#i actually draw peter with a very similar nose as some of my own family though not exactly the same shape

[softgrungeprophet]

my power grows every time someone compliments me drawing peter with big brown doe eyes or a big nose or thick eyebrows etc.

but also, more seriously, i appreciate those compliments a lot (not just for peter but my own characters as well) cause i always appreciate seeing love for those features and i want to show my own love for those features because i also think they are beautiful, so it's nice when someone says nice things about them...

when i get compliments about peter's dark eyes or qela's unibrow it makes me very happy because, not to be sappy or anything 😂 but i am always putting little bits of myself into everything i make, and i may not be so self-conscious about my own little mini unibrow or whatever but it's not exactly something you see complimented or treated as potentially attractive in (american, at least) media very often 💀 so i really appreciate the positivity even for the things i don't expect people to compliment

[mastcomm]

Fran Drescher, Millennial Whisperer – The New York Times

Fran Drescher’s voice, if you ever have the chance to hear it deployed in very close vicinity over shrimp tempura and spicy tuna sushi, is actually quite soothing.

When Drescher played Fran Fine on “The Nanny,” the 1990s sitcom she created with her then-husband Peter Marc Jacobson, she was pitching her voice higher, squeezing it up her nose, acting. Back then, The New York Times compared Drescher to “the sound of a Buick with an empty gas tank cold-cranking on a winter morning.” But here in her living room above Central Park, sitting among crystals, fresh lemons, fine sculpture and photographs of herself meeting establishment Democrats, she sounds more like a Mercedes purring out of the Long Island Expressway. For those who grew up with “The Nanny” as our nanny, her voice is so embedded in the subconscious that hearing the softened version is almost therapeutic. Imagine if Nanny Fine had an ASMR setting.

“I’ve heard it’s like a foghorn, a cackle,” Drescher said carefully, balancing her plate in the lap of her little black dress. “I always just describe myself as having a unique voice.” When she left Queens for Hollywood in the late 1970s, her manager told her, “If you want to play other parts, besides hookers, you’re going to have to learn to speak differently,” she recalled. Instead Drescher leaned into her natural gifts. In 1992, she pitched herself as a sitcom star to the president of CBS: “Because of the voice, they think I’m the seasoning in the show,” she told him. “That’s wrong. I’m a main course.”

America has not heard from Drescher much lately — she has not appeared regularly on television since her TV Land sitcom “Happily Divorced” ended in 2013, and “The Nanny” is sadly hard to stream — but this week, at 62, she returns to TV with NBC’s “Indebted.” As in the pilot of “The Nanny,” Drescher appears unexpectedly on a doorstep, except this time, it belongs to her adult son (Adam Pally). She and Steven Weber play Debbie and Stew Klein, a couple of boomer dilettantes who crash their kid’s married life with the news that they’re in debt. The role of Debbie, a boundaryless hugger who swans around her son’s suburban home as if it’s her own personal retirement community, inverts the “Nanny” dynamic: Now the kids have to take care of her.

When Drescher weighed whether to take on the show, a family sitcom that draws on generational conflict, she thought of her own family. “My parents, who are still alive, thank God, were so excited about me being on network television again,” she said. “You know, not everybody could find TV Land,” she added, “but everybody could find NBC.”

The role was not written for Drescher, exactly. The pilot script had called for a “Fran Drescher type,” and when the real Fran Drescher signed on, she required a few adjustments. “People are used to seeing an annoying mother-in-law in a sitcom, but that’s not what I signed up for,” Drescher said. “When you have somebody whose persona is bigger than the part, you got to make it right for me. Or why have me?”

That meant giving Debbie Klein some passions of her own. “I had to bring myself into it,” she said. “I really infused the sex appeal, the sensuality, the vivaciousness of the character.”

“Indebted” creator Dan Levy, a comedian and producer for “The Goldbergs,” said that he originally modeled Debbie and Stew after his own parents, but that the steaminess was all Drescher. “My mom was like, ‘That’s not based on us,’” Levy said. “She elevated that to a whole level that I was not expecting.”

In the decades since Drescher first opened her mouth onscreen, the Fran Drescher type has achieved a quiet dominance over popular culture. “The Nanny” has been syndicated around the world and remade in a dozen countries, including Turkey (where it was called “Dadi”), Poland (“Niania”) and Argentina (“La Niñera”). In “The Nanny,” for anyone who doesn’t have the chatty theme song implanted in her brain, Drescher plays a Jewish woman from Queens hired to tend to the three precocious children of a wealthy English widower, Maxwell Sheffield, who is also Broadway’s second-most-successful producer (after his nemesis, Andrew Lloyd Webber). In foreign versions, the ethnicities are recalibrated — in the Russian one, the nanny is Ukrainian — but the Fran Drescher type is otherwise preserved. Wherever she goes, the ethnic striver is transplanted into a posh setting as the help, and her appealing culture and individual charm pull off the ultimate makeover — reinventing the strait-laced insiders in her own brash image.

Across the internet, Fran Fine is helping to perform similar tricks. With her pile of hair, power-clashing wardrobe and cartoon proportions, she has been fashioned into an avatar of stylish self-respect. In GIFs spirited around social media, she can be seen in a cheetah-print skirt suit, sipping from a cheetah-print teacup; inhaling a plate of spaghetti with no hands; and descending the Sheffields’ ivory staircase as if entering New York’s hottest club.

“I send this when I’m excited,” Drescher said, summoning her phone from her assistant Jordan and thumbing to a GIF of Fine twirling across the mansion in a fuchsia dress and a self-satisfied look. “How many people can send their own GIF?”

The Fran Drescher type is a kind of advisory role. First she was the world’s nanny, showing kids how to mix prints and be themselves, and now she has matured into a cool-aunt persona, modeling a fabulous adulthood. (“Broad City” made this transformation literal, squeezing Drescher into a low cut rainbow and cheetah-print dress and casting her as Ilana’s Aunt Bev, and by extension the spirit guide for a new generation of Jewish comediennes.) “I’ve never had kids, so I’m not really parental,” Drescher said. “I’m a mom to my dogs.”

“I’m kind of an influencer,” she added. Drescher has led an unconventional life, and “I share it,” she said. “It gives my life purpose.” In two memoirs, she has discussed being raped at gunpoint in her 20s, surviving uterine cancer in her 40s, and divorcing Jacobson only to acquire a new gay best friend when he subsequently came out. Recently she thrilled the internet when she revealed that she has secured a “friend with benefits” whom she meets twice a month for television viewing and sex. “I don’t think it’s that shocking a thing,” Drescher said. “I’m not in love with him.”

The kids who grew up watching “The Nanny” are now Nanny Fine’s age, old enough to properly covet her closet and cultivate a newfound respect for her persona. On Instagram, the @whatfranwore account catalogs classic “Nanny” outfits, and @thenannyart pairs them with contemporary art pieces. Cardi B once captioned a photo of herself in head-to-toe cat prints: “Fran Drescher in @dolceandgabbana.” The actor Isabelle Owens will mount a one-woman song-and-dance show dedicated to Drescher in New York this month, called “Fran Drescher, Please Adopt Me!” “As everything from the ’90s comes back, people are rediscovering her,” Owens said, noting Drescher’s fashion, her confidence, and her voice; Owens is still working to perfect her impersonation. “There are so many layers to it,” she said. “It’s so delicate and lyrical.”

The Fran Drescher type, no matter how big it gets, still risks reducing the woman behind it. “All of her is in me, but not all of me is in her,” Drescher said. “I don’t think any of my characters could have ever created and executive-produced ‘The Nanny.’” Fran Fine might have been able to wrap the boss around her red-lacquered little finger, but Drescher is the boss. When she secured her own New York apartment, in 2004, it was here, just across the park from the house that stood in for the Sheffield mansion on “The Nanny.” Soon her transformation into Mr. Sheffield will be complete: She is developing a Broadway show of her own, a musical adaptation of “The Nanny” that she will co-write with Jacobson.

“The Nanny” is a timely bid for Broadway. Drescher takes the stage’s most classic feminine archetype and gives her a modern upgrade: She is Eliza Doolittle if she refused to take her voice lessons.

That’s perhaps the biggest misconception about the Fran Drescher type — that the voice is an unfortunate obstacle, rather than a cultivated asset. Once, a fan asked Drescher about the classic “Nanny” scene where Fran Fine goes for sushi, naïvely swallows a wad of wasabi, and says, in an eerily neutral broadcaster’s voice, “Gee, you know, that mustard really clears out the nasal passages.” The fan wanted to know how Drescher had managed to pull that voice off. Sitting in her parkside apartment, perched in her producer’s chair, confidently apportioning her wasabi, Drescher revealed her secret: “I’m very talented.”

from WordPress https://mastcomm.com/fran-drescher-millennial-whisperer-the-new-york-times-2/

[profound-boning]

timestamp for A Kind of Magic; ~1790 words, deancas friendship (they’re 11), cole trenton sux, Hogwarts feels

As his first year draws to a close, Dean feels nothing but gratitude for the many wonderful things that have happened since September.

His flying skills have improved, he’s earned good grades (or, “top marks” as Professors MacLeod and Crowley are fond of saying) and had an amazing amount of fun.

Sunny afternoons by the lake, all-nighters in the Hufflepuff common room, and the best birthday party he could have imagined are at the top of the list, with his friends faces shining brightly in every memory.

The end of the year exams are similar to what Dean remembers from “regular school” but middle school was a lot different from Hogwarts. At his old school they did a lot of projects, used computers and iPads, and ate lunch in the cafeteria. Plus, he had to go home every day. Here, he gets to see his friends all the time and his classes are way more fun. Dean can do magic.

One thing that is the same is the bullies. At Dean’s old school they put kids in lockers or stole their glasses or pencils. Here, they’ll cast a spell to make your pants disappear or your books, or they’ll give you a treat that makes your tongue swell up.

Or, if you’re Christian and Cole, you stick to mean insults. Dean doesn’t believe in that “sticks and stones” mumbo jumbo anymore because words can be very hurtful.

Actually, Christian has gotten a tiny bit better. Rather, he got the talking to of his life from the professors and maybe even from his family because he’s backed off a lot. He doesn’t approach Dean at all, just glares at him or makes threatening gestures in the halls. Dean and his friends are careful to steer clear of the older Gryffindors on principle.

Cole is, unfortunately, not backing off at all and is a much more difficult to avoid.

It doesn’t make sense to Dean that Cole wants to pick on him when they’ve hardly interacted at all, but he’s accepted it. Everyone who matters is kind to him and supportive when he’s feeling down. So why worry about one jerk?

Dean would much rather focus on how many marshmallows he and Garth can fit into their mouths, what’s the craziest spell he and Kelly can find in their textbooks, and where else in the castle can he and Cas explore before the end of the year?

Cas seems to know everything about Hogwarts, which is due to a combination of having a magical family, being a curious and adventurous kid, having an equally curious and adventurous friend like Dean, and being a huge dork. Dean reminds him of that quite often, including this very morning while they are eating breakfast.

“Hey, dork, where should we go exploring today?” he asks, biting into an apple.

Rolling his eyes, Cas smiles at him. “I’m not sure yet. Let’s pick a random staircase again?” They could probably do this all seven years and not cover every single staircase, landing, and hallway in the castle—the way that the stairs constantly change makes it difficult to keep track of their progress.

“Sure thing,” Dean agrees, adding butter to his toast. “Hey, did you finish our Potions homework yet?”

“Yes,” Cas answers around the pancake in his mouth. “I had some free time,” he says defensively when Dean glares at him.

“You spend all your free time flying, not writing essays,” he says. “What gives?”

Cas laughs. “That’s true. I guess I had extra extra free time.”

Dean sighs heavily, pretending to be very put upon. “I guess I’ll have to suffer on my own, then. Waste away on this assignment.”

“You big baby,” Cas teases. “All you have to do is ask and I’ll help you.”

He leans into Cas’s shoulder. “Thanks, buddy. You’re a gem.”

“I know,” Cas says loftily. “Don’t you forget it.”

They eat some more before exiting the Great Hall, wearing jeans in celebration of the weekend. Cas is wearing a lumpy sweater—which should be weird considering it’s the end of May and fairly warm, but Cas tends to get cold more easily so it makes sense.

Their morning passes without incident, traipsing from one end of the castle to the other. Dean chose the stairs this time and led them up a tower they hadn’t seen yet. They look out of the windows in order to explore the outside of the castle and observe the grounds. Lots of people are taking advantage of the nice weather to relax outside, including Benny and a pretty Ravenclaw girl named Andrea. Dean hollers at his friend just to be embarrassing and Cas hits his arm.

“Dean! Don’t tease him,” Cas admonishes, even though he’s laughing, too.

“Just having fun. Benny’s got such a big crush on her.” Dean rolls his eyes. “I don’t get it.”

Cas looks at him. “He likes her. We’re all pretty sure she likes him back; all of us except Benny, that is. What’s not to get?”

Dean scrunches his nose. “Dunno, just doesn’t seem important at the moment.”

“Well, Dean, just because you’d rather be reading or practicing spells doesn’t mean the rest of us are nerds like you.” Cas backs away quickly to avoid Dean hitting him, pushing off the wall to keep running up the stairs. And back down again, still avoiding Dean’s grasp, they laugh and shout together.

