#hh munro

[spaceintruderdetector]

The short stories of Hector Hugh Munro, better known by his pen name Saki, have remained in print continuously for over a hundred years. This collection is the first of its kind to present his stories as they were originally published in newspapers and magazines, preserving their internal consistency and contemporary references lost in revisions for The Chronicles of Clovis and subsequent collected editions. A trove of annotations and carefully sourced bibliographical information illuminates the Edwardian context behind the thirteen selected stories, of which three (‘Mrs. Pendercoet’s Lost Identity’, ‘The Romance of Business’ and ‘The Optimist’) were only recently rediscovered.

Saki (H.H. Munro): Original and Uncollected Stories : Bruce Gaston : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive

[saintkevorkian]

A man, dressed in the hunting costume of some remote period, had just transfixed a stag with an arrow; it could not have been a difficult shot because the stag was only one or two paces away from him; in the thickly-growing vegetation that the picture suggested it would not have been difficult to creep up to a feeding stag, and the two spotted dogs that were springing forward to join in the chase had evidently been trained to keep to heel till the arrow was discharged. That part of the picture was simple, if interesting, but did the huntsman see, what Nicholas saw, that four galloping wolves were coming in his direction through the wood? There might be more than four of them hidden behind the trees, and in any case would the man and his dogs be able to cope with the four wolves if they made an attack? The man had only two arrows left in his quiver, and he might miss with one or both of them; all one knew about his skill in shooting was that he could hit a large stag at a ridiculously short range.

‘The Lumber Room’ from Beasts and Super-Beasts, Saki, 1914

[yeah-asbestos]

reginald is literally so relatable

[uncleasriel]

Sredni Vashtar went forth! His thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth were white His foes prayed for peace, but he brought only death

Sredni Vashtar, the beautiful!

s m i l e !

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

When the Sun Goes Down

This story is a heavily edited adaptation of “Gabriel-Ernest”, written by H.H. Munro in 1909. I owe this whole story to @tinyplaidninjas​ (thank you for helping me fix my werewolf story dilemma).

This is almost 3k words long, fair warning

tw: kinda horny, nudity

---

"There is a wild beast in your woods," said Lambert, as the two men were being driven to the station. It was the only remark he’d made during the drive, but since Geralt had talked incessantly about his latest publication in the Kaedwen Journal of Medicine, his half-brother’s silence had not been noticeable.

"A stray fox or two, or perhaps some wandering brownies. Nothing more formidable," said Geralt. His brother said nothing.

---

"What did you mean about a wild beast?" Geralt asked later, when they were on the train platform with their bags and tickets in hand. Geralt was bound for his private woodland estate while Lambert was making his way into town to visit with friends. 

"Nothing. Probably just my wild imagination running away with me again. Here comes the train," Lambert rushed. 

Geralt found it odd, but said nothing. Perhaps he should not have gone on at length about the Medical Journal in the carriage. Perhaps Lambert was tired or overanxious about his meeting with Aiden. It had been years since the two college friends had seen each other in person and Geralt knew that his brother held the other, equally brilliant artist in high esteem. Surely, that was the reason for Lambert’s odd dismissal of his questions.

---

Once he’d returned to his estate and unpacked his bags, Geralt decided to take a stroll through the woods. He often took a leisurely walk in the late afternoon; the trees were full of chittering animals and preening birds this time of day, after all. The natural scientist and medical doctor found the great outdoors to be brimming with new discoveries. He wanted to pick everything apart and reassemble it accurately and down to the last minute detail. He wanted to know why certain animals behaved the way they did and how they communicated with each other. He wanted to know why the little white flowering plants in his yard only bloomed every other day. He craved the answer to the universal question of why as it applied to everything.

The doctor would often spend long afternoons sitting absolutely still in the center of his garden, observing the wildlife as it moved around him. Last summer he’d even managed to get a wild rabbit to eat out of his hand. 

