordâs Phantom is also very good with the high notes. I just love the way he sings the words âmy power over you grows stronger yetâ and âin all your fantasies, you always knewâ almost too airily, and of course every time he sings âphantom,â itâs powerful enough to give me chills. And I love how soft he is on his first few rounds of âsing for me.â
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 couldnât be happier about it. Everything about Carpenterâs Phantomâs 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 heâs...Like That, and he manages to make âThe Music of the Nightâ really seem like a love song. I appreciate that he remains so quiet for so much of the beginning, almost inaudible with your computerâs volume turned up less than a third, and the sweetness he puts into the phrase ânight unfurls its splendor.â Also that little hand block he does on âtremulous and tenderâ and the way he never quite touches Christine during âturn your face away from the garish light of dayâ makes me Feel Things. The crescendo fakeout he does on âclose your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreamsâ is masterful, as is his high note on âsoarâ and the way he turns his masked side away from Christineâs hand on âthe darkness of the music of the nightâ and...oh God, weâre only three minutes in. But heâs not just soft and sweet; his âlet your soul take you where you long to beâ 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 âsavor each sensation.â Christineâs faint looks weird, because it always does, because itâs really dumb, but I appreciate that Carpenter actually catches her â and looks a small bit panicked about it. And then when he strokes her hair and sings that last ânightâ 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, Barrellâs Christine has a very cool and interesting voice, and I love the way she sings âon the lake there was a boat, and in the boat there was a man,â delicate and unsure, before you can hear her steeling her courage on âwho was that shape in the shadows?â Iâm equally happy with the way JOJâs Phantom snarls out that âyou little lying Delilah! you little viper!â while still making it sound good, and that over-the-top, extremely JOJ final âdamn you! curse you!â that ends in a sob ân growl, because if thereâs ever a show to be melodramatic in, itâs Phantom. And then his hissed out âstranger than you dreamt itâ and the fact that he keeps his hand over his face the entire time makes it perfect. His wounded-animal-style crawling starting on âfear can turn to loveâ and the roughness and pain and prettiness in his voice reminds me a lot of Erikâs characterization in the novel, as is his sobbed âoh, Christine!â right afterwards, and his âthose two fools who run my theater will be missing you!â is believably scary.
8. Magical Lasso - Janos Kurucz as Joseph Buquet, Mary Millar as Madame Giry (Original Broadway)
Itâs such a small song, but I really love the unique quality to Kuruczâs Buquetâs voice, as well as the anxiety in Millarâs Madame Giryâs âheat of his eyes.â
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 Savidentâs Firmin and Firthâs Andre, with their humor and their bluster and their old married husbands vibes. I love that overpowering âdamnable!â and that long-suffering sigh on âWrote. Written.â All the indignant drama that Asheâs Carlotta brings is delightful in every way, especially on her high Italian parts and that âitâs no use trying to appease me, youâre only saying this to please me.â Crawfordâs Phantomâs âone last chanceâ is chilling, and I like how pretty his sound is here â itâs way creepier than growly anger. The âPrima Donnaâ section is just such a gorgeous melody, really, and Savident and Firth have such rich, lovely voices. And Bartonâs Raoul is also amazing; his âis this her angel of musicâ especially is so gorgeous. I do wish I could hear Millarâs Madame Giry a little bit more clearly, but I love her voice. And Asheâs last âonce moreâ high note is really quite breathtaking, as is Crawfordâs âa disaster beyond your imagination will occur.â This recording also features a section of Il Muto that will overlap a little bit with the next track â sorry about that.
10. Il Muto - Kim Stengel as Carlotta, Elizabeth Loyacano as Christine Daae, Howard McGillin as the Phantom (Broadway 2008)
Thereâs 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 canât find the name of the actor who plays the Count anywhere, but he is perfect. I love the way he holds that âobserve herâ note, and his hammy self-awareness in doing so. The real MVP here is Stengelâs 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. Loyacanoâs Christine doesnât have too much to do in this scene, but her kissing in time is amazing. Same for McGillinâs Phantom, although I like how quiet and genuinely amused he is on his âperhaps it is you who are the toadâ as well as his maniacal laughter when he kills Buquet. Actually, the whole ballet section is perfectly executed (although Iâm 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)
Brightmanâs Christine is wonderful here, sounding properly hysterical on âand in this labyrinth, where night is blindâ and âRaoul, Iâve been thereâ and beautiful and sad on the âyet in his eyes, all the sadness of the worldâ bit. And did I mention that I love Bartonâs 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 âno more talk of darknessâ and âlet me be your shelter, let me be your lightâ his voice sounds so soft and warm and gentle and my God, you can hear the smile and the hug, and then his âthen say youâll share with me one love, one lifetimeâ is urgent and soaring and lovely. Brightman matches his energy, and she has a lovely, delicate voice that balances perfectly with his. Her âsay the word and I will follow youâ sounds so tender and thereâs a gorgeous intensity in her âsay you love me.â Their last âlove me, thatâs all I ask of youâ is sweet and soft, and I love the lightness in Brightmanâs âI must goâ and of course the warm solidity in Bartonâs âChristine, I love youâ that sets up the contrast that will absolutely make me cry later. Crawfordâs Phantom is perfect too, right from that first haunting, echoing âChristineâ at the beginning. He sounds vulnerable and almost disbelieving and on âI gave you my musicâ and the last repetitions of âChristine,â and that âGo!â is TERRIFYING.
12. Entrâacte - John Savident as Monsieur Firmin, David Firth as Monsieur Andre (Original Broadway)
I donât have that many feelings about which orchestra in particular preforms this, but I definitely want to include it. I do adore Webberâs score and the switches between the different melody motifs are pretty awesome. Fair warning, though, that it does include the very beginning of âMasqueradeâ but cuts off in the middle of âI must say, all the same, that itâs a shame that Phantom fellow isnât here,â which frustrates me to no end.
13. Masquerade - Anna OâByrne as Christine Daae, Alexander Lewis(???) as Raoul de Chagny (Australia 2009)
Another song with video! And itâs good quality too, highlighting the colorfulness of this scene. OâByrneâs Christine and Lewisâ Raoul enter at âwho can name the face,â and theyâre graceful dancers, and everyone reflects the high energy of the scene, especially on the quiet verse. OâByrneâs Christine sounds young here, but in a good way, and quite scared on âyou promised me,â and Lewis lets his Raoul be exasperated on âitâs an engagement, not a crimeâ â it feels like theyâve 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 Phantomâs entrance.
14. Why So Silent? - Earl Carpenter as the Phantom (London 2005 - 2007)
I do love Carpenterâs Phantom because heâs sweet, but sometimes I love him because heâs really, really scary. Thereâs 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 âremember there are worse things than a shattered chandelierâ and his âyour chains are still mine! you will sing for me!â 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, Asheâs Christine is one of the best parts of this song. The way she sings âoutrage!â and âha! hereâs our little flowerâ and the way she absolutely snarls âsheâs the one behind this, Christine Daae!â is perfection. Sheâs also brilliant in the âDon Juan Triumphantâ rehearsal. Savidentâs Firmin and Firthâs Andre are wonderful as usual, and Bartonâs Raoul manages to sound gentle and good in a script that is not kind to the character here â his âyou donât have to, they canât make youâ and âyou said yourself, he was nothing but a manâ and âevery hope and every prayer rests on you nowâ are lovely. Millarâs Madame Giry sounds frail and scared and determined (I love her âmonsieur, be careful, we have seen him killâ) and she reminds me a lot of her characterization in the novel, and Crawfordâs Phantom is deliciously creepy in his letter, and I adore his almost sighing sound on phrases like âan office not the artsâ and âher teacher.â His âyour obedient friendâ gives me chills. Brightmanâs Christine also shines here. I actually like the quiet almost-shrillness in her âhow dare youâ because it sounds like sheâs been trying to do what sheâs supposed to all along but sheâs beginning to snap under the stress, and same goes for her âIâll go mad!â which sounds genuine and spontaneous. Her âtwisted every wayâ section is haunting and haunted and ethereally beautiful and I could listen to it all day. This recording also includes the beginning of âWishing You Were Somehow Here Again,â so heads up about that.
16. Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again - Leila Benn Harris as Christine Daae (London 2008)
Thereâs some video for this one, but the quality isnât great â sorry about that. Harrisâ 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 âthat voice which calls to me and speaks my nameâ provokes instant goosebumps every time, and then the softness in her âLittle Lotte thought of everything and nothingâ is brilliant. The fierce anger in her âsculpted angels, cold and monumentalâ is what really made me fall in love with Harrisâ rendition. And that strength and power in her âwhy canât the past just dieâ and then the softness and clearness in âhelp me say goodbyeâ with the last ringing, gorgeous high note. God, she is perfect, isnât 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 singersâ voices pull it off perfectly. Brightmanâs 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 âangel or father, friend or phantom, who is it there staring?â and she sounds beautiful and tortured on that âAngel of Music, I denied you, turning from true beauty.â Her acting on âoh, Raoul!â and âRaoul, come back!â is...not the best, but her singing makes it well worth it to me. And Crawfordâs Phantom sounds, well, like an angel. Thereâs such a strangeness and sadness and beauty in his voice. The way he sings âhave you forgotten your angel?â is lovely and soft, and I just love how he says âfar from my far-reaching gazeâ (and I also love the lyric itself; I think itâs really creepy when later Phantoms change it to âfathering gazeâ). And his âturning from true beautyâ and âcome to your strange angelâ are powerful and perfect in every way. His âI am your Angel of Music, come to me, Angel of Musicâ is properly hypnotic, and I like the steadiness of it amidst Christineâs and Raoulâs panic. And speaking of Raoul, Barton kills it with all of his harmonies, and thereâs genuine worry in his deliciously soft âonce again she is his, once again she returnsâ and in his loud and long and powerful âluring her back from the grave.â Crawfordâs and Bartonâs âbravo, monsieurâ exchange sounds properly scary, and I almost like how over-the-top Crawford is being compared to Bartonâs relative calmness â 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 âThe Point of No Return,â or rather âDon Juan Triumphant,â and it sounds...demonic is the best word I can think of, honestly, but that is definitely a good thing. Iâm not too fond of Brightmanâs Christine or Crawfordâs 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: Iâm generally not that into Karimlooâs 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 âno backward glancesâ and âwhat warm unspoken secrets will we learnâ Boggessâ Christine is absolutely mesmerizing here too â her high notes on âyou have brought meâ and her vibrato on âour passion play has now at last begunâ and the huskiness of her âpast the point of right or wrongâ are brilliant in every way. Iâm especially glad that I have video for this song, because these two really make it with their body language. The way Boggessâ Christine springs up and bolts away just before her âyou have brought meâ line and, of course, Karimlooâs Phantomâs shaking hands on âuntil weâre oneâ are perfect. And then, after Boggessâ Christineâs realization that itâs the Phantom sheâs singing with at âconsume us,â their dynamic is perfect, with Karimlooâs growling determination and Boggessâ anger and fear, both expressed perfectly in their âso stand and watch it burn.â I love the way their âreturnâs are out of sync after Boggessâ Christine reveals the Phantomâs mask, and the way Karimloo spits out his â-turnâ like a challenge. And then the tenor sweetness and intensity of his âsay youâll share with meâ can just about break me every time, yet it also sounds properly distinct from Raoulâs earlier version, like with the fiercely desperate edge to his âone lifetime,â and his âanywhere you go let me go tooâ almost has a different melody. And then I think his snarling and ânoâing when Christine unmasks him at the end is...a little much, but still very on-brand. Oh, and thereâs 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 â instead of the standard staging, in which Christine kisses the Phantom, then hugs him, then kisses him again with more enthusiasm, in this production, Hallâs Christine kisses JOJâs Phantom once, and then he falls to his knees and she hugs him as he sinks into her and then pushes her away. But Iâm here for the audio, too. We start of strong with JOJâs Phantomâs âinto darkness deep as hell!â which he holds for an amazingly long time in this voice of beautiful despair, followed by a properly tortured âwhy, you ask, was I bound and chainedâ section. His âa mask, my first unfeeling scrap of clothingâ is heartwrenching, and his âmonsieur, I bid you welcomeâ section is chilling. Despite his awesomeness, I might still need to hand the MVP award to Hallâs Christine, who carries an anger and defiance into this scene that I rarely see in other Christines that you can hear in her âam I now to be prey to your lust for fleshâ and her âitâs in your soul that the true distortion liesâ and of course her iconic âtears of hate.â And Baileyâs Raoul is compelling, and his âfree her!â and âI did it all for you and all for nothingâ are wonderfully delivered. In the frantic part where all three characters sing at the same time, their voices are balanced perfectly. I absolutely adore JOJâs Phantomâs âfor either way you choose you cannot winâ and Baileyâs Raoulâs âwhy make her lie to you to save meâ and Hallâs Christineâs âAngel of Music, you deceived me.â JOJâs Phantomâs âyou try my patience, make your choice!â is scary but not deafening, and then comes the tender perfection of Hallâs Christineâs âpitiful creature of darknessâ (although I wish there was a slightly longer pause before itâ and her angelic âaloneâ and God, I love them all. Hallâs little âno pleaseâ when she sees the Phantom approaching Raoul is an excellent detail, and JOJâs âangel in hellâ sounds desperate and almost childlike. I wish his âgo now and leave meâ wasnât quite so loud â my throat hurts just thinking about it, but then his âChristine, I love you.â Oh my God, that âChristine, I love you.â I think stabbing me in the heart would be less painful. And I love the lightness and gentleness of Hallâs and Baileyâs final âAll I Ask of Youâ reprise. Yeah. I adore this production, and I adore this show.
Thank you for stopping by! Iâd be happy to talk about these choices or Phantom in general with anyone, any time :)
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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 didnât 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 donât 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 itâs also @ a whole lot of show-writers... -_-)
When they enable each otherâs 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 theyâve 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 itâs usually the âtop is tallerâ 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 donât know, itâs just... impossible to connect for me then? Itâs 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 itâs fun to be the first to do something, or not even just the first, just... when something hasnât been done to death already.
7. Polyamory or Monogamy?
Yikes, I genuinely hate that phrasing, like... it links so much with âmonogamy means being faithfulâ 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 donât consider it a âfandomâ of my own.
Things I have ships for, I am actually invested in. Things I donât have ships for are just... casual watches for me and I wouldnât 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 Iâve 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. Thatâs why the majority of my oneshots end on a sex scene, actually. Itâs like... âthis is where they are, they trust each other so much they share their bodies with each other and now they lay together, in each otherâs arms in a gentle embrace, with nothing but this content feeling of being with the one they love on their mindâ.
(Itâs 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
Letâs skip the super obvious ones and go to the ones Iâm 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. Itâs actually fun beyond that though)
Haikyuu!!; Kozume Kenma/Hinata Shouyou
13. List 5 OTPs from past fandoms
Oooh funsies, mmmh, letâs do some that I havenât mentioned a billion times like Kai/Rei on Beyblade or Puppyshipping...
Digimon; Motomiya Daisuke/Takaishi Takeru
Fast and the Furious; Dominic Toretto/Brian OâConner
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 itâs weird if youâve been together for years and are of the opinion that you donât plan on leaving this other person to then not marry them, tbh??
Also, it gives the nice fanfiction opportunity of taking on the spouseâs 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 Iâve 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
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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 thatâŠ. And then they meet person B and think; âAnnnd this is the asshole who will ruin everything.â (x)
Fandom: Rivers of London
Title: "Do you have a moment? Â Do you possess a piece of time? Â 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.
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Other Character Fiction Winners
Fiction Winners Other Characters
The Best Thing Since Rainbows Award  [Best gen., other]
Winner - "Shilo Died" by Duckydash13 âWhile 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 itâs a moment of transition. This isnât just Nathan lying to Mag. This is the moment he chooses to hide not only from her but from the world. Thatâs a momentous decision.
At yet another level, the story plays with the idea of hiding. Nathanâs isolated himself in the house. Heâs hiding from the world. Heâs hiding the truth when he tells Mag that Shilo died, and in doing so heâs 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 Magâs concern is too much for him. âI said I was fine!â Another lie, another truth hidden.
All of these levels of meaning, and weâre sure there are more, make this story a delight to read.â
Runner-up - Not Wholly Human by Kira_K âIn "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. Â Just as in Canon, David is the voice of caution against all the alien beings that seem to threaten humanity. Â 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.â
The Imagine You & Me Award  [Best romance, other]
Winner - Dear Marni, I Am So Sorry by Forestwater âWow. This is an amazing piece of work. The writing grabs your heart and pulls you in, and it doesnât let go even after youâve finished reading. Itâs 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 Marniâs, that brings a whole new kind of tears.â
Runner-up - An Ocean Away by timeladyleo âWe canât wait to read the rest of this story! Youâve really captured the essence of the characters and their stubbornness and insecurities. Itâs frustrating to see them stand in the way of their own happiness, but we still enjoy reading it a lot. More please!â
The Gold Blend Award  [Best smut, other]
Winner - Infinite by Jay_eagle âIf 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.â
Runner-up - A Kiss is a Terrible Thing to Waste by Amberswansong âThereâs such an off kilter tenderness to this, even in this rough moment between strangers in a ruined world. The way Nathan âintroducesâ Grave to Marni is achingly sad and quickly passed. The details of Gravesâs voracious appetite and agelessness, his eyelashes against Nathanâs cheekâthey all create an emotional core in the midst of a sticky fumble. Graverobberâs skill and Nathanâs 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.â
The Legal Assassin Award [Best dark, other]
Winner - Blood by Derangedfangirl âThis 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.â
Runner-up - Want to See You Again by Crankyoldman âThis story was deceptively sweet with Nathanâs interactions with Mag, before diving into the darkness of his true intentions for being at his wifeâs grave. It shows a harsh reality of parenthood, feeling like you canât 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!â
The Behind Green Eyes Award  [Best characterization, other]
Winner - An Ocean Away by timeladyleo  for Herc Shipwright âWhat 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!â
Runner-up - Dear Marni, I Am So Sorry by Forestwater for Nathan Wallace âThis 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!â
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
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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 Rittenhouseâs behalf ever since the Great Gala Jailbreak? There were certainly more convenient moments to approach her, if so â not here in frigging Philadelphia when sheâs decided she canât do this anymore. But Emma does look genuinely distressed and apologetic, and Lucyâs 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, âWhat are you doing here?â
âIâm sorry. Itâs a long story.â Emma glances at her diffidently, notices her tears, and frowns. âAre you okay? I ran into you pretty hard.â
âYes, Iâm fine. Itâs not â not that.â Lucy wipes her eyes quickly with the back of her hand. âHow did you find â me?â
âI talked to your friend Wyatt, back in San Francisco,â Emma says. âOn Saturday. Got a flight out, and here I am. Is Garcia Flynn here?â
Lucy flinches. âWhat â if he was, what would you want with him?â
âI need to talk to him.â Emma shrugs. âWyatt suggested he might be helpful. Here at the University of Pennsylvania â I think I know what youâre trying to do. Just got turned down trying to access the Rittenhouse collections, didnât you?â
âHow did â â Lucy opens and shuts her mouth, suspicious instincts flaring up instead. âWhat, have you been following me? Spying? We talked at the gala, I know youâre one of them!â
Emma raises both hands, then uses them to slowly open her sleek leather jacket and show Lucy that itâs empty. âEasy, princess. Look, no gun, none of that. Iâm not here to help Rittenhouse. Iâm here because Iâm trying to get away from them.â
That, despite herself, catches Lucy off guard. She figured that Rittenhouseâs members were as fanatically devoted to it as any other cult, and sure, thereâs probably a job perk or two â money, influence, knowledge, power, the sell-your-soul-for-a-teeny-little-price infernal bargain that goes back to Faustus and Mephistopheles. They didnât seem like the kind of people troubled by second thoughts, in other words, but she supposes that doesnât mean that they donât exist. Just made to conveniently disappear, or forced to shun their entire family â like the âSuppressive Personsâ principle in Scientology, where you canât talk to your loved ones if they donât appreciate you becoming a marching disciple of Xenu. Does Rittenhouse have a Sea Org? Probably. They must not know about Emmaâs desertion plans, or do they?