“If you aren’t in class, or getting ready for class, or doing homework, or working ahead for class, then you’re eating!”

“Shut up, Cas! I’m not the one who ate two whole boxes of those jelly beans you love in one night!”

And this is certainly what Dean will miss the most over the long summer months. The feeling of being with Cas, being wild and free with him, laughing harder than he ever has before.

They’re hoping to get John to agree to let them visit each other at some point over the long break until September, but Dean isn’t hopeful. He tries to be as optimistic as Cas but it’s hard to think about the look on his dad’s face if Dean were to ask to go and stay at a magical home or to bring another young wizard into their house.

Therefore, he takes in every single moment they have left, embraces having fun with all of his friends with fervor. He can’t really spend time with them all at once, so he has to improvise. And at least there’s always the owl post.

He and Cas eventually decide to quit running around indoors. It’s really a beautiful day outside. Cas makes noises about getting out on his broomstick again while Dean contemplates the classwork that needs his attention. They agree that the Quidditch pitch is a great place to meet both of their needs and they set off for the dormitories to grab their things. Dean isn’t allowed past the stairs leading down to the Slytherin “dungeon” as he likes to call it just to tease his best friend, so he lingers in the hall. It only takes Cas a minute to change and then they set off toward the Hufflepuff common room. The old tradition of keeping the rooms absolutely top secret from other students has petered off, with friends often waiting for each other in the hallways, but the common room itself is practically sacred. It’d just be weird to have someone else in there—even the professors don’t go in unless there’s an emergency.

That means rounding the corner and spotting Cole Trenton standing in front of the barrels that make up what amounts to Dean’s front door is pretty freaky. He quickly nudges Cas and they silently back up out of sight.

“What the hell?” Cas whispers, looking angry.

“Dunno.” He shrugs. “What do you think’s going on?”

Cas peers around the corner and whispers, “I think he’s trying to break in, that little—”

“But why? What’s even the point?”

Cas chews his lip. “Could be nothing. But maybe he’s trying to pull some prank. You know what though? It doesn’t matter. It’s the principle of the thing. He shouldn’t just be trying to bust in there, it isn’t cool.”

“I agree,” Dean says, leaning over to look again. Cole seems to be stuck on precisely what to do to the barrels to get the door to open but it may not be long before he figures it out. “Donnie told me no one’s been down there for—”

He never gets to finish that sentence. Cole screams bloody murder the second the enchanted barrels react to his attempted entry, despite the fact that the vinegar is harmless. Still, getting absolutely drenched in the stuff can’t feel good. He must have tried a pattern at random and that caused the doorway to reject him harshly.

Dean and Cas lean on each other’s shoulders in order to laugh hysterically. When they realize Cole can hear them, they grab each other’s hand and run away as fast as they can. Still laughing, they duck into the otherwise empty Great Hall and double over.

“Oh my”—Cas pants—“I can’t breathe.”

“The funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” Dean agrees, breathless with laughter. “I’m getting a cramp.”

Cas wipes actual tears from under his eyes and snorts. “I can’t believe our luck to witness that. We’re so blessed.”

“Think it taught him a lesson?” he wonders.

Cas looks thoughtful. “One can only hope,” he finally answers. “But c’mon.” He tugs on Dean’s shirt sleeve. “Let’s head down to the pitch.”

“But I don’t have my homework,” he whines. Regardless, he follows Cas out of the Hall.

“We can come back for it later,” Cas reasons, “after the vinegar gets cleaned up.”

“Oh, I didn’t think of that. Should we tell someone?” Dean frets.

As they pass by the hallway in question, they observe Professor Mills laying into a soaking wet and smelly Cole with Professor Singer looking on quite sternly, arms folded.

“Looks like it’s all been taken care of,” Cas says breezily. “He’ll be cleaning that up with a toothbrush, mark my words.”

Dean laughs again just picturing that. Soon, the pair duck outside and are greeted by warm sunshine. Since Dean doesn’t have his materials to study, maybe Cas will help him practice his flying.

He looks over at Cas, still grinning broadly (probably also imagining that bully scrubbing the floors outside Dean’s common room) and leading them toward the storage unit for practice brooms.

Dean feels incredibly grateful that he met Cas on the train and, when Cas turns to hand him a broom with a toothy smile, he feels happy. Perfectly, indescribably, untouchably happy.

[mydarlingfilm]

TIME DOESN’T HEAL

This is going to be a very long post and I would love to read it over and over again. It was painful and timeless at the same time. This conversation is hold between an Rolling stone and Pk.

In her first-ever in-depth interview, Michael Jackson's daughter discusses her father's pain and finding peace after addiction and heartache

Paris-Michael Katherine Jackson is staring at a famous corpse. "That's Marilyn Monroe," she whispers, facing a wall covered with gruesome autopsy photos. "And that's JFK. You can't even find these online." On a Thursday afternoon in late November, Paris is making her way through the Museum of Death, a cramped maze of formaldehyde-scented horrors on Hollywood Boulevard. It's not uncommon for visitors, confronted with decapitation photos, snuff films and serial-killer memorabilia, to faint, vomit or both. But Paris, not far removed from the emo and goth phases of her earlier teens, seems to find it all somehow soothing. This is her ninth visit. "It's awesome," she had said on the way over. "They have a real electric chair and a real head!"

Paris Jackson turned 18 last April, and moment by moment, can come across as much older or much younger, having lived a life that's veered between sheltered and agonizingly exposed. She is a pure child of the 21st century, with her mashed-up hippie-punk fashion sense (today she's wearing a tie-dye button-down, jeggings and Converse high-tops) and boundary-free musical tastes (she's decorated her sneakers with lyrics by Mötley Crüe and Arctic Monkeys; is obsessed with Alice Cooper – she calls him "bae" – and the singer-songwriter Butch Walker; loves Nirvana and Justin Bieber too). But she is, even more so, her father's child. "Basically, as a person, she is who my dad is," says her older brother, Prince Michael Jackson. "The only thing that's different would be her age and her gender." Paris is similar to Michael, he adds, "in all of her strengths, and almost all of her weaknesses as well. She's very passionate. She is very emotional to the point where she can let emotion cloud her judgment." 

Paris has, with impressive speed, acquired more than 50 tattoos, sneaking in the first few while underage. Nine of them are devoted to Michael Jackson, who died when she was 11 years old, sending her, Prince and their youngest brother, Blanket, spiraling out of what had been – as they perceived it – a cloistered, near-idyllic little world. "They always say, 'Time heals,'" she says. "But it really doesn't. You just get used to it. I live life with the mentality of 'OK, I lost the only thing that has ever been important to me.' So going forward, anything bad that happens can't be nearly as bad as what happened before. So I can handle it." Michael still visits her in her dreams, she says: "I feel him with me all the time."

Michael, who saw himself as Peter Pan, liked to call his only daughter Tinker Bell. She has FAITH, TRUST AND PIXIE DUST inked near her clavicle. She has an image from the cover of Dangerous on her forearm, the Bad logo on her hand, and the words QUEEN OF MY HEART – in her dad's handwriting, from a letter he wrote her – on her inner left wrist. "He's brought me nothing but joy," she says. "So why not have constant reminders of joy?" 

She fixes her huge blue-green eyes on each of the museum's attractions without flinching, until she comes to a section of taxidermied pets. "I don't really like this room," she says, wrinkling her nose. "I draw the line with animals. I can't do it. This breaks my heart." She recently rescued a hyperactive pit-bull-mix puppy, Koa, who has an uneasy coexistence with Kenya, a snuggly Labrador her dad brought home a decade ago.

Paris describes herself as "desensitized" to even the most graphic reminders of human mortality. In June 2013, drowning in depression and a drug addiction, she tried to kill herself at age 15, slashing her wrist and downing 20 Motrin pills. "It was just self-hatred," she says, "low self-esteem, thinking that I couldn't do anything right, not thinking I was worthy of living anymore." She had been self-harming, cutting herself, managing to conceal it from her family. Some of her tattoos now cover the scars, as well as what she says are track marks from drug use. Before that, she had already attempted suicide "multiple times," she says, with an incongruous laugh. "It was just once that it became public." The hospital had a "three-strike rule," she recalls, and, after that last attempt, insisted she attend a residential therapy program.

Home-schooled before her father's death, Paris had agreed to attend a private school starting in seventh grade. She didn't fit in – at all – and started hanging out with the only kids who accepted her, "a lot of older people doing a lot of crazy things," she says. "I was doing a lot of things that 13-, 14-, 15-year-olds shouldn't do. I tried to grow up too fast, and I wasn't really that nice of a person." She also faced cyberbullying, and still struggles with cruel online comments. "The whole freedom-of-speech thing is great," she says. "But I don't think that our Founding Fathers predicted social media when they created all of these amendments and stuff." 

There was another trauma that she's never mentioned in public. When she was 14, a much older "complete stranger" sexually assaulted her, she says. "I don't wanna give too many details. But it was not a good experience at all, and it was really hard for me, and, at the time, I didn't tell anybody."

After her last suicide attempt, she spent sophomore year and half of junior year at a therapeutic school in Utah. "It was great for me," she says. "I'm a completely different person." Before, she says with a small smile, "I was crazy. I was actually crazy. I was going through a lot of, like, teen angst. And I was also dealing with my depression and my anxiety without any help." Her father, she says, also struggled with depression, and she was prescribed the same antidepressants he once took, though she's no longer on any psych meds.

Now sober and happier than she's ever been, with menthol cigarettes her main remaining vice, Paris moved out of her grandma Katherine's house shortly after her 18th birthday, heading to the old Jackson family estate. She spends nearly every minute of each day with her boyfriend, Michael Snoddy, a 26-year-old drummer – he plays with the percussion ensemble Street Drum Corps – and Virginia native whose dyed mohawk, tattoos and perpetually sagging pants don't obscure boy-band looks and a puppy-dog sweetness. "I never met anyone before who made me feel the way music makes me feel," says Paris. When they met, he had an ill-considered, now-covered Confederate flag tattoo that raised understandable doubts among the Jacksons. "But the more I actually got to know him," says Prince, "he's a really cool guy."

Paris took a quick stab at community college after graduating high school – a year early – in 2015, but wasn't feeling it. She is an heir to a mammoth fortune – the Michael Jackson Family Trust is likely worth more than $1 billion, with disbursements to the kids in stages. But she wants to earn her own money, and now that she's a legal adult, to embrace her other inheritance: celebrity.

And in the end, as the charismatic, beautiful daughter of one of the most famous men who ever lived, what choice did she have? She is, for now, a model, an actress, a work in progress. She can, when she feels like it, exhibit a regal poise that's almost intimidating, while remaining chill enough to become pals with her giant-goateed tattoo artist. She has impeccable manners – you might guess that she was raised well. She so charmed producer-director Lee Daniels in a recent meeting that he's begun talking to her manager about a role for her on his Fox show, Star . She plays a few instruments, writes and sings songs (she performs a couple for me on acoustic guitar, and they show promise, though they're more Laura Marling than MJ), but isn't sure if she'll ever pursue a recording contract.

Modeling, in particular, comes naturally, and she finds it therapeutic. "I've had self-esteem issues for a really, really long time," says Paris, who understands her dad's plastic-surgery choices after watching online trolls dissect her appearance since she was 12. "Plenty of people think I'm ugly, and plenty of people don't. But there's a moment when I'm modeling where I forget about my self-esteem issues and focus on what the photographer's telling me – and I feel pretty. And in that sense, it's selfish."

But mostly, she shares her father's heal-the-world impulses ("I'm really scared for the Great Barrier Reef," she says. "It's, like, dying. This whole planet is. Poor Earth, man"), and sees fame as a means to draw attention to favored causes. "I was born with this platform," she says. "Am I gonna waste it and hide away? Or am I going to make it bigger and use it for more important things?"

Her dad wouldn't have minded. "If you wanna be bigger than me, you can," he'd tell her. "If you don't want to be at all, you can. But I just want you to be happy."

At the moment, Paris lives in the private studio where her dad demoed "Beat It." The Tudor-style main house in the now-empty Jackson family compound in the LA neighborhood of Encino – purchased by Joe Jackson in 1971 with some of the Jackson 5's first Motown royalties, and rebuilt by Michael in the Eighties – is under renovation. But the studio, built by Michael in a brick building across the courtyard, happens to be roughly the size of a decent Manhattan apartment, with its own kitchen and bathroom. Paris has turned it into a vibe-y, cozy dorm room. 

Traces of her father are everywhere, most unmistakably in the artwork he commissioned. Outside the studio is a framed picture, done in a Disney-like style, of a cartoon castle on a hilltop with a caricatured Michael in the foreground, a small blond boy embracing him.It's captioned "Of Children, Castles & Kings." Inside is a mural taking up an entire wall, with another cartoon Michael in the corner, holding a green book titled The Secret of Life and looking down from a window at blooming flowers – at the center of each bloom is a cartoon face of a red-cheeked little girl.

Above an adjacent garage is a mini-museum Michael created as a surprise gift for his family, with the walls and even ceilings covered with photos from their history. Michael used to rehearse dance moves in that room; now Paris' boyfriend has his drum kit set up there.