Now, though, the forest path seemed uncomfortably quiet. Had a larger predator taken to wandering his grounds? If so, he’d need to send word to a local hunter’s lodge and request assistance in ridding himself of the pest. As he was debating who to inquire after, he came across an unusual sight.

On a shelf of smooth stone overhanging a deep pool just to the side of the path, a boy of eighteen lay asprawl. He was drying his tan, dripping limbs luxuriously in the light of the late-summer sun and he had very few cares about doing so, according to his state of complete undress. His wet brown hair, (disheveled as it was by a recent mussing with his long, slender fingers) and bright blue eyes, so light that there was an almost cat-like gleam to them, were aimed in Geralt’s direction with a sense of lazy watchfulness. 

He was an unexpected although not unwelcome apparition, and Geralt found himself quite ignoring his eldest brother’s good advice of “thinking before one spoke”. He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest in what he hoped was a stance of great authority. 

"What are you doing on my property?" he demanded. “And have you no shame? Trespassing for a cool dip in the water I could forgive, but you don’t even have the proper clothing to do so.”

"Obviously I came here to have a swim and sun myself," replied the boy. “I rather like how it feels to be bare beneath the warmth of the open sky.”

"Where do you live?" Geralt inquired, stepping closer. Every instinct in his body was telling him to run. To flee this place and the presence of his estate’s mysterious visitor.

"Here and there within these woods."

"You can't live in the woods," Geralt frowned. “It’s not proper.”

"They are very nice woods," said the boy. To Geralt his tone sounded almost patronizing. Borderline condescending. The doctor bristled and stepped forward again. 

“You can’t possibly be surviving out here like this!”

“I am rather proficient at fending for myself.”

"Then where do you sleep at night?"

"I don't sleep at night,” the boy winked one of his cornflower eyes. The movement had Geralt’s head reeling and his heart thundering within the confines of his waistcoat. “That's my busiest time, dear heart."

"What do you eat?" the young professor and doctor finally asked. It felt as if that question had been on the tip of his tongue since he’d seen the strange creature come into view and only now did he have the adequate terror in his veins to ask it. 

"Flesh," said the boy. He said the word slowly and carefully, almost as if he was running his tongue along every later to catch their flavor.

“What a horrible thing to say.”

“Hmm, it is the truth,” the slender youth rolled onto his back and tilted his head over the stony ledge. His mop of chestnut hair dangled down towards the water and he gazed steadily at the doctor from upside down, “I am plenty good at catching hares and birds and mice and men. I am not picky, you see. I gobble them all up.”

Geralt nearly choked on his tongue. His face flushed and his cheeks grew hot with indignance (and perhaps something else, a stirring in his belly that he quietly ignored). The audacity of such a creature! Such open and frank fliration was unheard of, especially since he was so indecorously nude!

"I can’t imagine you’re eating well. The rabbits on my estate have never been easy to trap or catch or corner. Not even my father’s best games keeper could do it, and that man lived on the property for nearly sixty years.”

"It is easier for me to hunt them than it is for your game keeper to trap them, Dr. Bellegarde,” the boy winked again. The sound of his name in the stranger’s mouth had Geralt mildly panicked. Did he know this improper young villain? Had he forgotten the boy’s name? Had the lad followed him back from university? The strange young man added another cryptic statement, “At night I hunt on four feet. It’s faster that way.”

"I suppose you’re referring to a dog?" Geralt offered. “And wouldn’t that be considered poaching, you hunting on my lands at night with your hound?”

The boy laughed a weird, low laugh; it was pleasantly like a chuckle and disagreeably like a snarl. Both portions of the sound had Geralt’s heart racing even faster in his chest. It felt nearly as painful as he’d expected from cardiac distress and he breathed evenly like he’d been taught to do under such duress. Slowly, the panicked feeling faded away and he gazed back at his trespasser with narrowed eyes. “Why are you laughing, then?”