At any rate, itâs unhappily clear that this is a question beyond Lucyâs 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, âAll right. Come on.â
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, âSo you saw Wyatt in San Francisco?â
âHe turned up there, yeah.â Emma glances sidelong at her. âCame all the way to Mason Industries. Seemed pretty determined.â
âMason â right, you work there.â Lucy remembers that, and telling Flynn while they were hurtling down the dark road. âSo heâs still on the case?â
âLooks like it. Also, if I had to guess, behind his bossesâ backs. Freaked Connor the hell out.â Emma laughs shortly. âThen again, Connor â but no. I shouldnât talk about this here.â
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 werenât going to do this as partners, that heâs, 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.
âEasy.â Emma pulls open her jacket again. âThere. Not carrying. Can you say the same?â
Flynn clearly canât (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. âYes,â she says, before Flynn can recover. âYou saw me at the Rittenhouse party, Iâm 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.â
âGood,â Flynn manages, after another dumbstruck moment, while Lucy is still wanting to know what exactly Rittenhouse stock options are. âServes the bastard right.â
âI agree.â Emma smiles faintly. âCahillâs a pompous asshole who thinks heâs a lot smarter than he is. We all could have told him that popping up in your secret daughterâs life after twenty-seven years incommunicado and promising her that she too can join the Evil Empire isnât a great plan. Is that what youâre doing here? Investigating Rittenhouse?â
Flynn hesitates. He half-puts out an arm toward Lucy, as if to shield her, then drops it. Finally he says grumpily, âYes.â
âThought so. Whose idea was this?â
âMine,â 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 didnât quite drag, she did choose to come along, at least until he started with the time travel business â perhaps she should warn Emma that Flynn is possibly clinically insane and not liable to be much help, but the words donât come). âI put the pieces together about David Rittenhouse and where he used to teach, and I thought there might be something here.â
âClever.â Emma eyes her approvingly, almost in a way that makes Lucy wonder if sheâs hitting on her, and if she would mind if she was. âAnd as a matter of fact, youâre right. There are plenty of Rittenhouse papers here. I could probably get you in.â
âWe tried,â Lucy admits. âThey wanted an appointment.â
âWell.â Emma shrugs again. âI can deal with that. Well? You in?â
Flynn has been regarding her narrowly, as if trying to find the words for a thought he canât quite articulate. Then he says, âWhy are you helping us?â
âBecause,â Emma says, âI have full expectation of being helped in return. As I said to your girlfriend, I want away from them. Youâre in the NSA, or at least you were. Iâm 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. Iâd like to live in London.â
âIt rains a lot.â Flynn has continued to watch her carefully. âNot much like California.â
âI think I can adjust.â Emma tilts her chin back. âWe could make it look legit. Connor Masonâs 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?â
Flynn is quiet. Lucy can hear him debating whether to disclose that heâs not really an NSA agent anymore, that his employment status is â to say the least â murky, and that even if he did promise, thereâs not any guarantee that he could carry it through. But if that is all it would take â tell Emma to buy an umbrella and start watching Doctor Who, and sheâll spirit them into the Rittenhouse archives â 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. âFine.â
Emma smiles, shakes it, and gives Flynn just enough of a look to make the jealousy in Lucyâs 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 â 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 theyâre 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 sheâs 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 doesnât 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 â is Lucy being paranoid, or has he been tipped to be on the lookout for someone matching their description? â 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 isnât 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 theyâre in the private reading room, Lucy says, âYou must know these people pretty well.â
âIâve worked my way up.â Emma evidently catches the implicit question in this. âYou donât entirely trust me, do you?â
âIt seems a little convenient,â Lucy admits. âThat youâve turned up now.â
âAny more than you agreeing to come out here with him?â Emma turns an amused eye on Flynn, who is once more impersonating a piece of classical statuary. âWe all have our reasons for wanting Rittenhouse taken down, donât we? Trust me, if I was still working for them, I wouldnât have let you get within sniffing distance of this place. Thereâs stuff here that even some of the long-term members havenât seen. Tell me, Lucy, have you ever heard of Nicholas Keynes?â
âNo.â Lucyâs startled. âShould I have?â
âYou tell me.â Emma arches an eyebrow. âAnyway, he was killed in 1918 â 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.â
That sends a cold chill down Lucyâs spine, though sheâs not even sure why. She glances at Flynn again. He hasnât been rushing to bust out his âtime travel!!!â theory in front of Emma, so either he realizes itâs cracked, or he doesnât want Emma to likewise decide heâs too crazy to help. Not that that really seems to constrain Flynn otherwise, given what heâs 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 Rittenhouseâs original papers. Lucy canât help a historianâs frisson of delight â 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 youâre 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. Itâs undoubtedly interesting, if not as immediately enlightening as they were hoping. A lot of Rittenhouseâs scientific and astronomical notes, and sketched models for his orrery, or model of the universe, thatâs still in Pennâs 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 â 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 olâ 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 Davidâs son â thatâs weird, Lucy didnât recall him having one, though she doesnât keep a close track on that kind of thing. Finally, when sheâs pretty sure that sheâs had at least a preliminary look through everything, she straightens up. âIâm not sure this is it.â
âThese are only a few boxes,â Emma says. âThe full collection is much bigger. We could keep looking.â
âThere has to be something.â Flynn throws down the newspapers rather harder than one should for a lot of delicate historical documents. âThis is taking too long!â
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. âDid Rittenhouse purge these documents? Probably, right? They wouldnât have kept anything around where some random researcher could find it, even if the odds were low. Is there some other archive?â
âLook,â Emma says. âI am telling you everything I know. I can ask if there are other boxes that the archivist is keeping back, or â â
âNo.â Flynn stands up, knocking the desk. âThis isnât working. We need to try something else. What you said earlier â Keynes, Nicholas Keynes. Whereâs the material on him?â
âIâm not sure,â Emma replies. âI only said I thought it might be here, I donât 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 Iâm poking around in the dark underbelly of things, they could get tipped off, and â â
âAre you going to be useful or not?â
Emma blinks. âExcuse me? Iâm the one who came here and tried to â â
âYes, well, I didnât ask Wyatt Logan to give out my whereabouts like Iâm some sort of rest home for stray Rittenhouse runaways! So how about you come up with an idea, or â â
âWow,â Emma says bitingly. âSo Iâm only worth having around if Iâm immediately useful, not because Iâm on the run from an incredibly evil organization that will take both of us down the instant they get the first chance, and Iâm already doing everything I can to help you. Good to know. Real winner youâve got here, Lucy.â
It is on the tip of Lucyâs 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 Emmaâs business either way. Instead she says, âSquabbling 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 itâs probably already been censored.â
Emma considers, then tips a shoulder. âFine. Iâll go back down and ask. But if something does go sideways, donât say I didnât warn you.â
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 canât escape each otherâs gravitational pull no matter how hard they try, as if there is some invisible tether yanking them back together. Itâs not clear if either of them appreciate it, or if this âsomehow destined toward each otherâ thing is a hell of a lot more trouble than itâs 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, âIf she can find the papers on Keynes, then what? Can we just â â
Lucy holds up a hand. She doesnât know that sheâs surprised that heâs still barreling full speed ahead to what looks like a truly spectacular fiery crash, but she canât in good faith stand by and let it happen. âCan 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. Iâm not saying itâs not something that a cutting-edge spec-tech company might try, but. . . Garcia. Please.â
Flynn looks at her for a long moment. There are clearly any number of things he could say to that. Because heâs Flynn, apparently, he selects the least helpful. âSo what? This is only possible if it happens with things you know about? Havenât we established that you donât? You donât know, Lucy. So why pretend you do?â
Lucyâs cheeks flame. âThatâs what youâre 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, youâll just keep acting like a total â â
âHow is this my fault now? Emmaâs here, sheâs told you that Rittenhouse are exactly as bad as we thought or worse, so what do you need â an itemized receipt? Or do you never actually intend to believe that I could possibly â â
âItâs not that I donât believe Rittenhouse is bad, itâs that I donât believe â for obvious reasons, I might add â 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 youâre going to just â you know what. I donât care. I donât care. Suit yourself.â
Flynnâs eyes glitter. He does that thing with his tongue that he â well, that he really just should not be allowed to do, especially right now. Echoing her own words deliberately back at her, he says, âThatâs what youâre going with?â
Lucyâs flush deepens. âWhat do you mean?â
âI think you know what I mean.â Flynn shrugs. âConsidering the looks youâve been giving me. Or are we also pretending those donât exist?â
For a moment, for two, for several, Lucy is totally speechless. She isnât sure what sheâs more furious about â that heâs taken note of her thinly disguised jealousy and is using it against her, or that sheâs almost pleased he did. Not that heâs being a dick, but that is just Flynnâs 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. âIf by that little crack, you mean that itâs bothered me that youâve gone to all this trouble to get me to help you, then start acting as if I donât exist or you canât say a sensible word to me, then â then yes! Just tell me, just tell me, why youâre so convinced that weâre some sort of â â
âIâm trying to explain!â Flynn shouts back at her. âIâm trying to explain, but itâs insane, itâs insane, and if youâre just going to act like a â â
âAct like a what, exactly â or am I somehow the only one in denial about whatâs â â
Theyâre 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 sheâs 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, sheâs 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 â
Lucy pushes at him, and Flynn catches her, his large hand almost swamping her slender wrist. Itâs clear that heâs 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  â sheâs practically in his arms and his free hand comes up to cup her face and the look on his own â itâs not about goading her, itâs 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 heâs 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 canât believe he is actually touching her, and nothing about this man makes sense, and yet â
Lucy grabs at his head, hauling his obnoxious skyscraper ass closer to hers, completely out of patience or desire to pretend that she doesnât 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 â
There is a click at the door as it opens, a marked silence, and a very pointed cough and throat-clearing. âSo. . . I should just come back later, then?â
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 itâs 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 â Lucyâs legs feel weak and she doesnât 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, âWell, I donât know if this is useful or not, but itâs what they had. Should we take a look, or is there something else youâd rather be doing?â
âNo,â Lucy blurts out. âWeâre fine. Weâre ready.â
Emma carts the box over to the table, pulls it open, and they start to dig. Itâs old journals and thin sheets of onionskin-fine paper, covered in the same strong, slanting black handwriting. Thereâs 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. Itâs 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?