We head out to a nearby sushi restaurant, and Paris starts to describe life in Neverland. She spent her first seven years in her dad's 2,700-acre fantasy world, with its own amusement park, zoo and movie theater. ("Everything I never got to do as a kid," Michael called it.) During that time, she didn't know that her father's name was Michael, let alone have any grasp of his fame. "I just thought his name was Dad, Daddy," she says. "We didn't really know who he was. But he was our world. And we were his world." (Paris declared last year's Captain Fantastic , where Viggo Mortensen plays an eccentric dad who tries to create a utopian hideaway for his kids, her "favorite movie ever.")

We couldn't just go on the rides whenever we wanted to," she recalls, walking on a dark roadside near the Encino compound. She likes to stride along the lane divider, too close to the cars – it drives her boyfriend crazy, and I don't much like it either. "We actually had a pretty normal life. Like, we had school every single day, and we had to be good. And if we were good, every other weekend or so, we could choose whether we were gonna go to the movie theater or see the animals or whatever. But if you were on bad behavior, then you wouldn't get to go do all those things." 

In his 2011 memoir, Michael's brother Jermaine called him "an example of what fatherhood should be. He instilled in them the love Mother gave us, and he provided the kind of emotional fathering that our father, through no fault of his own, could not. Michael was father and mother rolled into one."

Michael gave the kids the option of going to regular school. They declined. "When you're at home," says Paris, "your dad, who you love more than anything, will occasionally come in, in the middle of class, and it's like, 'Cool, no more class for the day. We're gonna go hang out with Dad.' We were like, 'We don't need friends. We've got you and Disney Channel!'" She was, she acknowledges, "a really weird kid."

Her dad taught her how to cook, soul food, mostly. "He was a kick-ass cook," she says. "His fried chicken is the best in the world. He taught me how to make sweet potato pie." Paris is baking four pies, plus gumbo, for grandma Katherine's Thanksgiving – which actually takes place the day before the holiday, in deference to Katherine's Jehovah's Witness beliefs.

Michael schooled Paris on every conceivable genre of music. "My dad worked with Van Halen, so I got into Van Halen," she says."He worked with Slash, so I got into Guns N' Roses. He introduced me to Tchaikovsky and Debussy, Earth, Wind and Fire, the Temptations, Tupac, Run-DMC."

"His number-one focus for us," says Paris, "besides loving us, was education. And he wasn't like, 'Oh, yeah, mighty Columbus came to this land!' He was like, 'No. He fucking slaughtered the natives.'" Would he really phrase it that way? "He did have kind of a potty mouth. He cussed like a sailor." But he was also "very shy."

Paris and Prince are quite aware of public doubts about their parentage (the youngest brother, Blanket, with his darker skin, is the subject of less speculation). Paris' mom is Debbie Rowe, a nurse Michael met while she was working for his dermatologist, the late Arnold Klein. They had what sounds like an unconventional three-year marriage, during which, Rowe once testified, they never shared a home. Michael said that Rowe wanted to have his children "as a present" to him. (Rowe said that Paris got her name from the location of her conception.) Klein, her employer, was one of several men – including the actor Mark Lester, who played the title role in the 1968 movie Oliver! – who suggested that they could be Paris' actual biological father.

Over popcorn shrimp and a Clean Mean Salmon Roll, Paris agrees to address this issue for what she says will be the only time. She could opt for an easy, logical answer, could point out that it doesn't matter, that either way, Michael Jackson was her father. That's what her brother – who describes himself as "more objective" than Paris – seems to suggest. "Every time someone asks me that," Prince says, "I ask, 'What's the point? What difference does it make?' Specifically to someone who's not involved in my life. How does that affect your life? It doesn't change mine."

But Paris is certain that Michael Jackson was her biological dad. She believes it with a fervency that is both touching and, in the moment, utterly convincing. "He is my father," she says, making fierce eye contact. "He will always be my father. He never wasn't, and he never will not be. People that knew him really well say they see him in me, that it's almost scary.

"I consider myself black," she says, adding later that her dad "would look me in the eyes and he'd point his finger at me and he'd be like, 'You're black. Be proud of your roots.' And I'd be like, 'OK, he's my dad, why would he lie to me?' So I just believe what he told me. 'Cause, to my knowledge, he's never lied to me.

"Most people that don't know me call me white," Paris concedes. "I've got light skin and, especially since I've had my hair blond, I look like I was born in Finland or something." She points out that it's far from unheard of for mixed-race kids to look like her – accurately noting that her complexion and eye color are similar to the TV actor Wentworth Miller's, who has a black dad and a white mom.

At first, she had no relationship with Rowe. "When I was really, really young, my mom didn't exist," Paris recalls. Eventually, she realized "a man can't birth a child" – and when she was 10 or so, she asked Prince, "We gotta have a mom, right?" So she asked her dad. "And he's like, 'Yeah.' And I was like, 'What's her name?' And he's just like, 'Debbie.' And I was like, 'OK, well, I know the name.'" After her father's death, she started researching her mom online, and they got together when Paris was 13.

In the wake of her treatment in Utah, Paris decided to reach out again to Rowe. "She needed a mother figure," says Prince, who declines to comment on his own relationship, or lack thereof, with Rowe. (Paris' manager declined to make Rowe available for an interview, and Rowe did not respond to our request for comment.) "I've had a lot of mother figures," Paris counters, citing her grandmother and nannies, among others, "but by the time my mom came into my life, it wasn't a 'mommy' thing. It's more of an adult relationship." Paris sees herself in Rowe, who just completed a course of chemo in a fight against breast cancer: "We're both very stubborn."

Paris Jackson was around nine years old when she realized that much of the world didn't see her father the way she did. "My dad would cry to me at night," she says, sitting at the counter of a New York coffee shop in mid-December, cradling a tiny spoon in her hand. She starts to cry too. "Picture your parent crying to you about the world hating him for something he didn't do. And for me, he was the only thing that mattered. To see my entire world in pain, I started to hate the world because of what they were doing to him. I'm like, 'How can people be so mean?'" She pauses. "Sorry, I'm getting emotional." 

Paris and Prince have no doubts that their father was innocent of the multiple child-molestation allegations against him, that the man they knew was the real Michael. Again, they are persuasive – if they could go door-to-door talking about it, they could sway the world."Nobody but my brothers and I experienced him reading A Light in the Attic to us at night before we went to bed," says Paris."Nobody experienced him being a father to them. And if they did, the entire perception of him would be completely and forever changed." I gently suggest that what Michael said to her on those nights was a lot to put on a nine-year-old. "He did not bullshit us," she replies. "You try to give kids the best childhood possible. But you also have to prepare them for the shitty world."

Michael's 2005 molestation trial ended in an acquittal, but it shattered his reputation and altered the course of his family's lives. He decided to leave Neverland for good. They spent the next four years traveling the world, spending long stretches of time in the Irish countryside, in Bahrain, in Las Vegas. Paris didn't mind – it was exciting, and home was where her dad was.

By 2009, Michael was preparing for an ambitious slate of comeback performances at London's O2 Arena. "He kind of hyped it up to us," recalls Paris. "He was like, 'Yeah, we're gonna live in London for a year.' We were super-excited – we already had a house out there we were gonna live in." But Paris remembers his "exhaustion" as rehearsals began. "I'd tell him, 'Let's take a nap,'" she says."Because he looked tired. We'd be in school, meaning downstairs in the living room, and we'd see dust falling from the ceiling and hear stomping sounds because he was rehearsing upstairs."

Paris has a lingering distaste for AEG Live, the promoters behind the planned This Is It tour – her family lost a wrongful-death suit against them, with the jury accepting AEG's argument that Michael was responsible for his own death. "AEG Live does not treat their performers right," she alleges. "They drain them dry and work them to death." (A rep for AEG declined comment.) She describes seeing Justin Bieber on a recent tour and being "scared" for him. "He was tired, going through the motions. I looked at my ticket, saw AEG Live, and I thought back to how my dad was exhausted all the time but couldn't sleep."

[marauders1971-1978]

Marauders 1971-1972 Chapter 5 part 3/3

10th October 1971

Remus watched several Official Post Office owls land in front of Lily at the breakfast table – their red and yellow band around the ankle was quite distinctive. She took the three letters – one from each owl – before they flew off without waiting for a reply just as the school owls did.

“Say, Lily – how come you’re getting mail from the Post Office? Why not use the school owls?”

Lily smiled up at him – obviously her mail had cheered her up immensely. “I sent off with a school owl, but my sister took so long to reply that she had to post it the muggle way.”

“I suppose letters with wizarding address must be redirected to another branch,” Remus mused, but Lily didn’t seem very interested. She had torn open one of the letters and was reading it in the way a person tries to both savour and scoff their favourite food.

“Are you lot coming to History of Magic?” James had appeared behind Remus, Lily, Dorcas and Peter with half a bacon sandwich in his hand. Remus could see Sirius standing by the Slytherin table talking to an older student with long black hair. Peter jumped up, nodding, while Lily stuffed her collection of letters into her bag for later as Dorcas made to join James. At the other boy’s expectant look, Remus held out a slip of paper, remaining seated. James read it aloud.

“If you would be so kind as to meet me at quarter past nine on Wednesday morning we can discuss your first month upon request of your father who has written to me with some questions which cannot be answered without a direct meeting with you. Apologies for causing you to miss your first lesson this morning. Professor Binns has been warned of your absence.

Professor McGonagall.”

“You jammy bastard,” James complained. “Getting to miss Binns. What does your dad want to know? Nothing about getting into trouble? McGonagall doesn’t usually meet with students except for a good telling off.”

Remus smiled vaguely. “Oh I doubt it. Probably just my dad being overly paranoid about me as always. And she did want to ask me if I caught up alright after missing a few lessons last week.”

James pouted at the thought of having to sit through an hour of magical history while his class mate got to sit out and wasn’t even going to get into trouble. “I’ll pick up a copy of any homework for you,” James promised with a sly smile and turned to meet the Gryffindors in the entrance hall. “See you later!”

Remus sat at the Gryffindor table as it emptied around him. At the staff table, everybody but the headmaster and the groundskeeper had left already and a Ravenclaw prefect was dragging a few second years away from their breakfast lest they be late.

He really hoped his father hadn’t turned up at the school again. It had been nice to have him around on the day but if he kept showing up Remus was worried one of him classmates would spot him and that would just be more difficult questions to answer. As much as Remus wanted to keep his secret tightly sealed, it hurt him to have to make up elaborate lies. Not only was he a poor liar, but these people were already like friends to him – something he’d never experienced before. He didn’t want to push them away.

Remus had rarely seen the corridors as deserted as they were five minutes into first lesson. His footsteps echoed around the wide corridors and birds had settled in the transfiguration courtyard once they were safe from the trampling feet of hundreds of students.

McGonagall was waiting for him outside of her office. She gave him a rare smile in greeting and opened the door for him to step inside.  Remis had never been inside Professor McGonagall’s office before but he supposed it looked exactly how he should have expected. There was a sturdy, plain oak desk in the centre of the room with two cold looking chairs in front of it and one not much more inviting behind it. On the back wall was an impressive bookshelf of which the bottom shelf was mainly magazines of varying age. A high, tall window looked out onto the transfiguration courtyard and another small table underneath held up several small group photographs of what looked like old quidditch teams and staff photos. One showed a group of older students and there were several quidditch trophies in an alcove near the door. The fire in the grate was merely embers.

“Sit down, Lupin. I don’t want to keep you long.”

Remus sat on the opposite side of the desk to her and tucked his hands under his thighs. He knew he hadn’t done anything wrong but still he felt a little nervousness at the setting.

McGonagall pulled open a draw in her desk and set a letter onto the desk. “Your father sent this to me – it reached me a couple of days ago. He wanted to know how it all went. I was surprised he was going to me for information.” She gave him a questioning look and Remus felt the same squirming in his stomach that came every time he tried to start the letter for his mother and father updating them on the 4th of October.

“I just… didn’t know what to say to him Professor. I mean… I didn’t escape so what else is there to say?”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “Well I think he wanted to know if you were happy with the arrangement once it had played out in reality and the headmaster and I were wondering the same.”

Remus pondered this. Of course, he hadn’t enjoyed the experience. He never did. It was painful and embarrassing, vile and dehumanising. As always, he had spotty memories of the night itself. He remembered the overwhelming stillness and silence of the abandoned cottage, and the smell of damp plaster and long dead mice – but few thoughts more sophisticated than overwhelming frustration at his inability to satisfy the huge urge to escape and attack had crossed his mind.

But in reality, it hadn’t been as awful as usual. At home, first in his barricaded bedroom, then in the kitchen, the basement and even the stone outhouse depending of whatever new town they were in that year were like a cage. This had been a completely new environment. In fact, he distinctly remembered being distracted from his urges by the unusual freedom. Never, at the full moon had he experienced the freedom to climb the stairs and go into other rooms, to nose into cupboards and crawl under beds. It had occupied a more human part of his mind for a few minutes at anyone time. That human curiosity.

“It wasn’t so bad actually. I think he quite liked it at times.”

“He?”