"I don't think any dog would be very anxious for my company, especially not at night. We wouldn’t get along with each other, me and a dog.”

Geralt began to suspect (with a deep and primal sense of ever growing dread) that there was something odd and uncanny about the strange-eyed, silver-tongued youth lounging above the pond. He uncrossed his arms and put his hands on his hips, “Well you can’t keep sleeping in the woods.”

“I fancy you’d rather not have me in your house.”

The prospect of this wild, naked animal loose in the professor’s neatly ordered and well-kept manor was certainly an alarming one. Geralt glared and shook his head, dislodging some of his long white hair from its ribbon. 

"If you don't go then I shall have to make you.”

The boy flipped onto his front in a flash and plunged into the pool. In the span of a moment he had crossed the short expanse of water and flung his glistening body half-way up the bank where Geralt was standing. For an otter the movement would not have been remarkable; for a boy it was sufficiently startling. Geralt’s leather-booted foot slipped as he jerked backwards involuntarily. After his arms windmilled for a moment and his balance failed him, the young doctor found himself almost prostrate on the slippery weed-grown shore of the pond with those cat-like blue eyes mere inches from his own. 

He raised a hand to his throat instinctively and the boy laughed again; a laugh in which the snarl had nearly driven out the chuckle entirely. Then, with another of his astonishing lightning movements, the naked youth plunged out of view into a yielding tangle of weed and fern.

"What an extraordinarily wild animal!" said Geralt as he picked himself up. Then he recalled Lambert’s remark on the train station’s waiting platform: "There is a wild beast in your woods."

As he meandered his way back towards the manor proper, Dr. Bellegarde began to turn over in his mind some of the various local occurrences which might be traceable to the existence of his astonishing young savage.

According to the local paper, gathered the day previous by his valet, something had been thinning the game in the woods lately. Poultry had gone missing from several neighboring farms and factories, hares and rabbits were growing unaccountably scarcer, and complaints had reached the local constabulary of lambs being carried out of their pastures in the hills. Could it be possible that this wild boy was really hunting the countryside with a pack of obedient hounds? 

The oddly pretty creature had spoken of hunting "four-footed" by night, but then, again, he had hinted strangely at no dog caring to come near him, "especially at night." It was certainly puzzling. 

And then, as Geralt was running his mind over the various odd occurrences he’d heard reported from the village in the past few months, he came suddenly to a dead stop. The young man that had gone missing from the milling town upriver two months ago--the accepted theory was that he had tumbled into the millwheel and been swept away; but the boy’s mother had insisted that merely run away with some village girl (who had also disappeared). 

He thought of the village youngster, who’d been applying to attend Oxenfurt at the time of his mysterious yet apparent death. Perhaps they were one in the same; but then, why in all the world, would a college hopeful by lying naked in the woods outside Dr. Bellegarde’s lonesome manor house? It was odd. Very odd.

"Where's your voice gone to, Doctor?" asked his housekeeper, Ms. Merrigold. "One would think you had seen a wolf on your walk."

At breakfast next morning, Geralt was overwhelmingly conscious that his feeling of uneasiness regarding yesterday's episode with the boy had not wholly disappeared. He had decided to go into the village and talk with Lambert about the “beast in his woods” and learn what his brother had really seen that had made him so twitchy. With his day planned and his mind slightly more settled, his usual cheerfulness partially returned. The doctor hummed a bright little melody as he sauntered to the morning-room for his customary cup of tea with Ms. Merrigold. 

As Geralt entered the morning-room and scanned the familiar space his humming made way abruptly for a quietly shouted curse. Gracefully laid out atop his red velvet settee, in an attitude of almost exaggerated repose, was the boy from the woods. He was drier than when the doctor had last seen him, but still he remained entirely naked. Every inch of his lovely, soft-looking skin was on display; Geralt averted his eyes as quickly as possible and tried to hide his blushing face from the grinning minx.

"How dare you come in here like this!” he huffed.