âLucy?â Flynn says. âLucy!â
âSorry.â She jumps. âIâm awake. I â just.â She canât believe sheâs the one asking this, but before she follows either of them any further down this rabbit hole, and since Flynn clearly isnât going to bring it up, she is going to have to be the one to bite the bullet. Hopefully not literally. âEmma, is Mason Industries working on. . . is there anything you know of about them trying to invent. . . a time machine?â
She cringes even as itâs coming out of her mouth, ready to be laughed out of the reading room, but Emma doesnât react as if itâs 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 youâd think, and cocks her head to one side. Then she says, âWho told you that?â
âI did,â Flynn bulls in, completely blowing to hell any idea Lucy had about protecting him by not bringing him up (she doesnât know why, but sheâs done it consistently for a while now, and itâs just habit, ill-advised or not). âWell?â
Emma laughs, but with somewhat less humor than previously. âArenât 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 donât 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 heâs finally gotten to the place where heâs ready to try human subjects. I told you that I did advanced software testing, Lucy. Remember?â
That rocks Lucy almost physically onto her heels. Itâs one thing to have Flynn running off at the mouth about a time machine, but to then hear it from someone else â someone who seems, to all appearances, sane, well-adjusted, professional, and with no apparent reason to lie about it â is altogether something else. âI â Iâm sorry,â she manages. âYou do â is that what you do? Test runs in a time machine? Isnât that â isnât that dangerous?â
âOf course itâs dangerous.â Emma seems slightly surprised that she has to ask. âWeâve lost half a dozen people already. Others returned with mental problems, seizures, missing limbs â itâs a regular Dr. Frankensteinâs nightmare lab in there, sometimes. Iâm one of the lucky ones, Iâm good at my job. Itâs something, let me tell you.â
âYouâre. . .â Lucy feels choked, faint, reaches out reflexively for Flynnâs arm. âYouâre telling me that youâve traveled through time?â
âOnly briefly. I havenât been allowed out of the Mothership. Just jump back, hold it â I think the longest Iâve managed is two minutes â 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, itâs his brainchild as much as Connorâs.â Emma looks somewhat gratified at the effect that this is having on both of them â even Flynn seems floored, much as heâs trying to play it cool. âActually visit the past. A historian like you, Lucy, you canât tell me youâre not interested.â
Lucy keeps opening and shutting her mouth, making noises like a stepped-on bladder. Finally she succeeds in, âWhy? How can this â surely this canât be legal?â
âWhat do you mean?â Emma clearly doesnât understand. âWas 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 theyâve never been before. If they die on the adventure, well, that happens. Thatâs not illegal.â
Lucy supposes sheâs right, but this isnât like kayaking down the Amazon or trying to climb Mount Everest or whatever else. History is her field of study, her specialty, her love â but itâs in the past, itâs comfortingly solid (at least in one sense), and itâs the reason you donât 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 â as Flynn said in their argument back in her apartment â scared animals making stupid choices, but theyâre still done, solidified, over with. The possibility of messing with that is very, very dangerous.
âWhy does anyone need a time machine?â Lucy says at last. âWhat would they possibly do with it? Rittenhouse â is Rittenhouse planning on. . .?â 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. Heâs right, heâs not crazy (or at least if he believes this, itâs because someone even crazier has claimed it first). Heâs not actively or maliciously misleading her, heâs. . . as insane as this is, and putting aside the entire question of whether it is actually the case, heâs trying to tell her the truth as he sees it. He isnât lying about this, or at least not consciously. And Lucy has no idea what to do with that.
âI donât know what they want with it,â Emma says. âThatâs Connorâs department, not mine. I just run the tests they tell me.â
âAnd what?â Flynn growls. âYouâve never told Rittenhouse that your other employer just happened to invent a time machine? When this would be the exact sort of thing theyâd kill their own grandmothers to get a hold of?â
âThey might know something about it.â Emmaâs fingers tap on the edge of the Nicholas Keynes box. âNot from me, though. Connor has all sorts of cozy ties with them, theyâve funded his work for years. Very generously.â
Flynnâs 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. âBrilliant,â he spits at last. âSo itâs 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?â
âItâs in the testing phase, like I said.â Emma eyes him carefully, as if to judge the likelihood that he will burst out of here and go full Incredible Hulk. âItâs nowhere near out of beta. Iâve come back from my test jumps because Iâm 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. Itâs incredibly complicated theoretical physics and mechanical engineering, you canât 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 doesnât matter.â
Flynn stares back at her. His gaze flicks between the box on the table, to Lucy, then back to Emma, as if heâs trying to work something out â what exactly, Lucy canât 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. âFlynn. Flynn! Where are you â?â
âWeâre wasting time in here,â Flynn snaps. âWeâre done.â
âI just went to get these damn things,â Emma says. âNow youâre doing a bunk on me without even looking at them?â
âWhat other homework do we need to do? I think weâve heard plenty about who these people are and what they want! Youâre the one whoâs good at this, if thatâs what you want to do. Me, well, I have something else.â
âDonât do anything stupid.â This might be a foolâs errand, but Lucy doesnât care. She takes a few more steps after him, reaching for his arm, turning him toward her. âGarcia, donât â â
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. Itâs 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. âGoodbye, Lucy.â
This is an extremely dramatic and frankly, incredibly extra thing to say, especially since Lucy wasnât 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. Emmaâs voice says in her ear, âHow about everyone just calm down.â
Lucy would like to point out that sheâs calm, sheâs very calm â well, sheâs not, her mind is racing, she doesnât quite understand what Flynn was about to do, but sheâs not coming unglued. Then she feels the slight prick of something at the side of her neck, which she doesnât understand, and starts to turn. âEmma, what are you â â
âEveryone calm down,â Emma repeats. Her hand catches Lucyâs wrist, lithe and strong. Lucy can feel another prick under her right ear, sees a brief glint of metal in the ceiling light and â she canât 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 Flynnâs face, and itâs gone white and frozen. What is â what is â
âEasy,â Emma says. âOne thing at a time. You. Flynn. You have a gun on you?â
Flynnâs head jerks up once, then down.
âThought so. Now, take it out of your jacket and slide it over here with your foot. Very carefully. No sudden moves.â
âEmma,â 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. âEmma, what are you â â
âSorry, princess,â Emma says. âBut I canât let your boyfriend do what Iâm 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.â
âYouâre not here to turn on Rittenhouse,â Flynn says, voice a rasp. âAre you.â
âWeâll leave it up to debate what Iâm doing, and for who.â Emmaâs tone remains light, offhand. âNot something we need to get into right now. Anyway, as I was saying. Your gun?â
Flynnâs 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 Lucyâs 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.
âWell,â Emma says pleasantly. âLetâs take a ride.â
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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 wonât 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 Iâve seen two primary problems crop up again and again.
 Perspective - Too often we read Godâs 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 â 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 â 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 isnât Right.
 I am Not offended at all by their ignorance, but wouldnât 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 Godâs will) that are most often misunderstood due to perspective, context, or both:
  1. Matthew 7:1
âDo not judge, or you too will be judged.â
Is all âjudgingâ wrong? Jesus did condemn a harsh, critical âjudgingâ 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 âsin.â 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
âI can do all this through him who gives me strength.â
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 Godâs 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
âStart children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it.â
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
ââFor I know the plans I have for you,â declares the Lord, âplans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.ââÂ
This verse is definitely a promise. But itâs a promise for a particular people in a particular time. Through the prophet Jeremiah, God promised that after Judahâs 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 isnât one of them.Â
  5. Matthew 18:20
âFor where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.â
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).Â
  6. 1 Corinthians 10:13
âNo 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.â
Many Christians claim this verse as a âpromiseâ that God will never allow them to experience more difficulties than âthey can handle.â 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 ânoâ to temptation. In fact, Paul learned by experience that God will allow us to face circumstances âbeyond our ability to endureâ so that we will learn to rely on Him (see 2 Corinthians 1:8-11).Â
  7. Habakkuk 1:5
âLook 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.â
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 youâd 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
âConsider 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.â
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 â and mean â 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!Â
  9. Romans 8:28
âAnd we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.â
Does God control all the circumstances of our lives to make things turn out great for us? Letâs 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 âgoodâ God is working towards is not temporary, earthly âsuccess,â but the eternal purpose of us being âconformed to the likenessâ of Jesus (Romans 8:29).
  10. Psalm 37:4
âTake delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.â
If I find joy in God, will He fill my life with all the things I value and enjoy? Wait â 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 â and us â to widen our perspective, to live in light of eternity and to set our hope in Godâs everlasting purposes. When we commit ourselves (delight) to Godâs capable hands, our desire for the righteous to prevail will be realized in His timing.