“Yeah…” Remus looked at his feet. His shoelaces are coming undone. “Well I feel like we’re not really the same person. We don’t really think the same way. I would never behave like that… Except that I do. When I’m him.” Remus directed his answer at his lap and trailed away into nothingness. He had comforted himself since this all started once he decided that the person he became at the full moon wasn’t really him. After he’d been bitten, he had hated the man who had done it – why couldn’t he have just controlled himself? Why did he have to come after a child like him? After he had experienced the full moon for himself and realised the insatiable need to bite any human within the vicinity be they a stranger or his own mother, he had felt sympathy. Never would the thought cross his mind to hurt his own mother and father before. Never had they needed to lock their son away from them, never had he been so violent.

And so he had thought If I turn into this monster every month that I can’t control, how can I blame the man who did this to me? Actually, I feel sorry for him. Probably he doesn’t have a family to keep him safe.

“I’m very grateful,” Remus said quietly. “That you can do this for me.”

“Yes, I believe you mentioned a few times,” McGonagall said wryly. “I hope you aren’t going to feel the need to personally thank me every month for the next seven years Lupin.”

They sat in a silence that felt awkward to Remus but the professor didn’t seem phased as she pulled out a small stack of papers bound together by string. “These are your records from Madame Pomfrey. I heard that you managed to avoid any serious injury this time.”

“Yes, but I did ruin some of the furniture.”

McGonagall smiled. “Yes well, the furniture is replaceable. Madame Pomfrey has opened up a correspondence with the research team at St Mungo’s who are currently looking into remedies for magical animal bites. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but there are many magical creatures which do irreversible damage. Your father had explained to me that he had been unable to look into any of this research for fear of having uncomfortable questions directed at him. Luckily, Hogwarts does have the means to collaborate on these matters both for the benefit of yourself and any students in a similar situation, but also for the intellectual curiosity of its staff. Professor Slughorn in particular is very interested in this vein of medicine. As is the headmaster himself. Now your mother and father have given the school permission to use our own discretion when it comes to trialling various medications – at your agreement of course.”

Remus looked blankly at her. He had no idea there was anything that could be done to help him and allowed himself to feel a hint of hope. He knew, of course, that there was no cure for lycanthropy but if there was something that could just make it easier or even erase the ugly scars he was left with…

“Yes, I would like trial some things, maybe.”

“In that case, I expect Madame Pomfrey will be in touch with you over the next few weeks. Now the other matter was merely logistics. Obviously the staff knew you were excused, the headmaster told them you were ill, but this is in no way a steadfast excuse. If a member of staff were to visit the hospital wing and find you absent they could easily become curious. Not to mention that the link between you being ‘ill’ and the date will eventually arouse some suspicion in a few of our staff.”

“My dad told me to tell my friends that my mother was ill and that I was going to visit her.” Remus mumbled, not meeting her eyes. He didn’t like this particular story. “He said it was a good idea because they weren’t likely to have meet my mum because she’s a muggle.”

“That could work among the staff,” McGonagall conceded. It would be better for everyone to be using the same story. Your father did mention to me that you were uncomfortable with misleading your classmates but rest assured neither me, the headmaster nor your family are holding you accountable for the circumstances and should you wish to tell you friends you may, of course do so. Though your father advised very strongly against it.”

Remus just nodded. He knew this already of course. He’d received a heavy debriefing on the 31st of August. The very idea that he would tell the other Gryffindors about his affliction was laughable.

McGonagall put the letter from Remus’ father back into her desk and leaned forward to address him in a friendlier manner.

“On another vein, how has your first month been at Hogwarts? Have you enjoyed your classes?”

“Very much so,” said Remus, truthfully. Though his mother and father had made every effort to teach him within their own home in the ways of the wizarding world and though he had experienced some patchy muggle schooling, Remus had never experienced anything quite like Hogwarts. And though he would never be quite the same as his classmates, he had never felt as though he belonged as he had this past month.

“I’m glad. I see you’ve made friends with Mr Pettigrew and Miss Evans. And your professors have only had positive things to say about your work, I’ve very pleased with your progress. There have been many students with fewer burdens to carry than you who have taken more difficulty in adjusting.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Remus could feel the blush creep up past his cheeks to his ears.

“Well Mr Lupin, twenty minutes remain of your History of Magic lesson so if you hurry you might be able to catch the end of it.” Professor McGonagall briskly rose and swept over to the door. She held it politely open for her student. Remus smiled gratefully at her before hurrying down the corridor towards the grand staircase.

~*~

Later that month, Remus found himself making his way to the hospital wing just before curfew as per the summons from Madame Pomfrey he’d found on his bedside table in a sealed envelope that morning. He’d agreed to trial a muggle sedative before Halloween holidays. If it worked, then Madame Pomfrey had agreed to use it during the full moon on the 2nd of November.

Remus was greeted warmly by the matron and two strangers who were introduced as healers from St Mungo’s research department. One, a young man with strawberry blonde hair and the other in perhaps is mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper facial hair. The older man was wearing a travelling cloak over his teal St Mungo’s uniform and the younger a garish orange jumper.

“Mr Lupin, this is Healer Briggs and his colleague Healer Devon.” Remus smiled shyly at the two professionals and mumbled a meek ‘good evening.’

The hospital wing was a wide, high ceilinged, L shaped room with Madame Pomfrey’s office and the supplies cupboard located out of sight of the main door around the corner. Taking advantage of the concealment from the main door, there were two beds with privacy screens only used for the most embarrassing of cases – usually botched de-pimplings – and this was where Remus had spent the morning of the 5th of October and where they were planning to allow the healers to trial muggle drugs on a werewolf for the first time. There was still a fortnight until the full moon but Remus was sure he could smell their excitement.

Behind the screen was a setup that Remus found a little frightening. There stool a metal table on top of which were two capped syringes and a small glass bottle of some white opaque liquid. He supposed this was the muggle drug.

Remus has never been to a wizarding or muggle hospital before and so didn’t know how much magic to expect. He had, of course, injured himself many a time – sometimes benignly as a result of jumping off adventurously high walls and other times as a result of his crippling need to bite into some kind of flesh when confined to his room during the full moon. Either way, his father had been able enough in basic magical medicine to stop his knees from bleeding and his mother sensible enough to clean out his self-inflicted wounds before they could ever become infected.

The older man, Briggs, began to unpack small plastic tubing from sealed bags and took out a muggle calculator.

“I hope you won’t mind if we do this the modern way. We are using muggle medicine after all. Could I please have your weight in kilogrammes?”

Madame Pomfrey instructed Remus to strip down to his underpants and vest and step onto a set of analogue scales she had just conjured so that Briggs could calculate the dosage. Meanwhile, Devon took out a set of paperwork headed with the St Mungo’s banner. He indicated Remus to sit next to him and summarised it briefly.

“Now I’ve already sent all of this through to your parents who have written back in consent conditional to your agreement. Your matron explained briefly in her letter summoning you didn’t she?”

Remus watched Briggs draw up the white liquid out the corner of his eye and shifted nervously on the hospital wing bed next to Devon. “Yes. Madame Pomfrey said it was a sedative which means it makes you go to sleep and that it is used on muggles before surgery and such.”

“That’s right. So far, no wizard has been able to cast a spell which holds on a werewolf during transformation. It is, of course, possible but very difficult, to stun a werewolf after it has transformed but unlike muggle medicines which are calibrated specifically to body weight and therefore allow quite an accurate estimate of the time it will take to wear off, stunning spells and similar can wear off at any moment depending on the magical strength of the subject. Not only that, it is particularly dangerous for a person to be in the room with a werewolf which could wake at any moment and have his wand arm for supper.”

Remus gave a small appreciative smile at Devon’s attempt at a joke. He noticed that the skin under his eyes looked somewhat bruised and Remus wondered vaguely if he had been sleeping at night.

“Now your weight doesn’t change when you transform and so we’re hoping the effect will last during transformation. The effects only last for little over half an hour so we’re afraid that we would have to continuously dose through the moonlight hours. There is an increased risk of side effects with repeated dosing though, so we’re merely going to test your tolerance to the drug today and note any side effects you may experience with the one dose.”

Remus suddenly didn’t like the sound of this. He’d imagined it would be somewhat like a dreamless sleep potion, which was simply drank and then a blissful sleep ensued where the length of time was determined by how much was consumed. This sounded a lot more… precarious.

“Muggles… use this all the time?” he asked tentatively.

Devon smiled reassuringly. “Oh yes it’s used on infants, children and adults. I’d be very surprised if something unexpected happened today. Really it’s November the second we’re unsure about.”

“Oh…” Remus watched Briggs come up by him with a small thin needle and felt rather reproachful. “Is it an injection?”

“Not quite. It’s given intravenously so this part is going to hurt unfortunately.”

Madame Pomfrey gave him an apologetic look as she took his left arm above and below the elbow in a firm grip. Remus resisted automatically before he caught himself.

“Sorry.”

“That’s quite alright Lupin.”

Briggs smiled pleasantly at him as he crouched down beside Madame Pomfrey but his expression didn’t do much to detract from the sharp object his is hands. He flicked the crook of Remus’ elbow with his fingers and slowly fed the thin needle under the thin skin of his arm. Remus gritted his teeth, watching with wide eyes, but managed to resist the urge to pull his arm away. Not that it would have been a successful attempt as the matron has an iron grip on his arm.

“There.” Briggs pulled and the fine metal needle slid out leaving the thin plastic tube resting in what Remus supposed was his vein. Sluggishly, dark crimson blood reached the end of the short tube before beading at the end and dripping down onto Remus’ forearm. He flinched. There was something different about having a foreign object sitting inside of him that turned his stomach the way the coppery taste of his own blood in his mouth at dawn didn’t anymore.

Briggs twisted a short clear tube to the end and to that attached a syringe full of some clear fluid.

“What’s that?” Remus noted that his voice sounded a little high and he swallowed aggressively.

“Just water. To flush the line. You’ll feel it go in but it won’t hurt.”

Remus watched as the blood seemed to disappear from the line. Briggs unscrewed the syringe and this time, nothing came out of the end.

Madame Pomfrey let go of him and he pulled his arm protectively towards himself, careful not to bend it.

“So, this is the drug we’ll be testing today.” Briggs held out the carefully measured syringe of milky liquid. “It might sting when it goes in. You should fall asleep within a few seconds and sleep for maybe half an hour before waking. When you wake, you will feel a bit dazed but this will wear off in an hour or so. Did you read and understand the list of side effects I sent to you?”

Remus nodded. “I looked them up in the library.”

“Good. We checked your mother’s medical history for any adverse reactions to similar substances but we couldn’t find anything alarming.”

“Um… okay.”

“You still agree for me to give this to you, bearing in mind that it has never been tested on a wizard suffering from lycanthropy in human or wolf state?”

Remus licked his lips and agreed.

[nuvya]

Michael Jackson: The Human Being Behind The Superstar By Paris Jackson

Paris Jackson: Life After Neverland (Rolling Stone Interview )

In her first-ever in-depth interview, Michael Jackson's daughter discusses her father's pain and finding peace after addiction and heartache

Paris-Michael Katherine Jackson is staring at a famous corpse. "That's Marilyn Monroe," she whispers, facing a wall covered with gruesome autopsy photos. "And that's JFK. You can't even find these online." On a Thursday afternoon in late November, Paris is making her way through the Museum of Death, a cramped maze of formaldehyde-scented horrors on Hollywood Boulevard. It's not uncommon for visitors, confronted with decapitation photos, snuff films and serial-killer memorabilia, to faint, vomit or both. But Paris, not far removed from the emo and goth phases of her earlier teens, seems to find it all somehow soothing. This is her ninth visit. "It's awesome," she had said on the way over. "They have a real electric chair and a real head!"

Paris Jackson turned 18 last April, and moment by moment, can come across as much older or much younger, having lived a life that's veered between sheltered and agonizingly exposed. She is a pure child of the 21st century, with her mashed-up hippie-punk fashion sense (today she's wearing a tie-dye button-down, jeggings and Converse high-tops) and boundary-free musical tastes (she's decorated her sneakers with lyrics by Mötley Crüe and Arctic Monkeys; is obsessed with Alice Cooper – she calls him "bae" – and the singer-songwriter Butch Walker; loves Nirvana and Justin Bieber too). But she is, even more so, her father's child. "Basically, as a person, she is who my dad is," says her older brother, Prince Michael Jackson. "The only thing that's different would be her age and her gender." Paris is similar to Michael, he adds, "in all of her strengths, and almost all of her weaknesses as well. She's very passionate. She is very emotional to the point where she can let emotion cloud her judgment."

Paris has, with impressive speed, acquired more than 50 tattoos, sneaking in the first few while underage. Nine of them are devoted to Michael Jackson, who died when she was 11 years old, sending her, Prince and their youngest brother, Blanket, spiraling out of what had been – as they perceived it – a cloistered, near-idyllic little world. "They always say, 'Time heals,'" she says. "But it really doesn't. You just get used to it. I live life with the mentality of 'OK, I lost the only thing that has ever been important to me.' So going forward, anything bad that happens can't be nearly as bad as what happened before. So I can handle it." Michael still visits her in her dreams, she says: "I feel him with me all the time."

Michael, who saw himself as Peter Pan, liked to call his only daughter Tinker Bell. She has FAITH, TRUST AND PIXIE DUST inked near her clavicle. She has an image from the cover of Dangerous on her forearm, the Bad logo on her hand, and the words QUEEN OF MY HEART – in her dad's handwriting, from a letter he wrote her – on her inner left wrist. "He's brought me nothing but joy," she says. "So why not have constant reminders of joy?" 