"You told me I was not allowed to stay in the woods," said the boy calmly. He propped his elbow up on the cushion and laid his cheek against his palm, languidly stretching his legs out at the same time. The doctor breathed deeply and kept his eyes firmly locked with the strange young man’s. 

"I did not invite you to come here!"

“Then I have misunderstood,” the boy sighed. The hand that had been supporting his head moved down and flattened against the settee. His arm straightened and his torso lengthened with the movement. Now sitting with one knee resting slightly bent atop the other, his hair messy and his shockingly blue eyes half-lidded, he looked like the painting of a young Cupid. 

“Triss!” Geralt called, desperate for another person to intervene on his behalf. To save him from this tempting little beast. “Triss, fetch one of the pantry boys. We have a guest and he’s...he’s quite out of sorts.”

“Yes, Dr. Bellegarde,” his housekeeper called back. “Right away, sir!”

The boy giggled from the couch and Geralt whirled back to look at him. His finger was playing gently with the plumpest part of his lip and the young professor found himself flushing yet again. “Yes, Dr. Bellegard. Hurry to cover me up right away.” 

---

Lambert was less than helpful when Geralt first asked about the beastly reference he’d made at the station.

"My dear father died of some brain trouble," he explained, "So you will understand why I am averse to dwelling on anything of an impossibly fantastic nature that I may see or think that I have seen. I don’t even know that I saw anything, you understand?”

"I am a medical doctor, Lambert, of course I understand. But what did you see?" Geralt inquired. “I must know.”

"What I thought I saw was something so extraordinary that no really sane man could dignify it with the credit of having actually happened. I was standing at the end of the lane near your manor property, half-hidden in the hedge growth by the orchard gate. I’d been watching the dying glow of the sunset and committing to memory for use in a future painting. Nothing extraordinary, of course, but beautiful nonetheless. 

“It was then that I became aware of a naked boy. I assumed that he was a bather from some neighboring pool who was standing out on the bare hillside, also taking a moment to watch and appreciate the sunset. His pose was so suggestive of some wild faun of Pagan myth that I instantly wanted to engage him as a model, and in another moment I think I should have hailed him over to my hiding spot to discuss such a matter. Just then, however, the sun was lost over the edge of the horizon and the last of its warm orange glow slid away. The landscape was left a cold and gloomy grey.”

“And what of the boy? Your language is poetic, Lambert, but I’ve grown rather impatient!”

“The boy was gone, Geralt!”

"What? Did he simply vanish into nothing like some ghost or phantom?"

"No; that’s the most terrifying part, you see," answered the artist; "That’s the whole reason I didn’t want to tell you about this problem in the first place. Geralt, my dearest brother, on the open hillside where my momentary muse had been standing a second before, there was a wolf instead. It had shaggy brown-black fur and huge, gleaming fangs. Most terrifying of all were its huge, bright blue eyes.”

Geralt’s mind whirled with the new information. Lambert had indeed given him the details he’d so desperately needed to draw his final, strange conclusion: the boy was a werewolf! He thanked his younger half-sibling and made his departure, hurrying back to the manor as quickly as possible.

He had to make it home before dark.

---

“The moon isn’t full tonight,” the boy sighed. Triss had managed to wrestle him into a clean shirt and a pair of cropped blue breeches but despite the clothing he still seemed to ooze a sense of easy, naked confidence. The slim brunette was draped across the chaise lounge of Geralt’s personal study, his bare feet hanging over the arm. 

“So?”

“So I will not transform into the horrible monster you fear I shall become,” he sighed again. He rolled his eyes in Geralt’s direction and smirked. “You and your housekeeper are safe. As is your cook, your pageboy, your valet, and your terribly friendly mare. Roach, right?”

“Hmm. You’ve been through my things?”

“Triss allowed me to wander the house and the grounds but then she forced me to bathe again when I came back in,” he frowned. “Soap does not agree with me and neither do these prickly, constricting clothes.”