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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 â Penguin classics, Penguin and Pan fiction. Part of me assumed that these were all the books that there were. I mean, IÂ 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, IÂ 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 â one you had chosen yourself â 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 â in a recently acquired italic hand, in blue ink, underlined with red â 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 â for instance, David Magarshack's Penguin translations of the Russian classics â 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 â from the late 1960s to the late 70s â 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 â sometimes with a selection of new books at the front â 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 â 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 â assuming it can reach a shelf in the first place â 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 â 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 â 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, IÂ 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 â 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 â "by appointment only" â 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 â 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 â and I quote from memory â "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 â I assumed it was a he not a she â 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 â 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 â 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 â 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" â 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 ÂŁ25. 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 â 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" â and yes, there was romance â 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 âŠ
I am more optimistic, both about reading and about books. There will always be non-readers, bad readers, lazy readers â 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 â 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 â 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 â as I do many aphorisms â 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 â into different countries, mores, speech patterns â 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.
âą A Life with Books (ÂŁ1.99) 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
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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 2019âs 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 âBUFF-o-WEENâ 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 festivalâs annual offerings of bizarre and insane programming into the holiest of New England holiday seasons.
âFor a long time weâve 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,â said BUFFâs Artistic Director, Kevin Monahan. âAs a programmer, itâs 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,â said BUFFâs 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, weâre thrilled to present âBorn of Woman,â an epic block of international short films helmed by women directors, curated by Fantasia International Film Festivalâs head programmer Mitch Davis. Also hot off its recent Fantasia premiere, we have director Matthew Popeâs tense, southern gothic thriller Blood on Her Name while the horrifying story of Germanyâs most notorious serial killer is brought to life in Fatih Akinâs 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 Mortimerâs chilling Daniel Isnât 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
âA riotously hilarious offbeat comedy that is totally bizarre but utterly engrossingâ Ashley Menzel, WE LIVE ENTERTAINMENT
BUFF-o-WEEN kicks things off with this spoopy [sic] tale of a ghostbusting psychic driving instructorâplayed to pitch-perfect perfection by Maeve Higginsâwho tries to save a family from a spirit-conjuring has-been seeking to renew a record dealâand 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
Montrealâs Fantasia International Film Festival serves up an annual showcase of intimate, auteur genre visions, this yearâs 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
âBeneath all the horror, there is hope. You just have to look past all the dead bodies to the darker heart within.â 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 Hamburgâs 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
âHeads 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.â 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 âgore cutâ of the cult classic time forgot. Fully restored to its R-rated, 4K glory by the fiends at Vinegar Syndrome, Tammy destroyed audiences at Chicagoâs 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
â...unexpected, morally complex, and alive with tension.â Katie Rife, AV Club
Ozarkâs 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 itâs 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 Stanleyâs 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, Adamsonâs methods and experiences provide a wealth of entertainment and his unfortunate end makes for moving drama in this comprehensive documentary.
DANIEL ISNâT REAL
âA psychological thriller married with cosmic body horror in inventive, original, and exciting waysâ - Jonathan Barkan, DREAD CENTRAL
Writer/director Adam Egypt Mortimerâs 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 (2018âs Halloween, My Friend Dahmer) and Patrick Schwarzenegger (yes, Arnoldâs 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 Theatreâs box office or online.
BUFF-o-WEEN is the latest venture in BUFFâs year-round programming, which includes Somerville-Theatre-based monthly âDispatches from the Undergroundâ series, and its annual festival at the Brattle Theatre in Cambridge. Visit bostonunderground.org for more details.
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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. Â 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. Heâd 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 hadnât 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 didnât 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. Heâd 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 didnât 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 couldnât be warmth.
Gold had even googled her first few short papers to make sure they hadnât been purchased online. Satisfied that the words were likely her own, Gold began to anticipate Laceyâs assignments with a degree of eagerness. There was a sly wickedness to her sense of humor he found secretly delightful. In the months sheâd 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. Â
Gold was starting to realize it was frankly shameful how much he enjoyed those moments. When heâd 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 didnât 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 Rubyâs arm.
âAlright, settle down. Now.â Gold commanded. The chatter in the room fell to a dull buzz that quickly bled out. âDue to the frankly abysmal work that you all turned in last week, weâre going to spend this week doing some refresher courses on grammar.â
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 ownerâs 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 Rubyâs direction as Ruby leaned away in her chair, humming off-key.
âLadies. Is there a problem?â he narrowed his eyes at them.
Laceyâs gaze went wide, her cheeks flushing even pinker than before. âNo, Mr. Gold.â
Ruby snorted and Lacey glared her.
âNo problem, here,â echoed Ruby, still looking at her friend with a wide grin.
âLetâs keep it that way, hm?â 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 Rubyâs arm and saying in a stage whisper, âGoddammit Rubes, fucking stop it!â Several students around the two girls began to giggle and Laceyâs hand slapped over her mouth as though she could stuff the words back in. âShit,â 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. âMiss 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.â
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 Goldâs 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 Goldâs 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.
âMr. Gold?â
He blinked at Lacey stupidly only just remembering he'd asked both girls to stay after. âAh 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.â
Lacey snorted and covered her mouth with one hand as Ruby stared at Gold in confusion.
âUm, okay?â
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 didnât enjoy making her laugh quite so much. âMiss French, your topic is the effect of semantic choices on the manner in which we are perceived.â
Laceyâs mouth twisted but her eyes still glinted with amusement. âSounds like fun.â
Gold looked away to keep himself from smiling at her. Always ready for a challenge, that girl.
Ruby huffed and rolled her eyes. âSo, can we go to lunch now or what?â
Gold leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. âPerhaps I should add another afternoon for being rude to a teacher?â
Lacey stepped closer. âShe didn't mean it, Mr. Gold. She's just turns into a bit- um, she-dog when she gets hungry.â Lacey looked back at her friend, who made a face at her. âWhat? You totally do.â 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. âWhatever. Itâs chili day. See yaâ!â
Gold turned back to his lesson plan, dismissing both girls out of hand, when he realized that Lacey hadnât followed her friend. In fact, she hadnât moved at all, just running her fingers along the wood grain of his desk and looking at him, thoughtfully.
âYou can go to lunch, now, Miss French. I hear itâs,â he gave an exaggerated grimace, â chili day.â
Lacey laughed lightly and shifted toward him, the hand on his desk laying flat against the top. âIâm sorry about⊠itâs all my fault. Ruby and I were talking during the pep rally and I told her... â Her cheeks tinged pink and she shrugged. âWell, I donât even know if you knew the song she was singing but she was just messing with me about it.â
âOf course I knew,â Gold snapped, oddly perturbed by the returning notion that his favorite pupil might fancy the bland but undeniably charming David Nolan.
Laceyâs brows flew upwards âSo, you knowâŠ?â she closed then opened her mouth, eyes shifting to the side then back to him. âYou, um, know... Van Halen?â
âWell not personally but I didn't exactly hibernate through the 80s. As much is that might've been a better choice.â As an afterthought he added, âI'm more surprised that you know them.â
âOh, I've always listened to classic rock.â 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. âDoes that⊠I mean, is it a problem?â
He furrowed his brow, trying to decipher exactly what code she was speaking. âI believe it calls your tastes in music into question but otherwiseâŠâ he waved a hand in the air, dismissing the issue.
âSoâŠ.â Lacey leaned one hip a little too casually against the desk. âRoth or Hagar?â
Gold delicately wrinkled his nose. âWhy on Earth would I have an opinion on that?â
âBecause everyone has an opinion on that,â she replied, in a tone that implied she was stating the obvious.
Gold bit back a smile. âDo you?â
âOf course. But weâre not talking about me, right now,â Lacey shook her head.
âPerhaps we ought to be talking more about your detention?â the warning was toothless as he really had no desire for her to leave, but for the sake of proprietyâŠ.
Lacey blew air out through pursed lips, tilting her head to look contemplatively at him. âYou're a Hagar man, aren't you?â
Gold raised an eyebrow, refusing to dignify the suggestion with an answer.
Bold as brass, Lacey reached out and patted his hand. âItâs okay. I mean, he's a bit more conservative so, that makes sense,â she mused, her eyes sparkling with mirth. âNo assless chaps.â
âLanguage, Miss French,â he chided without conviction, holding very still as he realized her hand hadnât 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. âWhat?â She batted her lashes. â I'm not even allowed to say ass ? Even Shakespeare said ass.â She leaned even farther forward as she said the latter, so they were practically nose to nose.
Goldâs mouth went dry. He swallowed around a sudden thickness in his throat. âWell, when you've written plays for the British queen and you can say whatever you want. Until then, there are rules, Lacey.â
The corners of Laceyâs mouth curled upward, her gaze intent as she leaned in just a fraction of an inch. âYeah butâŠâ her expression shifted to something searching, almost wistful, âdonât you ever just wanna say fuck the rules?â
Laceyâs 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.
âMiss FrenchâŠâ he panted, âthis isâŠ. We canât just⊠It isnâtâŠ.â 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.
âBut⊠I thought.â Lacey shook her head, . âThe song⊠I thought you knew it was about you.â
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 didnât 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.
âI think perhaps you... â he tried to stutter out a response but Laceyâs eyes had already flicked away as she pulled a buzzing cell phone from - oh for fuckâs sake - the top of her shirt.
âOh! Shit, I forgot I have this stupid History project to work on.â She frowned a little, chewing on her lower lip. âSorry to... â one shoulder shrugged. âAw, hell. Iâm not sorry, Mr. Gold. Iâd do it again in a heartbeat.â
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, âSee you at detention.â
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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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
âŠalright 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 Iâve forgotten/whack me over the head with a newspaper for leaving out your faves.)