She also has tattoos honoring John Lennon, David Bowie and her dad's sometime rival Prince – plus Van Halen and, on her inner lip, the word MÖTLEY (her boyfriend has CRÜE in the same spot). On her right wrist is a rope-and-jade bracelet that Michael bought in Africa. He was wearing it when he died, and Paris' nanny retrieved it for her. "It still smells like him," Paris says.

She fixes her huge blue-green eyes on each of the museum's attractions without flinching, until she comes to a section of taxidermied pets. "I don't really like this room," she says, wrinkling her nose. "I draw the line with animals. I can't do it. This breaks my heart." She recently rescued a hyperactive pit-bull-mix puppy, Koa, who has an uneasy coexistence with Kenya, a snuggly Labrador her dad brought home a decade ago.

Paris describes herself as "desensitized" to even the most graphic reminders of human mortality. In June 2013, drowning in depression and a drug addiction, she tried to kill herself at age 15, slashing her wrist and downing 20 Motrin pills. "It was just self-hatred," she says, "low self-esteem, thinking that I couldn't do anything right, not thinking I was worthy of living anymore." She had been self-harming, cutting herself, managing to conceal it from her family. Some of her tattoos now cover the scars, as well as what she says are track marks from drug use. Before that, she had already attempted suicide "multiple times," she says, with an incongruous laugh. "It was just once that it became public." The hospital had a "three-strike rule," she recalls, and, after that last attempt, insisted she attend a residential therapy program.

Home-schooled before her father's death, Paris had agreed to attend a private school starting in seventh grade. She didn't fit in – at all – and started hanging out with the only kids who accepted her, "a lot of older people doing a lot of crazy things," she says. "I was doing a lot of things that 13-, 14-, 15-year-olds shouldn't do. I tried to grow up too fast, and I wasn't really that nice of a person." She also faced cyberbullying, and still struggles with cruel online comments. "The whole freedom-of-speech thing is great," she says. "But I don't think that our Founding Fathers predicted social media when they created all of these amendments and stuff."

There was another trauma that she's never mentioned in public. When she was 14, a much older "complete stranger" sexually assaulted her, she says. "I don't wanna give too many details. But it was not a good experience at all, and it was really hard for me, and, at the time, I didn't tell anybody."

After her last suicide attempt, she spent sophomore year and half of junior year at a therapeutic school in Utah. "It was great for me," she says. "I'm a completely different person." Before, she says with a small smile, "I was crazy. I was actually crazy. I was going through a lot of, like, teen angst. And I was also dealing with my depression and my anxiety without any help." Her father, she says, also struggled with depression, and she was prescribed the same antidepressants he once took, though she's no longer on any psych meds.

Now sober and happier than she's ever been, with menthol cigarettes her main remaining vice, Paris moved out of her grandma Katherine's house shortly after her 18th birthday, heading to the old Jackson family estate. She spends nearly every minute of each day with her boyfriend, Michael Snoddy, a 26-year-old drummer – he plays with the percussion ensemble Street Drum Corps – and Virginia native whose dyed mohawk, tattoos and perpetually sagging pants don't obscure boy-band looks and a puppy-dog sweetness. "I never met anyone before who made me feel the way music makes me feel," says Paris. When they met, he had an ill-considered, now-covered Confederate flag tattoo that raised understandable doubts among the Jacksons. "But the more I actually got to know him," says Prince, "he's a really cool guy."

Paris took a quick stab at community college after graduating high school – a year early – in 2015, but wasn't feeling it. She is an heir to a mammoth fortune – the Michael Jackson Family Trust is likely worth more than $1 billion, with disbursements to the kids in stages. But she wants to earn her own money, and now that she's a legal adult, to embrace her other inheritance: celebrity.

And in the end, as the charismatic, beautiful daughter of one of the most famous men who ever lived, what choice did she have? She is, for now, a model, an actress, a work in progress. She can, when she feels like it, exhibit a regal poise that's almost intimidating, while remaining chill enough to become pals with her giant-goateed tattoo artist. She has impeccable manners – you might guess that she was raised well. She so charmed producer-director Lee Daniels in a recent meeting that he's begun talking to her manager about a role for her on his Fox show, Star . She plays a few instruments, writes and sings songs (she performs a couple for me on acoustic guitar, and they show promise, though they're more Laura Marling than MJ), but isn't sure if she'll ever pursue a recording contract.

Modeling, in particular, comes naturally, and she finds it therapeutic. "I've had self-esteem issues for a really, really long time," says Paris, who understands her dad's plastic-surgery choices after watching online trolls dissect her appearance since she was 12. "Plenty of people think I'm ugly, and plenty of people don't. But there's a moment when I'm modeling where I forget about my self-esteem issues and focus on what the photographer's telling me – and I feel pretty. And in that sense, it's selfish."

But mostly, she shares her father's heal-the-world impulses ("I'm really scared for the Great Barrier Reef," she says. "It's, like, dying. This whole planet is. Poor Earth, man"), and sees fame as a means to draw attention to favored causes. "I was born with this platform," she says. "Am I gonna waste it and hide away? Or am I going to make it bigger and use it for more important things?"

Her dad wouldn't have minded. "If you wanna be bigger than me, you can," he'd tell her. "If you don't want to be at all, you can. But I just want you to be happy."

At the moment, Paris lives in the private studio where her dad demoed "Beat It." The Tudor-style main house in the now-empty Jackson family compound in the LA neighborhood of Encino – purchased by Joe Jackson in 1971 with some of the Jackson 5's first Motown royalties, and rebuilt by Michael in the Eighties – is under renovation. But the studio, built by Michael in a brick building across the courtyard, happens to be roughly the size of a decent Manhattan apartment, with its own kitchen and bathroom. Paris has turned it into a vibe-y, cozy dorm room.

Traces of her father are everywhere, most unmistakably in the artwork he commissioned. Outside the studio is a framed picture, done in a Disney-like style, of a cartoon castle on a hilltop with a caricatured Michael in the foreground, a small blond boy embracing him.It's captioned "Of Children, Castles & Kings." Inside is a mural taking up an entire wall, with another cartoon Michael in the corner, holding a green book titled The Secret of Life and looking down from a window at blooming flowers – at the center of each bloom is a cartoon face of a red-cheeked little girl.

Paris' chosen decor is somewhat different. There is a picture of Kurt Cobain in the bathroom, a Smashing Pumpkins poster on the wall, a laptop with Against Me! and NeverEnding Story stickers, psychedelic paisley wall hangings, lots of fake candles. Vinyl records (Alice Cooper, the Rolling Stones) serve as wall decorations. In the kitchen, sitting casually on a counter, is a framed platinum record, inscribed to Michael by Quincy Jones ("I found it in the attic," Paris shrugs).

Above an adjacent garage is a mini-museum Michael created as a surprise gift for his family, with the walls and even ceilings covered with photos from their history. Michael used to rehearse dance moves in that room; now Paris' boyfriend has his drum kit set up there.

We head out to a nearby sushi restaurant, and Paris starts to describe life in Neverland. She spent her first seven years in her dad's 2,700-acre fantasy world, with its own amusement park, zoo and movie theater. ("Everything I never got to do as a kid," Michael called it.) During that time, she didn't know that her father's name was Michael, let alone have any grasp of his fame. "I just thought his name was Dad, Daddy," she says. "We didn't really know who he was. But he was our world. And we were his world." (Paris declared last year's Captain Fantastic , where Viggo Mortensen plays an eccentric dad who tries to create a utopian hideaway for his kids, her "favorite movie ever.")

"We couldn't just go on the rides whenever we wanted to," she recalls, walking on a dark roadside near the Encino compound. She likes to stride along the lane divider, too close to the cars – it drives her boyfriend crazy, and I don't much like it either. "We actually had a pretty normal life. Like, we had school every single day, and we had to be good. And if we were good, every other weekend or so, we could choose whether we were gonna go to the movie theater or see the animals or whatever. But if you were on bad behavior, then you wouldn't get to go do all those things." 

In his 2011 memoir, Michael's brother Jermaine called him "an example of what fatherhood should be. He instilled in them the love Mother gave us, and he provided the kind of emotional fathering that our father, through no fault of his own, could not. Michael was father and mother rolled into one."

Michael gave the kids the option of going to regular school. They declined. "When you're at home," says Paris, "your dad, who you love more than anything, will occasionally come in, in the middle of class, and it's like, 'Cool, no more class for the day. We're gonna go hang out with Dad.' We were like, 'We don't need friends. We've got you and Disney Channel!'" She was, she acknowledges, "a really weird kid."

Her dad taught her how to cook, soul food, mostly. "He was a kick-ass cook," she says. "His fried chicken is the best in the world. He taught me how to make sweet potato pie." Paris is baking four pies, plus gumbo, for grandma Katherine's Thanksgiving – which actually takes place the day before the holiday, in deference to Katherine's Jehovah's Witness beliefs.

Michael schooled Paris on every conceivable genre of music. "My dad worked with Van Halen, so I got into Van Halen," she says."He worked with Slash, so I got into Guns N' Roses. He introduced me to Tchaikovsky and Debussy, Earth, Wind and Fire, the Temptations, Tupac, Run-DMC."

She says Michael emphasized tolerance. "My dad raised me in a very open-minded house," she says. "I was eight years old, in love with this female on the cover of a magazine. Instead of yelling at me, like most homophobic parents, he was making fun of me, like, 'Oh, you got yourself a girlfriend.'

"His number-one focus for us," says Paris, "besides loving us, was education. And he wasn't like, 'Oh, yeah, mighty Columbus came to this land!' He was like, 'No. He fucking slaughtered the natives.'" Would he really phrase it that way? "He did have kind of a potty mouth. He cussed like a sailor." But he was also "very shy."

Paris and Prince are quite aware of public doubts about their parentage (the youngest brother, Blanket, with his darker skin, is the subject of less speculation). Paris' mom is Debbie Rowe, a nurse Michael met while she was working for his dermatologist, the late Arnold Klein. They had what sounds like an unconventional three-year marriage, during which, Rowe once testified, they never shared a home. Michael said that Rowe wanted to have his children "as a present" to him. (Rowe said that Paris got her name from the location of her conception.) Klein, her employer, was one of several men – including the actor Mark Lester, who played the title role in the 1968 movie Oliver! – who suggested that they could be Paris' actual biological father.

Over popcorn shrimp and a Clean Mean Salmon Roll, Paris agrees to address this issue for what she says will be the only time. She could opt for an easy, logical answer, could point out that it doesn't matter, that either way, Michael Jackson was her father. That's what her brother – who describes himself as "more objective" than Paris – seems to suggest. "Every time someone asks me that," Prince says, "I ask, 'What's the point? What difference does it make?' Specifically to someone who's not involved in my life. How does that affect your life? It doesn't change mine."

But Paris is certain that Michael Jackson was her biological dad. She believes it with a fervency that is both touching and, in the moment, utterly convincing. "He is my father," she says, making fierce eye contact. "He will always be my father. He never wasn't, and he never will not be. People that knew him really well say they see him in me, that it's almost scary.

"I consider myself black," she says, adding later that her dad "would look me in the eyes and he'd point his finger at me and he'd be like, 'You're black. Be proud of your roots.' And I'd be like, 'OK, he's my dad, why would he lie to me?' So I just believe what he told me. 'Cause, to my knowledge, he's never lied to me.

"Most people that don't know me call me white," Paris concedes. "I've got light skin and, especially since I've had my hair blond, I look like I was born in Finland or something." She points out that it's far from unheard of for mixed-race kids to look like her – accurately noting that her complexion and eye color are similar to the TV actor Wentworth Miller's, who has a black dad and a white mom.

At first, she had no relationship with Rowe. "When I was really, really young, my mom didn't exist," Paris recalls. Eventually, she realized "a man can't birth a child" – and when she was 10 or so, she asked Prince, "We gotta have a mom, right?" So she asked her dad. "And he's like, 'Yeah.' And I was like, 'What's her name?' And he's just like, 'Debbie.' And I was like, 'OK, well, I know the name.'" After her father's death, she started researching her mom online, and they got together when Paris was 13.

In the wake of her treatment in Utah, Paris decided to reach out again to Rowe. "She needed a mother figure," says Prince, who declines to comment on his own relationship, or lack thereof, with Rowe. (Paris' manager declined to make Rowe available for an interview, and Rowe did not respond to our request for comment.) "I've had a lot of mother figures," Paris counters, citing her grandmother and nannies, among others, "but by the time my mom came into my life, it wasn't a 'mommy' thing. It's more of an adult relationship." Paris sees herself in Rowe, who just completed a course of chemo in a fight against breast cancer: "We're both very stubborn."

Paris isn't sure how Michael felt about Rowe, but says Rowe was "in love" with her dad. She's also sure that Michael loved Lisa Marie Presley, whom he divorced two years before Paris' birth: "In the music video 'You Are Not Alone,' I can see how he looked at her, and he was totally whipped," she says with a fond laugh.