“And your name?” Geralt asked, finally. “Since you have proven to know me already.”

“You may call me Jaskier,” the boy said, popping up from the couch. He offered his hand, which Geralt shook rather nervously. “And I’ve already decided that I’m going to be staying for awhile.”

“Why should I allow you to stay?” the young doctor bristled. “What have you to offer me in return for room and board?”

“I have no money, but I’m a wonderful gardener and I’m sure that there are, Dr. Bellegarde, other ways we can pass the time together. I sense that we are kindred spirits in many ways.”

Geralt blushed and swallowed hard, blinking down at the boy, whose fingers were playing with the material of the doctor’s cravat. His blue eyes peeked up through their bordering black lashes and Geralt’s will crumbled to dust. “Alright. I suppose you can stay; if it keeps the village safe.”

“Very safe,” the werewolf, Jaskier, smiled. His delicate little paw with its long, lithe fingers spread over the material of Geralt’s silk waistcoat, right over his heart. “So very safe, indeed.”

[merelygifted]

When one's chin begins to lead a double life one's own opportunities for depravity are insensibly narrowed.

Saki (HH Munro)

[zmkccommonplace]

Unhappiness wonderfully aids the memory.

Graham Greene in an essay on Saki (HH Munro), Dickens & Kipling

[uncleasriel]

Sredni Vashtar went forth! His thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth were white! His foes prayed for peace, but he brought only death! Sredni Vashtar, the beautiful!

[source]

no…the way this was posted like an hour before the announcement…the pine martin- no. no he couldn’t have…

[jesuisgourde]

Please please please give me more Richey book recs! Especially with suicide as a theme, but if you know of any others, I would love to hear about them too! Thank you for being a fountain of a Manic knowledge and sharing it with us <3

Here's two lists! List one is stuff Richey definitely read, as in it's something he mentioned or referenced in lyrics/interviews/album booklet or setlist quotes/etc. List two is stuff that I can extrapolate he likely read, due to the things I know he did read. Note that a fair amount of these come with various trigger warnings. Again, I've read most but not all of these, so I can answer questions about a good number of them.

Oh, also, this totally slipped my mind from the last list somehow. The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides was definitely a book Richey read; the Manics use a quote from the film version (which came out after Richey's death but they said in an interview they thought he'd have liked it) at the end of Doors Closing Slowly.

Definitely read: -Catcher In The Rye by JD Salinger -American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis -The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides -The Dice Man by Luke Rhinehart -1984 by George Orwell -Confessions Of A Mask by Yukio Mishima -The Plague, The Stranger, and The Fall, all by Albert Camus -A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams -Lipstick Traces by Greil Marcus -The Birth of Tragedy by Friedrich Nietzsche -The Torture Garden by Octave Mirbeau -Borstal Boy by Brendan Behan -The Divided Self by RD Laing -Notes From Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky -Novel With Cocaine by M Ageyev -Bernice Bobs Her Hair by F. Scott Fitzgerald -Black Rain by Masuji Ibuse -Under The Volcano by Malcolm Lowry -Frisk by Dennis Cooper -Bartleby The Scrivener by Herman Melville -Homage To Catalonia by George Orwell -Heart Of Darkness by Joseph Conrad (which is what Apocalypse Now was based on, and the film was one of Richey’s major obsessions at the end of his life) -Brave New World by Aldous Huxley -Rumblefish by SE Hinton -Being And Nothingness by Jean Paul Sartre -Exquisite Corpse by Poppy Z Brite -The Atrocity Exhibition by JG Ballard -High Rise by JG Ballard -Birdy by William Wharton -The Trial by Franz Kafka -Suddenly Last Summer by Tennessee Williams -Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov -The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin -The Wretched of the Earth by Frantz Fanon -Lord of the Flies by William Golding -Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis -One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey -Birdy by William Wharton -Thirst For Love by Yukio Mishima -Miracle Of The Rose by Jean Genet -The Drowned And The Saved/So This Is A Man/Escape From Auschwitz, all by Primo Levi -The Diary Of A Young Girl by Anne Frank -Last Exit To Brooklyn by Hubert Selby Jr -The Loneliness of a Long-Distance Runner by Alan Sillitoe -Four Quartets by Hart Crane -The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri -The Pursuit Of Loneliness by Philip Slater -Society Of The Spectacle by Guy Debord -The Naked And The Dead by Norman Mailer -Man’s Search For Meaning by Viktor Frankl -Illuminations by Arthur Rimbaud -Dialectic Of Enlightenment and Minima Moralia by Theodore Adorno -The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan -One Day In The Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexsandr Solzhenitsyn -The Hero With A Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell -Naomi by Junchiro Tanizaki -SCUM Manifesto by Valerie Solanas -The Lives Of Michel Foucault by David Macey -Rethinking Camelot by Noam Chomsky -The Anxiety Of Influence by Harold Bloom -The Unrest Cure And Other Stories by Saki (HH Munro) -King Lear by William Shakespeare -Confessions by Saint Augustine -The Day Of The Locust by Nathaniel West -Tom Jones by Henry Fielding -Bird Man: The Many Faces Of Robert Stroud by Jolene Babyak -The Demon by Hubert Selby Jr -The Waste Land by TS Eliot -Songs Of Innocence And Experience by William Blake