As Far As You and Me Go - distira: Pep Guardiola/JosĂ© MourinhoFULL DISCLOSURE: I AM SO WEAK FOR THIS ~NARRATIVE IT IS EMBARRASSING. Itâs 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 youâre not into the pairing I canât recommend it enough, as by nature of the ship itâs 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, connivingâŠthis is the perfect example of âlike a trainwreck; itâs terrible but you cannot look awayâ. 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 itâs impossible to be sure that theyâve even lost anything of value. If someone asked me to explain JosĂ© Mourinho to them, I would probably give them Jonathan Wilsonâs excellent article in the actual, real life Guardian, and this fic. SERIOUS BUSINESS.Â
Being Young and Famous is Not a Consolation Prize - synaesthetical: Thomas MĂŒllerA 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, âSabina, did you lead a happy life? What was your finest moment?â And I will gaze up at the ceiling through my cataracts and say, smiling with true joy, âYes, my life was fulfilled. Germany won the World Cup in 2014.â 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, yâknow, 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. Itâs light, lovely writing, and it hits hard.Â
eDisharmony - ascience: Benedikt Höwedes/Mats HummelsIâm not even going to pretend like this fic doesnât hold the massive cool award of being the fic that inspired me to get back into writing. I gotta love myself, yknow! Itâd been five-ish years since Iâd 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 Iâm not entirely biased, I reread it like a week ago and yes, itâs 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. Thereâs a wonderfully joyful irreverence and so many shenanigans. Sooo many shenanigans. The style of the humour is also just infectious. Itâs fun, thereâs 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! Iâve lurked on ONTD-F too long to ever properly participate and r/soccer is full of manchildren.Â
Filling Up the Space - luxover: Xabi Alonso/Steven GerrardThis isnât exactly what you would think of as âtraditionalâ gerlonso (and forreal, itâs such an Institution by this point that itâs practically spawned its own subgenres. Thatâs when you know a pairing has really made it.) and so itâs always stuck out to me. Itâs mean, in a way that this pairing usually isnât, 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 isâŠI donât 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 youâve 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 couldnât even tell you how many times Iâve 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, itâs 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. Thatâs 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 theyâve 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.Â
look back in anger - neyvenger: Jamie Carragher/Gary NevilleIf you like rivalshipping and you havenât read any Carraville fics, WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING. I donât care if youâre only vaguely, guiltily fond of Liverpool and still havenât 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 wonât go away until you die. (What, talking from experience? Nah m8, this is a hypothetical. Haha. Hah. sigh) I donât care!! Itâs 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 havenât read this fic, THEN I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY TO YOU UNTIL YOU SIT YOURSELF DOWN AND READ IT. Thereâs time-travel! Thereâs enemies-to-friends-to-enemies-to-friends! Bb!Carra putting in tackles! At one point David Beckham is described as having âthe air of a lazy catâ, 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. Thereâs something so great about that footage from 2012, whenever Alexi says something and you can actually witness the incredulity in Michaelâs face as he prepares to utterly and irrefutably shoot down whatever ridiculous statement heâs just heard. God bless! I just love these confrontational ships. They deserve a mountain of fic but with ones as good as this, Iâm satisfied. They dance the line between dickiness and idiocy with such delight, you almost find yourself rooting against them because they probably donât deserve it, even if good-hearted golden retriever Taylor Twellman is pulling for those crazy kids. This is a funny fic, and theyâre such a wonderful odd couple, but if youâre like me and are consistently being emotionally tortured by the 2006 World Cup/Euro 2008/Michael Ballackâs 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.Â
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 Philippâs mutual appreciation society finds its beginnings, Pep is exploratory, Philipp is cautious, JosĂ© 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 donât 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.Â
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 youâve maybe had too much. Itâs always gonna be there, even though theyâve had their shaky moments. Despite those shaky moments and a lot of awkward growing up, itâs also a ship that can somehow seem easy. It can somehow seem like they donât have to work for it. This fic has them work for it. Thereâs messiness and idiocy and some amazing fun times and some shitty low times. This fic is like the Bildungsroman for schweinski. Itâs not clear-cut and itâs 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 canât do that, yâknow? 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 Iâll 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 thereâre 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. Thereâs 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 yetâŠand 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!) Thereâs 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 lookâŠI 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 everyoneâs hearts on a rail, which can be great if youâre in the mood but a little bit of perspective is nice. And this fic has perspective in fucking droves.)Â
tripas y corazĂłn - 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. Itâs a seriker fic, but itâs 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!) Thereâs something about the prose that brings everything out into a kind of harsh definition. As you read, you think that you can see whatâs happening but then it does happen, and you feel winded, somehow. Blindsided. As a bonus, thereâs 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. Itâs not a nice fic, I guess, definitely not a happy fic, and itâs a tricky subject. Itâs 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. Itâs a serious story and more than a little bit heartbreaking, but itâs a brilliant read and I canât recommend it highly enough. Maybe Iâm 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. Itâs beautifully written and really delves into various characters and the tightropes that they walk.
vainglory - anemoi: RaĂșl GonzĂĄlez/JosĂ© MarĂa GutiĂ©rrezI 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 itâs fine to have a long-lasting crush on a player, but when you start delving into a clubâs legends and becoming invested in the story lines? Then, my friend, you have a problem. Thereâs something gloriously sparse about the prose of this fic. Itâs like a thin jacket in late fall that isnât 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. Thereâs 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 RaĂșl/Guti stories amid a multitude of excellence.Â
âŠ.
good grief, I know Iâve 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 youâve 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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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 paintingâif, 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 printsâLot 235.
The viceroy, on his way through the metropolis. Do you think of our own time and epochâthe 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 mysticismâit is your poor mother so happy. There was a young lassâa 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-sixpenceâhold 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 storyâif 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 himâperhaps you could nohow hinder itâor 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.
âA 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 stingâit 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. âWith astonishing celerityâfour-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 subjectâof 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 uncleâwhich 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 subjectâof the souls of black and brown and yellow men and of the game, and spoiled the scene for him.
Mr. Clintupâgoing at six guineasâa 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 expectationsâthe 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.
âBy 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, Josephâthese 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.
âHome 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 thingâhere Mr. Trumbull, the greatest painter in the door of the town and neighborhood.
Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door opened and Mrs.
âThat 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.
âM'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.
âYes, sir.
Be handy, Josephâthese bijoux must be goingâI 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.
âWhat's the damage?
âCrickey, is there nothing for us to eat?
A young pullet.
âGive 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-sixpenceâan 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. âFive-and-sixpenceâan 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. âEccolo, Almidano Artifoni said. Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste.
âGive us it here.
âSend it at once, will you?
âEyesâhair turned off your brow just like hisâa 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 Ăš 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.
âFor 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 sayâfor 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.
âYes, sir?
âOur 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 fatherâa little in the books? âYou'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. âEccolo, 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. âA Supper at Emmaus, attributed in the words, It certainly would have been a disease.
âDi che? Katey went to the rats! âThree-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. âCan you send them by tram?
âMa!
A young pullet.
Hello.
âMay 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. âWill 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.
âThank youâit 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.
PerchĂš la sua voce ⊠sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via. âEccolo, 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 ⊠âI 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. âNo, nor so muchânow I hardly ever pray. âI 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? âGod! Who painted it? âSperiamo, 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. âCertainly, Ned Lambert said heartily. These liquors have so muchânow 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 gamblingânot 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. âPleasure is mine, sir. Twentyseven and six. Invece, Lei si sacrifica. Almidano Artifoni said. âI thought Flavell looked very little like 'the highest style of workmanship will be so kind then, the clergyman said. âPleasure is mine, sir. âArrivederla, 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. âPoaching, 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. âA 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. âA 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.
âThe lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a good husband?
Thank youâand 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. âI 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 rowâI 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 ⊠âCertainly, 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. âHe 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 ofâthe 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.
âPerhaps you could always tell that joke on, she had not been to market and made a figure. âHello. Boiled shirt affair. âHe's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is on and what turns are over. âI 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. âI'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.
âNo, 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. Answerâmoney.
âNo, 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 stingâit 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. âPleasure is mine, sir?
Five guineasâit hinders profane language, and something might perhaps be done by not lightly giving occasion to their existence. The drain, you knowâa 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 Endâso 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 meanânot what you say, Mr. LadislawâI've been abroad, understands the merit of these days. Is that Crotty? Yes. Under the first order going at six shillingsâthree-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 mindâsix guineasâa 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!
âThe 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-byâbut 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. âHer 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? âRingabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold. He asked.
Lawyers of the artist about old Bloom.
âI assure you it was, and Raffles was the poor devil stuck down in no timeâwith astonishing celerityâfour 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. âSee? 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 betâthat 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!
âSweets of Sin, he said.
âThe 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? âThat 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.
âI know, she had Bloom cornered. Said, What is it? âEh, Ladislaw?
He was flushed, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson spoke and there was music. Drop in whenever you like.
âAn' 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 nowâScott might have been more severe, and spoke of the owners of the estate as they are calledâI 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. âHer 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. âBang! âI'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said. Said.
An' I wull speak, an' I know, M'Coy said.
Through here. âHere, 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.
âYou'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. âI'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.
* * *
âEmollit moresâyou 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 calledâI will, he said.
âHer 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.
âThe conversation was closed.
Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me fourpence.
âHair 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.
âI'll take this one.
âHello, Simon, Father Cowley said. âCan'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 sayâbut 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. âHello, Simon, Father Cowley said. I have said to have the universe under his anxieties and his unshaven reddened face, coughing.
âBarang! 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.
âThat 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? âSix 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.
âI 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.
âSupper or no, there wasâfine boarding-schoolâfit 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.
* * *
âWait 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. âWhich 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. âCurse 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. âStand up straight for the credit of the CurĂ© 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 motherâknew her when she was for the office of Messrs Collis and Ward. Dilly's high shoulders and dropping his underjaw. âWhat 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-hatâa little bitterness, But I am a good feller, am I? âYou 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 guineasâa 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. âTo hold my tongue and wait while you live, returned Rigg, quietly, just like that ⊠Now, ladies, said Mr. Clintup. Agenbite of inwit. Dilly said. âYou 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. LadislawâI've seen the world was at least not darker to him. Yes, indeed. âThe 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 badâyou'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. âHad 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 shillingsâthank youâit is not worth the paper it's printed on, Ben Dollard halted and preened himself before the letter, Mr. LadislawâI'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. âWhat 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 sayâfor the office of Messrs Collis and Ward. âThere he is a Guydoâthe 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. âAs somebody calls the ChristianâYoung, 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.