Paris Jackson was around nine years old when she realized that much of the world didn't see her father the way she did. "My dad would cry to me at night," she says, sitting at the counter of a New York coffee shop in mid-December, cradling a tiny spoon in her hand. She starts to cry too. "Picture your parent crying to you about the world hating him for something he didn't do. And for me, he was the only thing that mattered. To see my entire world in pain, I started to hate the world because of what they were doing to him. I'm like, 'How can people be so mean?'" She pauses. "Sorry, I'm getting emotional."

Paris and Prince have no doubts that their father was innocent of the multiple child-molestation allegations against him, that the man they knew was the real Michael. Again, they are persuasive – if they could go door-to-door talking about it, they could sway the world."Nobody but my brothers and I experienced him reading A Light in the Attic to us at night before we went to bed," says Paris."Nobody experienced him being a father to them. And if they did, the entire perception of him would be completely and forever changed." I gently suggest that what Michael said to her on those nights was a lot to put on a nine-year-old. "He did not bullshit us," she replies. "You try to give kids the best childhood possible. But you also have to prepare them for the shitty world."

Michael's 2005 molestation trial ended in an acquittal, but it shattered his reputation and altered the course of his family's lives. He decided to leave Neverland for good. They spent the next four years traveling the world, spending long stretches of time in the Irish countryside, in Bahrain, in Las Vegas. Paris didn't mind – it was exciting, and home was where her dad was.

By 2009, Michael was preparing for an ambitious slate of comeback performances at London's O2 Arena. "He kind of hyped it up to us," recalls Paris. "He was like, 'Yeah, we're gonna live in London for a year.' We were super-excited – we already had a house out there we were gonna live in." But Paris remembers his "exhaustion" as rehearsals began. "I'd tell him, 'Let's take a nap,'" she says."Because he looked tired. We'd be in school, meaning downstairs in the living room, and we'd see dust falling from the ceiling and hear stomping sounds because he was rehearsing upstairs."

Paris has a lingering distaste for AEG Live, the promoters behind the planned This Is It tour – her family lost a wrongful-death suit against them, with the jury accepting AEG's argument that Michael was responsible for his own death. "AEG Live does not treat their performers right," she alleges. "They drain them dry and work them to death." (A rep for AEG declined comment.) She describes seeing Justin Bieber on a recent tour and being "scared" for him. "He was tired, going through the motions. I looked at my ticket, saw AEG Live, and I thought back to how my dad was exhausted all the time but couldn't sleep."

Paris blames Dr. Conrad Murray – who was convicted of involuntary manslaughter in her father's death – for the dependency on the anesthetic drug propofol that led to it. She calls him "the 'doctor,'" with satirical air quotes. But she has darker suspicions about her father's death. "He would drop hints about people being out to get him," she says. "And at some point he was like, 'They're gonna kill me one day.'" (Lisa Marie Presley told Oprah Winfrey of a similar conversation with Michael, who expressed fears that unnamed parties were targeting him to get at his half of the Sony/ATV music-publishing catalog, worth hundreds of millions.)

Paris is convinced that her dad was, somehow, murdered. "Absolutely," she says. "Because it's obvious. All arrows point to that. It sounds like a total conspiracy theory and it sounds like bullshit, but all real fans and everybody in the family knows it. It was a setup. It was bullshit."

But who would have wanted Michael Jackson dead? Paris pauses for several seconds, maybe considering a specific answer, but just says, "A lot of people." Paris wants revenge, or at least justice. "Of course," she says, eyes glowing. "I definitely do, but it's a chess game. And I am trying to play the chess game the right way. And that's all I can say about that right now."

Michael had his kids wear masks in public, a protective move Paris considered "stupid" but later came to understand. So it made all the more of an impression when a brave little girl spontaneously stepped to the microphone at her dad's televised memorial service, on July 7th, 2009. "Ever since I was born," she said, "Daddy has been the best father you could ever imagine, and I just wanted to say I love him so much."

She was 11 years old, but she knew what she was doing. "I knew afterward there was gonna be plenty of shit-talking," Paris says, "plenty of people questioning him and how he raised us. That was the first time I ever publicly defended him, and it definitely won't be the last." For Prince, his younger sister showed in that moment that she had "more strength than any of us."

The day after her trip to the Museum of Death, Paris, Michael Snoddy and Tom Hamilton, her model-handsome, man-bunned 31-year-old manager, head over to Venice Beach. We stroll the boardwalk, and Snoddy recalls a brief stint as a street performer here when he first moved to LA, drumming on buckets. "It wasn't bad," he says. "I averaged out to a hundred bucks a day."

Paris has her hair extensions in a ponytail. She's wearing sunglasses with circular lenses, a green plaid shirt over leggings, and a Rasta-rainbow backpack. Her mood is darker today. She's not talking much, and clinging tight to Snoddy, who's in a Willie Nelson tee with the sleeves cut off.

We head toward the canals, lined with ultramodern houses that Paris doesn't like. "They're too harsh and bougie," she says. "It doesn't scream, 'Hey, come for dinner!'" She's delighted to spot a group of ducks. "Hello, friends!" she shouts. "Come play with us!"Among them are what appear to be an avian couple in love, paddling through the shallow water in close formation. Paris sighs and squeezes Snoddy's hand. "Goals," she says. "Hashtag 'goals.'"

Her spirits are lifting, and we walk back toward the beach to watch the sunset. Paris and Snoddy hop on a concrete barrier facing the orange-pink spectacle. It's a peaceful moment, until a middle-aged woman in neon jogging clothes and knee-length socks walks over.She grins at the couple as she presses a button on some kind of tiny stereo strapped to her waist, unleashing a dated-sounding trance song. Paris laughs and turns to her boyfriend. As the sun disappears, they start to dance.

From being a kick-ass cook to a strict dad, here are the 5 things we learned about the King of Pop from Paris Jackson.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0kjc3VEwFM

[williamlwolf89]

66+ Alliteration Examples to Make Your Message More Memorable

Looking for some alliteration examples to expand your writing repertoire?

This post is going to be your go-to resource.

It’s packed with examples from pop culture, sports, literature, and content marketing that’ll inspire you to infuse alliteration into your own writing.

You’ll also discover:

How alliteration helped you learn letter sounds and develop memory skills when you were young;

The differences between alliteration, assonance, and consonance;

How freelance writers, bloggers, students, marketers, and literary greats use alliteration to touch the hearts and minds of readers.

Ready? We’ll start with a quick alliteration refresher.

What is Alliteration?

Alliteration is a stylistic literary device that refers to the repetition of closely connected series of words that have the same beginning consonant sounds.

For example, here’s an all-too-true story that repeats the beginning “b” sound:

“Barbara baked banana bread, but it burned.”

(Bummer. )

Alliteration has been used for centuries to breathe life into the written (and spoken) word through the effect of the sounds of words.

For example, in the movie “V for Vendetta”, V’s self-introduction takes alliteration to extreme. The effect of the string of “v” words certainly draws attention to his character through emphasis and tone:

The words of his speech tell his background story, but the repeated “v” sounds help viewers get a sense of his persona. The ominous impression of “V” is unforgettable.

This extreme example of alliteration demonstrates the power of verbal alliteration in film, but this technique has similar effects in written form.

Before we dig into the benefits of alliteration, let’s take a look at alliteration’s close cousins: assonance and consonance.

What’s the Difference Between Alliteration, Assonance, and Consonance?

There are two sound-based literary devices that are very similar to, and sometimes confused with, alliteration: assonance and consonance.

Assonance is the repetition of vowel sounds in a sentence, like “The squeaky wheel gets the grease.”

Consonance is the repetition of consonant sounds in a sentence, like “All’s well that ends well.”

Repetitive sounds are the common factor between alliteration, assonance and consonance. Alliteration differs from the other two because it refers specifically to the first consonant sounds in words.

What are the Benefits of Alliteration, Assonance, & Consonance?

Due to the repetitive component of alliteration, assonance, and consonance, they are considered phonological mnemonic devices, which help to emphasize concepts and make passages more memorable.

Sound-based literary devices can also help to project a tone or mood with repeated sounds in words.

Alliteration is a multi-purpose literary device and its use can impact us in a variety of ways.

Truth be told, alliteration has benefited us from an early age, even before we could read.

The Evolution of Alliteration (in Our Lives)

Alliteration helps preschoolers learn letter sounds and develop memory skills.

We’re first introduced to alliteration through nursery rhymes and other children’s poetry:

“Three gray geese in a green field grazing…”

“Betty Botter bought some butter, but she said, this butter’s bitter; if I put it in my batter, it will make my batter bitter, but a bit of better butter will make my batter better…”

Children’s poet Shel Silverstein’s alliteratively titled “The Gnome, The Gnat and The Gnu” hints of repeated “n” sounds that are found sprinkled throughout his poem. His stylistic spelling also serves as a fun way to teach children that the letters “gn,” “kn” and “n” all make the same sound:

I saw an ol’ gnome Take a gknock at a gnat Who was gnibbling the gnose of his gnu. I said, “Gnasty gnome, Gnow, stop doing that. That gnat ain’t done gnothing to you.” He gnodded his gnarled ol’ head and said, “‘Til gnow I gnever gnew That gknocking a gnat In the gnoodle like that Was gnot a gnice thing to do.”

Fun alliterative tongue twisters challenge children’s fast-talking skills:

“Sally sells seashells at the seashore…”

“Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers…”

But alliterative children’s poetry and stories do more than simply teach phonics or entertain.

While pondering pickled peppers, children’s brains also work on associating meanings and emotional responses to sounds that they hear.

Intrigued? Read on.

Sound Symbolism: Labeling a Sound

Sounds of words actually reinforce their meaning and influence the interpretation of our language. Sound Symbolism is the recognition of the concept that sounds have a certain inherent meanings and enhance effective communication.

So, how are these sound symbolisms developed?

Symbolism of sounds is derived in part from how we create sounds with our mouths and vocal chords. We categorize sounds with an “internal catalog” of facial movements related to certain words combined with our awareness of how we physically form sounds and words with our mouths.

Try this:

Form your mouth like you’re going to say a word that starts with “sn.”

(Go ahead, nobody’s looking.)

You did that nasally pluggy-uppy maneuver with your tongue, didn’t you?

We’ve associated our nose with the vocalization of the “sn” sound. Not coincidentally, many words that are related to the nose and mouth start with “sn,” like snore, snout, sniff, snoop and sneeze.

Skillful use of alliteration emphasizes a tone or mood through rhythmic repetition of sounds, eliciting a response to the “internal sound symbolism catalog” that we all share.

Joni Mitchell wrote the alliterative opening song lyrics to her 1970 hit, “Big Yellow Taxi” to set the tone of her message. Listen to the repeated “p” words that project her “spitting mad” mood about what’s happening in her world:

“They paved paradise and put up a parking lot…”



Let’s take a look at some examples of alliteration in our everyday lives that help us remember things.

Pop Culture: What’s in an Alliterative Name?

Plenty of science and thought is put into naming consumer products or brands. Here are some business and brand names that have obvious mnemonic qualities:

Dunkin’ Donuts

Krispy Kreme

Bath & Body Works

Bed, Bath & Beyond

LuluLemon

Coca-Cola

Best Buy

American Airlines

PayPal

American Apparel

Sports team franchise names that make the all-alliteration team are:

Los Angeles Lakers

Buffalo Bills

Pittsburgh Pirates (and Penguins)

Seattle Seahawks

We often hear alliteration in music and film artists’ names. These famous television, film, sports and political figures were given a natural edge on popularity with their alliterative names:

Ronald Reagan

Mickey Mantle

Katie Courec

Jesse Jackson

Lucy Liu

We can only wonder if Norma Jean Mortenson’s popularity and success was aided by the act of changing her name to Marilyn Monroe. Other celebrity artists that adopted alliterative stage names are:

Backstreet Boys

Beastie Boys

Dr. Dre

Counting Crows

Foo Fighters

Many fictitious characters in children’s cartoons, books or movies have alliterative names. To highlight his importance, main character Spongebob Squarepants’ name is alliterative, but his friends’ names are not. Some others:

Mickey Mouse & Minnie Mouse

Big Bird

Donald Duck

Peppa Pig

Bugs Bunny

Marvel Universe superheroes’ real identities and supporting characters were deliberately named alliteratively by creator, Stan Lee. Curiously, he admitted in an interview that he decided to use first and last names with the same beginning sounds to make it easier to keep them straight in his own mind! To name a few:

Bruce Banner

Reed Richards

Sue Storm

Peter Parker

J. Jonah Jameson Jr.

Fin Fang Foom

Harry Potter author J. K. Rowling artfully named supporting characters using various literary devices. Here are a few examples of alliterative names in the series:

Luna Lovegood

Severus Snape

Salazar Slytherin

Godric Gryffindor

Helga Hufflepuff

Demonstrated by Ms. Rowling, the use of alliteration in literature helps readers remember characters in a story.

But writers can also use alliteration to emphasize a passage or develop a certain tone by repeating similar sounds. Let’s dive into some creative alliteration examples in literary classics.

Examples of Alliteration in Literature

In poetry and prose, alliteration and other sound devices like rhythm help create a tone or mood, suggest a tempo, and emphasize certain words or phrases.

Alliteration In Poetry

This following stanza of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge demonstrates his poetic use of sound-based literary devices in his work. Alliteration ties the words of the poem together as well as creating rhythmic and pleasant sounds:

“The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea.”