Likely read: -The Outsiders by SE Hinton -Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury -Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf (features a suicidal main-ish character) -Post Office by Charles Bukowski -The Prophet by Khalil Gibran -Knots by RD Laing -On The Road by Jack Keroauc -No Exit by Jean Paul Sartre -The Sickness Unto Death by Soren Kierkegaard -Junky & Naked Lunch, both by William S Burroughs -Valley Of The Dolls by Jacqueline Susanne -The Runaway Soul by Harold Brodkey -Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller -The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass -Austerlitz by WG Sebald -Betrayal by Harold Pinter -Invitation To A Beheading by Vladimir Nabokov -The Story Of O by Anne Desclos -Lucie’s Long Voyage by Alina Reyes -120 Days of Sodom by Marquis de Sade -The Traitor by Andre Gorz -The Man Of Feeling by Henry Mackenzie -This Way To The Gas, Ladies And Gentlemen by Tadeusz Borowski -The White Rose by Inge Scholl -It Can’t Happen Here by Sinclair Lewis -On Revolution by Hannah Arendt -Being There by Jerzy Kozinski -Heliogabalus: or, the Crowned Anarchist by Antonin Artaud -Resuscitation of a Hanged Man by Denis Johnson -Mysteries by Knut Hamsun -We by Yevgeny Zamyatin -Almost Transparent Blue by Ryu Murakami -Venus In Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch -How I Became One Of The Invisible by David Rattray -The Story Of The Eye by Georges Bataille -The Blue Of Noon by Georges Bataille

Also, there's a lot more of my ramblings and writings about the Manics on my other blog @meta-squash under the "manic street preachers" tag, if you're interested. (And I do love talking about them, and Richey especially.)

ETA: I went through all the (text) interviews of the Manics and wrote down every book they mentioned in interviews or lyrics and posted it up here.

[syddsinister]

FortyTwo’21 ft Slink Hourglass&LelEvoX Briannon

[BODY] Hair: FAGA - Clara Hairstyle – FAGAHair Body: Slink Physique Hourglass Mesh Body (Redux) V4.2.1 – Siddean Munro Head: LeLUTKA EvoX BRIANNON 3.1 – Jaden Nova Lashes: ~Shiny Stuffs~ Retro Flirt Lashes – Tarani Tempest Eyes: Avi-Glam Sunray Eyes - BoM - 03 - C @ Dubai – Eye Daddy Skin: Modish Izara -(LelutkaEvoX) D03 @ Dubai – Ele Brandi