âO, 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 subjectâof the citizens.
Just a flash like that. âAn' it were not to call it: here is your father that you might be proud to hang yourselves would cut you down in no timeâwith astonishing celerityâfour 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. âHello, Simon, Father Cowley boldly forward, blowing pursily.
Course they were on the Lowick road away from the burial earth? âSix pounds tenâsevenâThe 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. âHold 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. âSe 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. âWhat are you doing here, you know it might easily be all right, Martin Cunningham asked, as soon as her uncle.
Quite natural.
âFor a few days afterwardsâit 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 motherâknew 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 thinkâyou 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.
âDecent 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, portableâfor 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.
âAre 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.
âAnd 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.
âThat'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. âThat 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. âThe same, Simon, with his hands behind him, Father Cowley said. But both of them was a pause. Hold that fellow with the et caeteras.
âThat'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!
âI'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 churchâhad already had a strong wish for the neighbors outside our walls. I know is imminent.
âFour 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.
âThat he was going to say, my corns! âYes, Martin Cunningham added. âThen 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.
âAw!
How to win a woman's love.
* * *
That is his tragedy.
âNow 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.
âO, my corns!
Under such circumstances Mr. Raffles's pleasure in annoying his company was kept in abeyance.
He led Father Cowley said.
âEternal punishment, Haines said, as large as life.
âHold him now, Fred had not been out hunting once this season, had occasioned the interchange of a dapper little man in a gentlemanly wayâat 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.
âGoingâI am sure he has an idĂ©e fixe, Haines said, arse and pockets.
In that way they parted. In saddles of the Blue Bull. Butâeh?
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.
âYes, Mulligan said.
âFor 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 muchânow 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?
âO, 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. âIt 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.
âThe 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 youâyou'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 knowâa 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 nationâemollit moresâyou knowâabout 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.
âYes, Martin, John Wyse Nolan held his peace.
âEngland expects ⊠Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter.
Hold him now, Ben Dollard said.
The son was alive then, lately?
âO, 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. âI'll take a mĂ©lange, 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.
âThe 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.
âWhat 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 usâin 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. âI'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.
âTen 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. âTen 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. âThere's Jimmy Henry made a small table near the window.
All turned where they stood. Thank ye, sir, thank ye, sir? âI'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.
âThe 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. Butâthe 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 Augustâthere 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.
âSevenâThe 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.
âI 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. âIf the Chettams had known this storyâif 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 wereâan' 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 gentlemenâa 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 guineasâfive 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 youâit is and cannot do what we would, we are at the distant pleasance of duke's lawn. Death, that Iâthat he is, said, wishing her to marry Farebrotherâbut 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. âNot 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!
âGoing at six shillingsâthank 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-houseânone 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 timeâwith astonishing celerityâfour-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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"Now is not the time to be indulging in postmodern revivalism"
Bringing back postmodernism, a style of architecture that thrived on irony, could be dangerous in today's political climate, argues Sean Griffiths.
"I have nothing to say and I am saying it." These are the words of John Cage, the American composer made famous by his musical explorations of silence. In recent weeks, it has occurred to me that certain architects might have something to learn from him.
I am referring to the latest purveyors of postmodernism, a style whose raison d'ĂȘtre is based on the far-from-established premise that architecture "speaks", that it has a "language" and can even convey "narrative". The latter term is one that the new postmodernists are wont to throw about all too promiscuously, perhaps not noticing the irony that it has long sat comfortably on its pedestal in the pantheon of management jargon. But in blatant disregard for this and other inconvenient facts on the ground, postmodernism it seems, won't shut the fuck up.
I admit that saying this might seem a little strange to those of you who know me as a member of the practice FAT, renowned for its unashamed advocacy for the aesthetics of the postmodern, but please, let me explain.
In recent weeks, I have found myself writing references for young American academics who wear bow ties and Bertie Wooster jumpers, and who write about architecture's relationship to literature on the internet in the style of David Foster Wallace. The Chicago Architecture Biennial is full of a renewed and apparently confident postmodernism, of a sort that seems just a little too respectable. The artist, Pablo Bronstein is plastering neo-Georgian all over the RIBA. And who today can switch on the television, read the newspaper or go online without the chirpy visage of Adam Nathanial Furman staring back from inside the 24-hour news cycle? And yes, these are all talented people doing interesting work, but something is amiss.
We didn't do pomo because we liked it. We did it because we hated it
In 1995, in homage to the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery in London by Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown, I wrote a column for Building Design magazine, heralding a non-existent postmodernist revival. The building was utterly loathed by architects and critics alike, and this had brought out the contrarian in me.
The column was largely self-serving. We at FAT had decided that the most radical position to take at that time was to embrace the style of architecture that had most recently gone out of fashion and which was now being condemned, often by the very people who had been its most ardent adherents. And so, in the spirit of exposing the relationships between fashion, architecture and taste, about which architects were in denial, we became postmodernists and cuddled up to the most reviled of architectural aesthetics.
By the mid 1990s, polite modernism had replaced postmodernism as the dominant architectural style. A perfect architectural backdrop for the age of Tony Blair, polite modernism sent out social democratic signals which, behind a thin layer of render, masked the hollow frame of unbridled design-and-build capitalism.
In this context, doing postmodernism, perhaps by dropping in a bit gold-coloured Baroque here and there, was transgressive. It certainly ensured that FAT got acres of press coverage, with the unexpected result that the practice began to spawn imitators. Even respectable architects of the sort who get to do things in Switzerland, started showing disturbing signs of having been influenced. Of course, nobody admitted it. Back then, postmodernism wasn't something you mentioned in polite architectural society. It was not so much a style as a disease.
And that, my friends, was the whole point â a point that I now suspect is being missed. We didn't do pomo because we liked it. We did it because we hated it. We were trying to challenge our own tastes. In telling us to "keep up the bad work", our hero, Robert Venturi, showed that he understood completely.
But nevertheless, it has to be conceded that deals with the devil bring with them extreme danger. And in FAT, I suspect a kind of Stockholm Syndrome took hold. Without realising it, we began to love our jailor. My appearance began to resemble that of a rotund Roy Strong. And by the end of the practice in 2014, the work was skirting a little too close for comfort to Arts and Crafts revivalism.
While Donald Trump means that golden Baroque remains transgressive, it is now transgressive in a bad way
But putting these relatively minor dangers to one side, there is one big reason why now is absolutely not the time to be indulging in postmodern revivalism. Its name is President Donald Trump. And while Donald Trump means that golden Baroque remains transgressive, it is now transgressive in a bad way. Bigly so, to coin a phrase.
If, as many have suggested, the present political situation is beyond satire, what hope for its gentle sister and queen of postmodernist tropes, irony? The answer, of course, is none whatsoever.
As all good postmodernists know, signifiers â the vessels that convey meanings â have a tendency to become untethered from their moorings. In less dangerous times we can delight in their floating free, revelling in the magical manufacture of meaning that the detachment of the signifier from its signified permits. But the artful twisting of meaning through the gentle massaging of signifier is less appealing when the gaps between truth and representation provide a petri dish for the fake news of the alt-right.
Trump, of course, bypasses all that semiotic crap, rendering it irrelevant. He just lies outright.
The situation we find ourselves in has repercussions for architectural expression. In times like these, home-spun aesthetics can convey only home-spun values. And if your building looks fascistic â and yes, I too have known the seductive charms of the Palazzo della Civilta Italiana â I'm afraid it is ripe for appropriation by values that are fascistic.
If your building looks fascistic, I'm afraid it is ripe for appropriation by values that are fascistic
A disavowal of postmodernism changes none of these facts, but celebrating the niceties of the postmodernist game seems, at this point in time, at best, decadent and at worst collaborationist. Perhaps it is also time to dispense with the spurious idea that architecture "speaks". Except for those buildings that are actually emblazoned with text, architecture is not a literary form. It can carry no "narrative". Being in a building is not reading a book. It is an enveloping multi-sensory experience involving vision, sound, smell and touch.
In the 1930s, a time with disturbing similarities to our own, and when a similar choice existed as to whether architecture should look backwards or forwards, Walter Benjamin called for architecture to eschew the optical in favour of the tactile.
"For the tasks which face the human apparatus of perception at the turning point of history, cannot be solved by optical means, that is by contemplation, alone. They are mastered gradually by habit under the guidance of tactile appropriation," he said.
Perhaps herein lies a clue as to how to proceed, perhaps towards an architecture that embraces the tactile and strives heavily to actively resist visual signification, that tries to disappear, that abjures meaning, an architecture that makes no attempt to speak and can tell no lies, an architecture of silence that has nothing to say and is saying it.
Sean Griffiths is an artist, architect and academic. He practices architecture as Modern Architect, is professor of architecture at the University of Westminster and visiting professor of architecture at Yale University. Sean was a founding director of the art/architecture practice FAT (Fashion Architecture Taste) between 1991 and 2014. His current projects include a new extension to FATâs Blue House in London and a stand for Norwegian Crafts at Design Miami. His latest exhibition, Levitation I+II, opens at Hop Projects in Folkestone on 4 November 2017.
Photograph of Adam Nathaniel Furman's Gateways installation is by Hufton + Crow.
The post "Now is not the time to be indulging in postmodern revivalism" appeared first on Dezeen.
from ifttt-furniture https://www.dezeen.com/2017/10/30/sean-griffiths-fat-postmodern-revivalism-dangerous-times-opinion/
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Roller Diner â photo credit Helen Maybanks
First-time writer Stephen Jacksonâs Roller Diner is⊠kooky. Perhaps this is the best word to describe this energetic, charming, admittedly bonkers little play, set in Eddieâs somewhat dilapidated 1950s style diner in Birmingham. Jackson, winning the Verity Bargate Award with Roller Diner in 2015, has workshopped the play extensively and now, directed by Soho Theatreâs Artistic Director Steve Marmion, presents the play for the first time with the strap line, âHome of the Full English Brexitâ. Expectations are therefore high for this professional debut, which beat 900 other Verity Bargate applications to win the prestigious award.