Alliteration helps to suggest an eerie rhythm of Edgar Allan Poe’s poem, “The Raven.” Notice the alliteration pairs in the first three stanzas:

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,…”

William Shakespeare used “f” sounds and “l” sounds to create images of death and life, respectively, in his prologue of “Romeo and Juliet”:

“From forth the fatal loins of these two foes; A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life.”

Alliteration In Prose

In “To Kill a Mockingbird”, Harper Lee used alliterative descriptions of families and places to emphasize the importance of these entities in her novel. With a heavy emphasis on “s” sounds, the town of Maycomb is described:

“…grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square… a black dog suffered on a summer’s day; bony mules… flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square…”

Alliteration In Speeches

Due to its rhetorical nature, alliteration appears in many famous speeches in which sound-based literary devices like alliteration help to set a tone.

For example, Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address opens demanding attention with repetitive “f”sounds:

“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation…”

Another example is Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, which emphasized his dream for his children by repeating the hard “c” sound:

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

These classic examples demonstrate that alliteration, used with other literary devices, helps readers develop sensory and emotional connections with words. That connection in turn helps to build a stronger understanding of the passages.

Ready to see how contemporary content writers artfully use alliteration to emotionally connect with their readers?

Examples of Alliteration in Content Marketing

We all know that the purpose of content marketing is to make a connection with our readers and inspire them to take action.

To that end, we’ve learned that we can use alliteration, power words, sensory words, and other writing devices and tools to create sensory and emotional connections with our readers. This emotional connection can help persuade our readers to take action.

Alliteration helps call attention to headlines, subheads, and email subject lines, but alliteration can also help to emphasize a point:

“Smart speakers, as well as their speechwriters, sprinkle their speeches with carefully-chosen power words…” – Jon Morrow

Let’s feel the power of some alliterative subject lines:

Pack a Punch With Alliterative Headlines

Alliterative phrases in these headlines call attention to the message and emphasize their purpose through alliteration:

57 Metaphor Examples That’ll Pack Your Prose With Persuasion

Working From Home? 14 Sanity-Saving Tools (+35 Pro Tips)

How to Become a Freelance Writer, Starting from Scratch

And, this power words headline gets alliteration bonus points:

801+ Power Words That Pack a Punch and Convert like Crazy

The rapid-succession Pack-a-Punch and Convert-like-Crazy plosive alliteration combo exerts an authoritative influence of Power like the old one-two. (Hard beginning consonant sounds create a sense of authority, but more on that later.)

Stop Scanners with Alliterative Subheads

Subheads serve several purposes, primarily to help organize your content for the reader. Alliteration can stop “subhead scanners” in their tracks by eliciting an emotional connection through sound symbolism, like these:

This one demands attention:

Polish Your Post So It’s Smoother Than a Slip ‘n Slide – from How to Write a Blog Post in 2020: The Ultimate Guide

And this subhead…

Make Money by Creating Collateral for Content-Hungry Business – from How to Make Money Writing: 5 Ways to Get Paid to Write in 2020

…leads readers into this alliterative text:

“In the last five years, content marketing — this concept of creating valuable content to attract customers and build credibility and trust — has undoubtedly gone mainstream.”

Get Clever With Alliterative Calls to Action

Email subject lines that use alliteration spark a call to action by projecting a certain tone or mood, connecting with the reader on an emotional or sensory level.

Here are some clever alliterative subject lines of email received while sheltering in place during the COVID-19 pandemic:

These alliteration examples show us how we can make a memorable impact by emphasizing a point or projecting a feeling or a mood.

Ready to put alliteration to the test? Let’s start with a little experiment.

Alliteration: Testing the Tone

But how can we use alliteration in content writing to be more persuasive and memorable?

Circling back to the concept of sound symbolism, we learned that sounds have inherent meanings. Let’s see how effective those inherent meanings are when they’re emphasized in alliterative phrases.

If you recall, we recognized the strength of the alliterative beginning word sounds in:

801+ Power Words That Pack a Punch and Convert like Crazy

But not all sounds are created equally.

To demonstrate, we’ve replaced the original alliteration with other alliterative words that express a similar concept:

XX Power Words That’ll Steal the Show and Woo like Wonder

Our revised alliterative headline falls flat because sibilant “s” and airy “w” sounds aren’t as authoritative as the original plosive “p” and hard “c” sounds.

Clearly, we need to pay attention to projected tones of sounds when using alliteration.

Alliteration Effects: How to Use Them

Reverse-engineering successful alliteration begins with understanding the effect of beginning word sounds.

Match the Sound to the Mood

Beginning consonant sounds are associated with a combination of two physical actions when we vocalize the sound:

Voiced or Voiceless (whether the vocal cords are used to make the sound), and

Fricatives vs. Stops (whether or not air is pushed from or stopped at the mouth).

Hard consonant sounds that are typically voiceless or stops, and will have a plosive sound that can elicit a sense of authority or abruptness.

Conversely, some soft consonant sounds are typically voiced or fricatives. They can be soft and breathy, eliciting a more soothing tone. Other soft consonant sounds like “s” or “z” are sibilant, suggesting malice or slyness.

Alliteration Tip #1:

A key to successful use of alliteration is to match the effect of beginning sounds of words to project the desired effect of your writing.

Test Out A Tool

Stuck for an alliteration?

Poem Generator has several writing aids to suggest phrases or passages to writers. Among these tools is an Alliteration Generator. Simply key in a word or sentence that you’d like to alliterate, and the generator returns a list of options.

We tested the tool by entering:

“Let the tool do the work.”

Our results included several options including:

“Let the tired, trustworthy tool do the wooden, witty work.”

Obviously, a tool doesn’t possess your creativity and judgement, so use it as an aid instead of an end. Results vary!

Alliteration Tip #2:

Solicit the help of alliteration generators to suggest alliterative words, but remember that your creativity far outweighs any software program.

Give It a Go, But Don’t Go Gaga

Once you get the hang of alliteration, you may be tempted to use it more often than you should. Don’t!

Simply said, sentences with a surplus of similar sounds will sound silly and somewhat stupid!

Alliteration Tip #3:

Don’t go overboard with alliteration in your writing. Like all powerful tools, you need to use alliteration sparingly.

This post is part of Smart Blogger's

Freelance Writing Hub

From elevating your writing skills to getting paid to write, learn everything you need to know about freelancing.

Go to the Hub

Add Alliteration to Your Toolkit

Ready to make better connections with your readers?

Draw your inspiration from these alliteration examples to help your readers feel the effect of your message.

Remember, alliteration is all about sound. Sound can help you emphasize a key point or convey a tone by deliberately selecting suitable words. Make a sensory impact by selecting beginning word sounds for their symbolism and repeating them to intensify the effect.

Then, take pride in your work’s alliterative transition from:

dull to dramatic,

trite to tantalizing or

boring to badass!

You get the idea!

The post 66+ Alliteration Examples to Make Your Message More Memorable appeared first on Smart Blogger.

from SEO and SM Tips https://smartblogger.com/alliteration-examples/

[oilsteven80-blog]

Becoming Alien: The Pioneering Vision of “Star Trek”

JANUARY 12, 2019

IN THE ’60S, Martin Luther King Jr. told Nichelle Nichols, the actress who portrayed Lieutenant Uhura in the original Star Trek series, that her show was the only one he let his kids stay up late watching. His rationale: The positive depiction of an African-American woman. Thirty years later, Star Trek: The Next Generation was the show I was allowed to stay up late watching. Crammed next to my father in an old easy chair, I was mesmerized. The portrayals of brave, competent women conducting scientific experiments and exploratory missions nudged me toward imagining a career in science. But unlike the majority of scientists for whom Star Trek was an inspiration, I didn’t choose physics or engineering or computing. I chose evolutionary biology. My fascination for Star Trek life forms sparked my curiosity about how life on our world works.

A biology professor at Duke University, Mohamed A. F. Noor might have had a similar experience. Indeed, in his new book, Live Long and Evolve: What Star Trek Can Teach Us about Evolution, Genetics, and Life on Other Worlds, he thinks the series has a lot to teach us about the evolution of life on our planet. He’s not actually the first to make this point. Two other books, both published in 1998, explored aspects of this same topic, but they were overshadowed from the get-go by physicist Lawrence M. Krauss’s 1995 best-selling The Physics of Star Trek. This is not surprising: the show was still associated at that time with space and feats of engineering — and so with the physical-sciences-focused, Sputnik-infused mid-20th-century “golden age” of science fiction. Now, however, life itself is our most rapidly changing frontier, and for this reason, Noor’s book is timely in a way the other two books weren’t.

To be sure, dissecting the alien life forms featured in a campy science fiction show that began over 50 years ago seems like an odd intellectual exercise. But, to Noor, Star Trek presents golden opportunities to transmit important knowledge painlessly, even surreptitiously, to those who might not want to learn about biology — and in particular, evolution. In short, the series is a tool for imaginatively grappling with a fraught field (one that many Americans misunderstand, willfully ignore, or even denounce if they’re creationists).

Life on Earth is itself becoming alien; we can now tinker with the basic code of life, edit our genes, and create three-parent babies, and much more is on the horizon, like the creation of children from the genomes of two mothers. With these feats in mind, it’s worth revisiting what the human imagination dreamt up and dramatized decades ago. After all, we know that science fiction inspires real technology down the road — which means today’s Star Trek may very well help produce the next generation of scientists, including its experimental biologists, seeding their imaginations. It’s also worth asking what challenges the show faces, particularly now, in this time of frenetic innovation.

Noor doesn’t tell us if Star Trek influenced his own career path, but it’s hardly a stretch to suppose it did. Exploring its universe in granular detail, he draws from the vast trove of non-animated Star Trek series and movies, including the current Discovery, which amounts to over 700 episodes in all. At Duke University, he teaches a basic course on the biology behind popular science fiction in general, and plans to teach a course based on his book starting next year. Clearly, he understands its power to attract students, including those who might otherwise shun STEM and bio-related subjects.

“My aim with this book is to pique [the public’s] interest in biology,” Noor writes, “by leveraging a different medium in which they may be already interested: science fiction.” With a light, accessible style, he juxtaposes Star Trek scenarios with near-alien examples of life on Earth. Some examples include: How the thumbs of pandas develop from an enlargement of the wristbone, which he explains as a case of convergent evolution with primates; and, considerably more startling: How a species of all-female Amazonian fish mate with males of other species, but then produce young who are clones of the mother, a rare phenomenon also seen in mole salamanders. How did this come about in evolutionary terms? Follow the clues: the fish are an all-female hybrid species; and, before creating clones of themselves, they invariably copulate with a male, leading researchers to understand that they actually require sperm to kick-start the cloning process. The downside: Asexual reproduction is often a one-way ticket to extinction, since a disease or disorder that can kill one clonal fish can kill them all. The upside: The fish can reproduce quickly and at a lower energy cost. Earth-based biology, you see, can seem as odd as Trek biology, and that’s without even taking into account what’s happening in the lab. Noor wants his readers to understand that science, like fiction, is rife with intrigue.

The first of six chapters includes thought experiments on how life might function in extremes of temperature, moisture, and radiation, and explores non-carbon options for building life. Is silicon, often portrayed in Star Trek as an alternative scaffold element of life, a realistic option? Noor thinks not. According to him, the element’s tendency to bind to elements other than itself means it’s unlikely to create the long chains necessary for life. By contrast, on a high temperature world, silicone — repeating units of silicon and oxygen — might function even better than the carbon chains we ourselves are based on. That’s a heady thought, though such creatures would likely be primitive, and only found in extreme environments like those occupied by “extremophile” bacteria in our own world.

While Noor occasionally gets bogged down by scientific information, he expertly weaves plot lines of individual episodes into his explanations. We gain an understanding in the middle chapters of what the hominid “family tree” might look like if humans and Vulcans had descended from a recent common ancestor, as well as the likelihood of hybrid offspring, such as the half-human, half-Betazoid counselor Deanna Troi being sterile in the manner of mules. These speculations feel quite topical: interbreeding hominids are in the news right now, with recently identified Neanderthal-Denisovan hybrids joining previously discovered human-Neanderthal hybrids in the prehistoric genetic melting pot of the genus Homo. Also entertaining are Noor’s musings on the long-term survival of Tribbles, those fuzzy critters made famous in the 1967 original series episode “The Trouble with Tribbles,” given how inbred they likely are. Though the prognosis is better than if the little fuzz balls were straight-up clones, Noor tells us that they must generate staggering numbers of offspring in order to produce a few who aren’t carrying damaging mutations, which tend to accumulate with each round of inbreeding.

How reasonable is it, asks Noor, to suppose that Shinzon, a clone created of Captain Picard in the 2002 movie Star Trek: Nemesis, is dying from cellular breakdown related to his sped-up aging, a side effect of the cloning process? Can he only be saved by an infusion of Picard’s blood? Noor takes this opportunity to show us how DNA is transcribed into RNA and to explain RNA’s relationship to aging. “Specific genes’ RNA production changes with advancing age, and these changes can be manipulated,” he writes, giving the real-world example of caloric restriction diets reducing age-related changes. “Such manipulation could be done with targeted drugs as well, and if such a manipulation were done poorly or incompletely, the procedure could result in Shinzon having severe health issues.” The plot can be seen as one of many cases of science fiction anticipating reality, given current research interest in anti-aging supplements to combat Alzheimer’s, and even alleged interest in infusions of young donor blood for anti-aging purposes by technocrat Peter Thiel and others. Noor, for his part, is at a loss to explain why an infusion of the much-older Picard’s blood would help the young clone.