[TATTOO/MAKEUP] Brows: .:the-HAUS:. Nina BOM Eyebrows Brown – Princess Usbourne Lips: Modish Tender -[Diva] @ Sense – Ele Brandi Tattoo: ((Mister Razzor)) Jan Tattoo 50% – MathewThomson

[CLOTHING] Outfit: [hh] Adrian Outfit Double Pack – Hilly Haalan Shoes: -KC- CAPRICE HEELS – Klari55a

[ACCESSORIES] Hat: [Z O O M] Gal Summer Hat – Jonas Acanthus Glasses: [Z O O M] Vivia Marble Glasses – Jonas Acanthus Choker 1: e.marie // Priya Velvet Choker – Emiliana Nova Choker 2: LIVIA // Fiona Choker – Ayanna Breen Drink: REIGN.– PUMPKIN SPICE LATTE – KenadeeCole Bag: REIGN.– MANDALA BAG 2 - COGNAC – KenadeeCole Rings: LIVIA // Briar Bento Rings – Ayanna Breen Nails: FULLE – LEA NAIL SET (gift) – FulleLuxury

[EXTRA] Poses: STUN Poses– patricksillver Backdrop: FOXCITY. Photo Booth - Chic B&B – Nya Littlepaws

[t-underneaththeradardancing]

poetry about the path of chickenhood  - its morning - chickens r birbs - right - baby chicks make soundz - therefore birdsong by proxy on my path this morning towards idk - old as fuck hood - maybe  - yah t   - been in some kinda something for awhile now  - murky come to mind - muddy waters and herbie hancock - we wuz tawking ds9 miles and abuse but lets save it for later 

y am i thinking about zip files - y am i thinking at all - lets word salad for awhile yah and let the gud times roll 

so we tawked birbs wat about the kitty 

a good one she 

yah therz day plans but they change like cher stagewear - we improv - u mean  make it up as u  go along  - well ffs sake - i really liked sake’ - warm like a heathen and the writer hh munroe as well  ( i hope thats the right one - fuck - b right back cuz u know how important fax r inna kitty pome inna morning ) yay - t still has working brain cells - it is he correctly - aka Saki - it wuz a pun - i think i mentioned nicotine craving last night - ffs im still on step 1 patches may never get to lower dosage 

if plans rnt changed - a difficult tawk scheduled - gonna downplay drama i hope and keep voice gentle and remember love

more birdsong not cowbell tho u can shake ur tambourine if u wanna 

love

[amlitlover]

Saki story on Groundhog Day

H.H. Murno (SAKI): "It was one of the accepted conditions of the Rectory garden party that four ladies, who usually knew very little about tennis and a great deal about the players, should sit at that particular spot and watch the game." https://americanliterature.com/author/hh-munro-saki/short-story/the-hedgehog

[saintkevorkian]

one of those people who think that things spoil by use and consign them to dust and damp by way of preserving them

'The Lumber Room' from Beasts and Super-Beasts, Saki, 1914

[yeah-asbestos]

Reginald is SO very obviously gay

[nicdevera]

recently on my days off i've been thinking of saki's The Unrest-Cure https://americanliterature.com/author/hh-munro-saki/short-story/the-unrest-cure

[elizabethleslie7654]

The Civil Rights Endgame

all kinds of cool jewelry and no shipping or getting mobbed t the mall

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It starts with an abstract ideal of universal equality and ends with trannies brainwashing your kids.

by Gaius Marcius

Every advance of civil rights from the mid 20th century onward has been to the detriment of Western Civilization. At first the attacks on European Christian culture were indirect, indeed, hardly discernible except in hindsight, decades after they occurred. More recently, the universal feminist background radiation of the post-modern universe and the quantum leap of gay rights have inspired more direct attacks on normalcy. Transgender equality is the exact sort of late stage inversion one should expect from the enemies of civilization because it simultaneously strikes at the most basic biological and psychological identity of every individual and poisons all the epiphenomenal aspects of our culture.