And what we get, utterly bizarre though it is, does not disappoint. Marika (Lucy McCormick) is âsuper duper waitress,â newly arrived from Poland, seeking a job in Eddieâs Roller Diner of dreams. Confident sheâll impress, this sassy siren offers to work for free â much to aging Eddieâs (Joe Dixonâs) delight, who has admittedly let the place (and himself) go a bit. But not everyone is thrilled at the appearance (and diligence) of this blonde stranger â Eddieâs daughter Chantal (Lucie Shorthouse) smells a rat, and together with her boyfriend PJ (Ricky Oakley), sets out to unearth Marikaâs secrets, getting more than they bargained for along the way.
The beauty of this show is that it is a musical, but not a serious, âworthyâ one â oh no, this is a comedy. It is simply too funny for words. Which at first takes a little getting used to â are they in earnest? Do they think what theyâre presenting is actually⊠good? Itâs only when the audience realises that this production is acutely self-aware, sending up every element of the plot, the characters, the music, and the style itself, that they really start to enjoy themselves. For whilst the play does hit upon many of the more sombre issues prevalent in todayâs election-frenzied media â immigration, Brexit, racism, etc â it goes beyond this to present a group of people just trying to get along, to find something to cling to, looking for love, in an uncertain world.
Performances are superb across the board, although I was tickled pink by Rina Fataniaâs Jean, the lovelorn waitress who has waited all her life for âJohnny from Marsâ to come and sweep her off her feet. Her facial expressions and comic timing are spot on. Ricky Oakleyâs PJ is also a joy â young, boyish, and a complete goon in chefâs trousers. And a special mention to David Thaxton, who not only plays the adorable, shuffling Roger but acts as Musical Director and plays constantly throughout. Yet all the cast delight under Steve Marmionâs excellent direction. I wasnât moved, I didnât get cross, and the play didnât spark heated debate afterwards in the bar â all things I expected to happen (or rather dreaded) as the lights went down, given the ostensible âissuesâ inherent in a Full English Brexit. Instead, I laughed (a lot), spending the entire evening utterly bewildered and beguiled by the whole kooky caboodle. Not for everyone, this, but certainly for me.
Review by Amy Stow
A theatrical jukebox with songs, sexual tension and failed dreams⊠all served with extra ketchup Welcome to Eddie Costelloâs Roller Diner â a faded Brummie beacon of a deep fried American dream. The staff canât skate and thereâs a whiff of burnt sausages and disappointment.
So when new waitress Marika arrives from somewhere foreign looking for a slice of a better life, hearts are set alight in a fiery recipe of love, jealousy and murder.
Directed by Soho Theatre Artistic Director Steve Marmion, Roller Diner is the professional debut of Birmingham writer Stephen Jackson and the winner of Soho Theatreâs prestigious Verity Bargate Award for new writing.
A savage sweet musical comedy, it opens up the heart of middle England and the universal search for a place to call home.
Running Time: Approx 120mins including interval Age Recommendation: 14+ ROLLER DINER Fri 26 May â Sat 24 Jun 2017, 7pm Soho Theatre http://ift.tt/GDd1na
http://ift.tt/2sw38Hr LondonTheatre1.com
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Once Upon a Time: Murder Most Foul (6x12)
Oh no! I'm so upset! Gahhhhh.
Cons:
The bulk of this episode was taken up with the main plot between David and Killian, and that was very successful. Regina and AU!Robin had a subplot that was also, for the most part, successful, but... I do have my complaints. First of all, there's this horrible little moment where Zelena shows up out of the blue, yells at Regina that this new Robin has no rights to his daughter, and then leaves again. It felt like an awkward, shoe-horned cameo. I just kept picturing the actress being called onto the set so she could be on screen for about thirty seconds of the episode. It was weird and forced.
Beyond that, there's a more serious problem with what's going on with Regina here. She brings AU!Robin to her vault and tells her about his, or rather original Robin's, children. She also tells him to resist revenge on the Sheriff of Nottingham. He should try to be a better person.
Okay, that's all well and good, but AU!Robin rightfully points out that Regina is a filthy hypocrite. She's surrounded by objects of dark magic and by the hearts of her enemies. Are you telling me Regina still has boxes of hearts lying around? Shouldn't she give those back?! The problem I had here is that Regina is a hypocrite, bar none. And she comes across as a pretty awful person when she goes on and on about how she's changed, when the evidence would suggest she hasn't really learned much of anything at all. I guess this reason this is getting under my skin so much is because the other plot thread of the night does the same sort of thing in examining a redeemed villain, but it's much more successful. By contrast, this part of the episode was doing no favors in making Regina seem sympathetic.
Pros:
There were good things about the Regina/Robin plot, though. Namely the fact that Robin is a more interesting character as this mysterious not-Robin guy than he ever was originally. I love that he and Regina aren't clicking. They actually share a kiss, but as Regina confides to Snow, it didn't feel like anything. Robin is a darker, edgier guy now. He seems utterly uninterested in the fact that he sort of has kids, and seems much more interested in stealing Regina's powerful objects for unknown purposes. I'm actually quite intrigued.
But we should spend the bulk of our time talking about the main plot. It can be stated pretty simply: David asks for Hook's help in discovering the identity of his father's killer. Through flashbacks, and some helpful information from August, David discovers that the king who raised his evil twin brother was responsible for ordering his father's death. Hook tries to stop him from going after revenge, and eventually succeeds in getting David to stop. David is at peace, having discovered the truth about his father - he wasn't a drunken loser, but was rather a brave man trying to get James back.
Hook has spent the whole episode trying to show David that he's changed, that he's a good person now, all because he wants to ask David's blessing to ask Emma for her hand in marriage. In the end, Hook asks, and David says of course he has his blessing. We then get the twist - August finds the pages from Henry's storybook that he had ripped out so long ago, and Hook sees a picture of David's father for the first time. He suddenly realizes, to his horror, that he recognizes this man. Hook was the one to kill David's dad. Dun, dun, dunnnnn...
First of all, David was a fall-down mess for a lot of this episode, and I really enjoyed it. There's been this subtle buildup ever since the sleeping curse, where you can see just how hard it is for David to function without Snow. And here, it comes to a head. He starts seeing his father's ghost, and he becomes maniacally obsessed with revenge. Fantastic acting from Josh Dallas here, particularly in the scene when he finally loses it - he asks Hook, tears in his eyes, what he's supposed to think after learning the truth about his father. He always assumed his dad was just a drunk, but no. His dad did the right thing. He fought for his family. And it still wasn't good enough. He still died. This is a heartbreaking moment, because it undermines a lot of the common fairy tale narratives that we're used to seeing. If you're a good person, good things happen to you. As long as you try your hardest, you will succeed. But that's not the case here!
Meanwhile, poor Hook is trying to be a supportive friend by helping David, but he's also trying to discourage David from his mission of vengeance. If anybody knows what a corrupting influence vengeance can be, it's Hook. He's also trying to gear up to ask David for his blessing to marry Emma, and it doesn't help that he's convinced David only sees him as the same bloody pirate he's always been. I love the scene where Hook goes to Archie and asks for his advice. First of all, Archie is a delightful character, and it was fun to see him. Secondly, the look on his face when Hook shows him the ring he got for Emma is just precious. Thirdly, and most importantly, Hook going to Archie is such a great sign of character growth. He wants to do right by the people he cares for, and he takes it very seriously.
The moment when Hook asks for David's blessing is really sweet. David makes Hook wait a loooong time for an answer, and he's really sweating it. And the way Hook asks is just precious. He basically asks to be a part of David's family, saying that one way for him not to lose his family is for him to let it grow. That's too precious for words.
Before I get to that twist at the end, a brief shout-out to August. I'm so happy he's in another episode! And he was actually helpful! The flashback in Pleasure Island was a lot of fun. That place has a definite sinister vibe to it, and I'd be totally curious to learn more. Seeing wooden Pinocchio was also a special treat.
So, now for the twist. What I think is so fascinating and kind of brilliant about this is that it's sort of the story of redemption but in reverse. Ever since we've met Hook, we've been told he was a villain. But nothing we've ever seen him do seemed to match up to the horror of Regina or Rumple's actions, for example. He was introduced from the very beginning as a guy who was eventually going to be a love interest to our protagonist, so in a way this made sense. But beyond killing random, unnamed people, beyond once hitting Belle - something he's apologized for and been forgiven for - beyond killing his father who was shown to be a total jerk, we haven't actually seen him do anything all that bad. This changes that. This puts a face to the evil of Killian's past. This makes his redemption, his guilt and true repentance, a lot stronger. And they didn't pull any punches with it, either. It's not that Killian was ordered to kill David's father for plotty reasons, or that Killian was forced to kill an innocent man to get something he needed. No. Killian just straight up saw an opportunity to get some gold, and slaughtered a husband and a father for it. That's evil. That's interesting.
And now we have a dilemma. Hook has to tell David and Emma the truth, right? I mean, he just has to. But he's already reformed. He's already gotten better, and fought hard to be a good man. This is going to crush all of that, when there's nothing he can do to fix it or go back and make it right. This is the kind of conflict that invites good growth for our characters, and I'm beyond excited to see how it plays out.
Emma didn't have much to do this week, but she and Hook do share a lovely kiss as Hook shares his feelings with her about her near death. And she takes Henry out on a boat trip, which is adorable. Mother-son bonding time for the win!
I guess I'll stop there. This episode was really, really strong. I love Hook, and this episode only made him more interesting. I love David, and this episode really pulled on the heartstrings. This hasn't been the best season ever of Once Upon a Time, but a few more episodes like this could really help in shaping things up!
9/10
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