Trans activism is not really about sex or gender identity, except insofar as those labels provide a convenient cover under which confusion and unreason can be spread to the masses. The trap is baited with a universal sore point in sexual identity: almost everyone has at some point been teased for acting like or enjoying something associated with the opposite sex. Men who watch romantic comedies and women who play sports have had the seed planted in their mind that it must be natural for everyone to possess some hint of gender fluidity. Everyone has also at some time failed to live up the ideal forms of masculine or feminine identity. From these broadly shared emotional experiences, trans activists draw an enormous non sequitur by asserting that acting on impulses that would destroy the sexual binary and revolting against biology in favor of individual subjective perceptions is as valid a form of sexual expression as any other.

The far-reaching consequences of trying to destroy traditional sex differences are illustrated in the short story The Toys of Peace, by HH Munro, better known as Saki. Saki describes a pacifist effort to propagandize little boys into being less violent, that is to say, to make them into little girls. The well-intentioned uncle, Harvey, tries to get the boys to play house on a grand scale.

“It’s a fort!” exclaimed Bertie.

“It isn’t, it’s the palace of the Mpret of Albania,” said Eric…

“It’s the municipal dust-bin,” said Harvey hurriedly; “you see all the refuse and litter of a town is collected there, instead of lying about and injuring the health of the citizens…That,” he said, “is a distinguished civilian, John Stuart Mill. He was an authority on political economy.”

“Why?” asked Bertie.

“Well, he wanted to be; he thought it was a useful thing to be.”

Bertie gave an expressive grunt, which conveyed his opinion that there was no accounting for tastes…

“A model of the Manchester branch of the Young Women’s Christian Association,” said Harvey.

“Are there any lions?” asked Eric hopefully. He had been reading Roman history and thought that where you found Christians you might reasonably expect to find a few lions.

“There are no lions,” said Harvey. “Here is another civilian, Robert Raikes, the founder of Sunday schools, and here is a model of a municipal wash-house. These little round things are loaves baked in a sanitary bakehouse. That lead figure is a sanitary inspector, this one is a district councillor, and this one is an official of the Local Government Board.”

It is in Harvey’s private reflections after introducing non-violent play to Bertie and Eric that the stakes of the game are truly revealed.

Harvey retreated to the library…wondering whether it would be possible to compile a history, for use in elementary schools, in which there should be no prominent mention of battles, massacres, murderous intrigues, and violent deaths…[I]t would be something gained if, at a highly impressionable age, children could be got to fix their attention on the invention of calico printing instead of the Spanish Armada or the Battle of Waterloo.

You certainly could write a Herstory book along such lines. Who knew that Saki could predict exactly what the U.S. Department of Education would be doing a century after his death? Any attempt to pacify boys must include destruction of reverence for heroism, history, patriotism and the thirst for knowledge. Only by inculcating a strict incuriosity about the violent past and the literary and artistic products of that past can the idyllic utopia be reached. Fortunately, the resilience of inborn traits can handle a certain level of interference without damage.

Peeping through the doorway Harvey observed that the municipal dust-bin had been pierced with holes to accommodate the muzzles of imaginary cannon, and now represented the principle fortified position in Manchester; John Stuart Mill had been dipped in red ink, and apparently stood for Marshal Saxe.

If the story is a joke, the punchline is one we are already familiar with.

Harvey stole away from the room, and sought out his sister. “Eleanor,” he said, “the experiment-“

“Yes?”

“Has failed. We have begun too late.”

The day we left Eden is the day it became too late to build utopia. In this present world the only path to victory in any field is against oppositional forces. Success in some way comes into being only when it can be contrasted with the resistance it overcomes. The unused muscle atrophies. As in the physical so in the mental, spiritual, and cultural realms as well. Harsh, wild masculinity is essential to civilization. Seek peace and you will find only failure and decay. Si vis pacem, para bellum.

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