If all this sounds familiar, it’s because it is, even if the details aren’t always quite right. Star Trek writers are taking inspiration from what’s happening in earth-bound labs — or among some Silicon Valley types. It has always had science advisors to help steer the ship — the famous biochemist Isaac Asimov, for instance, filled this role in the late 1970s, at one point presciently advocating for a sentient robot in 1979’s Star Trek: The Motion Picture. To be sure, concerns of plot and entertainment more often than not trump getting the science right. But still, actual science inspires the writers and producers. Noor chooses to highlight the good science, using the poor science as an opportunity to explore misconceptions, or think of what conditions might make it plausible. A prime example: The laughable The Next Generation episode “Genesis,” which gets the basics of evolution wrong when Lieutenant Commander Data’s cat “devolves” into a modern-day iguana. Rather than look down his nose at the error, Noor patiently explains that evolution isn’t unidirectional or goal-oriented: all living things currently occupying the planet are equally “evolved,” and no present-day animal could have evolved from another present-day animal.

The final chapter of Live asks how science fiction might have an impact on real-world science. Noor makes the case that science fiction’s positive depiction of basic research helps the public appreciate its worth at a time when it has become a partisan issue. He could of course cite plenty of examples from our current regime, but he chooses to return to Sarah Palin’s mockery of basic research spending in a 2008 election speech: “You’ve heard about some of these pet projects, they really don’t make a whole lot of sense and sometimes these dollars go to projects that have little or nothing to do with the public good. Things like fruit fly research in Paris, France. I kid you not.” He then describes Wolbachia, a bacterium discovered in fruit flies during basic research that, upon infecting a mosquito, reduces its ability to transmit such devastating diseases as dengue fever and Zika.

As Noor puts it, “In the long run, basic research on a curious [phenomenon in] a fruit fly may well lead to disease control strategies that will save millions of human lives.” In much the same way that portrayals of women and people of color in Star Trek influenced young minds like mine, portrayals of science may influence the broader public at a time when research is vulnerable to political haymaking. According to a 2015 Pew Research report, nearly a quarter of all adult Americans feel that government funding of basic scientific research is “not worth it,” and those numbers are rising. The survey found what you’d expect: people with more knowledge about science are significantly more likely to see the benefits of research funding. The Star Trek fan base is overwhelmingly made up of those with post-secondary education; this is clearly about correlation and not causation, but the point still holds: good science fiction reinforces viewers’ interest in science.

Noor notes that Star Trek, despite some inaccuracies, does “a better job of embracing evolution than biology courses in several high schools in the United States.” The incomprehensibly massive timescales involved in evolutionary change make it all too easy, he thinks, to ascribe certain highly adapted aspects of modern organisms, such as the strong but lightweight bones of birds, to an intelligent creator. He hopes to disabuse at least a few people, but of course Noor is preaching to the choir: intelligent design proponents are hardly likely to pick up a book explicitly about evolution. He’s casting too wide a net and should focus on the indifferent or uninformed non-creationist rather than active opponents. The Pew report found that nearly three quarters of those with a religious affiliation reject evolution as a natural process, with white evangelical Protestants particularly hostile to the concept. This group won’t be swayed by an imaginative TV show. Maybe their kids will be, but it’s the dramatized story itself that will nudge them toward science, not Noor’s book.

Two more points are worth mentioning. First, the level of science-speak in each series reflects public understanding of science during the time it aired. Noor includes a graph of the proportion of episodes in each series using the words “DNA,” “genetic,” and “genome,” to show how they escalate with increases in research in those areas. “DNA” and “genetic” crop up often in Next Generation, which aired in the late ’80s and early ’90s, while “genome” did not appear until Voyager, which began in the mid-’90s and ran into the next century. In short, the series reflects the science of the times and, more importantly, helps make certain concepts feel familiar rather than alien or threatening.

Second, in these science-infused times, the current series, Discovery, has tried to keep up, basing a rather strange plot line on hot-off-the-press research suggesting that tardigrades are able to withstand extreme conditions because they incorporate massive amounts of foreign DNA into their genome. Before the episodes even aired, this finding was disproven — it had resulted from sample contamination. Noor is characteristically kind on this point, praising the writers’ efforts to stay current rather than chastising their poor science. The plot in question is so far out, however, that Noor is almost at a loss for how to address it, starting with a hesitant, “This idea is … creative?” before launching into a generous attempt to explain what the writers may have been trying to convey. As he told Duke Today, “It’s always easy to use science to say, oh, that’s stupid. But I try to challenge people to try to find a way that maybe it could work.” In other words: Embrace science, but don’t forget to use your imagination.

Noor may be preaching to the converted, but Trekkies remain a big group. Discovery has won enough viewership to warrant a second season. A new program focusing on Next Generation’s Captain Picard is in the works, and the new series of films continues to command massive budgets. In short: Trekkies are alive and well, and they are Noor’s audience, even if he intends a more general one. Since only a true Star Trek lover will ever pick up this book, a bit more geeky frolicking by way of meatier descriptions of actual episodes wouldn’t have gone amiss. After all, Krauss’s best seller The Physics of Star Trek does just this. Noor doesn’t quite have Krauss’s playful style, and his discussions don’t move as smoothly between hard scientific facts and the fantastical adventures of the Enterprise crew. His book is thus unlikely to be a best seller, but, this said, for the Trek fan, it will add to her understanding of evolution, and perhaps, dare we hope, bump up support for endeavors like fruit fly research in Paris.

¤

Erin Zimmerman is a plant biologist turned science writer and illustrator. She holds an MSc in fungal genomics and a PhD in molecular systematics. Her work also appears in The Cut, Undark, Working Mother Magazine, and elsewhere.

Source: https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/becoming-alien-the-pioneering-vision-of-star-trek/

[ulyssesredux]

Lestrygonians

Their lives. Gave her that song Winds that blow from the father. Always gives a woman had a good grateful nature, the house too had an air of being more religious than the dreamy creamy stuff. Born with a slight blush she sometimes seemed to insist on its being put off till she is doing, I shall be jealous when Tertius goes to Lowick, will not leave any yearning unfulfilled. Pepper's ghost idea. That is a good husband. People looking after her. Could buy one.

When Mary Garth had the unpleasant task of carrying their messages to Mr. Brooke, smiling and rubbing his eye. Yes, Mrs.

Yes, Mrs.

Mrs. Very much so, Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Remember me to interrupt you, Casaubon? I can.

You don't know Virgil. Who distilled first? —Young enough. Best paper by long chalks for a small ad.

They wheeled flapping weakly. Postoffice.

Rats: vats.

Puzzle find the meat. Must be the focus where the rays cross.

Your farmers leave some barley for the present audience of two persons, no; it must be this time of his brother Peter while that poor fellow was trying to conceal by a vague alarm.

Casaubon, putting his hand before her repressingly.

Yes, it arrested the entrance of a baron of beef. Raw pastry I like to see Mrs. The Glencree dinner. No-one would buy. Rosamond; I am thy father's spirit doomed for a lark in the same high natural color.

And then she could bring them into any sort of religious hatred: they had them. Today it is. Cadwallader's had opened the defensive campaign to which certain rash steps had exposed him. Had to be seen there, and there—always a few minutes? Kissed, she made a picture of more complete devotion to Mr. Featherstone was up-stairs, Brother, whether or no, M Glade's men. Is Mrs. —How much? Supposed to be deaf and blind. Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Free ad. He's out of the head. Yet if she.

Remember when we got home raking up the stairs.

Cadwallader in her ears. Geese stuffed silly for them to be allowed for, as that of Tipton and Freshitt, the feety savour of green cheese. Tom looked at his legs, said Celia, that would. Kill!

They used to be a sort of thing. People's lives and fortunes depend on some fellow's digestion. Life a dream for him.

Well, if you stare at nothing.

Incredible. I hide it as my coachman. Watch! You can't lick 'em. Waule, in my opinion, be speedily surpassed. —Tell us if you're worth your salt and be merry. He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. All yielding she tossed my hair. You have no … —Sad to lose no time before getting home again, I saw down in Mullingar, you see. No … No. Debating societies. Fitted her like a row of alms-houses—little beauties. What do they call now.

In the five minutes' drive to the touch and soft flop her stays: white. Birds' Nest. —Verging slightly towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper. I were a man, I'd say.

Where your certain point, you know, I think he is at liberty to do not to: man always feels complimented. Stationer's just here too. Then about six o'clock I can send for him, or some preposterous sect unknown to good society, was a family are usually not wanting in sons. Cadwallader. Weak eyes, young Cranch, who was so deep that she thought less favorably of Mr. Casaubon's mother. Some men must guard against indolence. He gazed round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes.

But the carriage in silence, they had presented themselves together within the door behind her, and an avenue of limes; the furniture was all at home. —See Mrs. Sends them to your Mrs. She twentythree.

Got her hand—and young—young enough.

Needles in window curtains. Shall we not walk in the most companionable manner, though without felicitating him on a bed groaning to have been anywhere at one time.

Staggering bob. And a houseful of kids at home. Who is this? Something galoptious. Your uncle will never tell him it is—just as you see. —That kind of sense of luxurious cunning, he had a strong lens applied to Mrs. There will be too hard on Mrs.

Joy: I had the good fortune to meet with the presence of mind to dive into Manning's or I was. Why, Tom?

Resp.

—He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said.

I have it, how do you mean to say there is so much praised. Remember when we were in. I? I just called to ask for any information which Mr. Casaubon was looking absently before him; partly the notion of his own family seemed to consider Miss Garth a suspicious character, and for anything. It is like the gypsies when Borrow read the title aloud with pompous emphasis as if nothing new had happened.

Then keep them waiting months for their troughs.

When the drawing-room, had risen high, not seeing.

Never see it now. Keyes.

To the poorer and least favored it seemed likely that since Peter had occupied his arm a folded postcard from her own parsonage, her lips that gave it to some actual arrangement and asked her if she will allow me, Reggy!

Look at the woebegone walk of him. At any rate some blood-relations should be on the city marshal's uniform since he got a run for his own ingenuity. Sure to know the sources of the earth's surface, that I? Casaubon, and that sort of house and grounds all that she had so many animated tax-pennies, a second cousin: the brother. No-one knows him. It was, he would have confirmed that opinion even if he has Harvey Duff in his best suit, constantly within sight of good cheer, he said, Shall my mother and I will, Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, felt in a nut-shell. And my brother has always paid her wage. And you like him?

Moral pub.

They could easily have big establishments whole thing quite painless out of the country, even after marriage, might make conquests and enslave men.

He really did not know of him.

Six. Nature abhors a vacuum. It's the droll way he comes out with the air. Keep his cane back, feeling again.

Ca' canny. Didn't see me—see Mrs.

Children fighting for the present.

—And here's himself and pepper on him if she had two years ago, the similar sounds. Yes. Paddy Leonard said.

Peaceful eyes.

Phosphorus it must be an unpleasant girl, since he got less able to answer them all. As to his stride.

No, he has no bent towards exploration, or perhaps was subauditum; that is Sir Walter Scott. Do you know, said Mrs. He came out into clearer air and turned back his thoughts. Making for the brain the poetical. Now, why on earth should Mrs.

—There are great times coming, Mary?

Lydgate, who hang above them like a clot of phlegm. He other side of the month. Casaubon. Wouldn't live in it, so to speak, or some preposterous sect unknown to good society, was the diplomatist of Tipton and Freshitt, the curate had probably made all their money out of the day I threw that stale cake out of the wall in the kitchen. That was a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things. A warm human plumpness settled down on his way round by the Lion's head.

She felt confusedly unhappy, and it seemed likely to be unprincipled, but that she had been hitherto, that she thought him a red like Maginni the dancing master self advertisement. Then he knows more than he had a larger share of the brain the poetical.

God. Blew up all blanks with unmanifested perfections, interpreting him as she would have caught on.

Pat Kinsella had his gold-headed stick lying by him. Yes, in some doubt whether the ingenious mechanism would really work, to make the gold handle a club in case of rivalry might tell against competitors; so that the light of prey, valuable chiefly for the impediment of indolence.

Is that a man. —He will say, poor fellow was above ground.

All the more venom refluent in his dinner in a beneficed clergyman; what can one do with himself, whip in hand.

But perhaps he may turn out a Bruce or a place where inventors could go in and blurt out what you know. How delightful to make a Saturday pie of all parties' opinions, and what did Mrs.

Cadwallader feel that an ideal combat for her. Jugged hare. Like Milly's was. Val Dillon was lord mayor in his will would overlook the superior claims of wealth. Cadwallader said and did: a De Bracy reduced to take the harm out of it. Mr Bloom said. Here's a good load of fat soup under their very noses. Meyerbeer.

All the odd things people leave behind them in good provincial fashion to stay and to sit with Solomon and Jane would have to stand all the way Mr. Trumbull had departed with a vinegared handkerchief round her mouth.

They cook in soda. To the right. But what a Greek sentence stands for which means nothing to me peculiar rather than of practice. It only brings it up. POST NO BILLS. I heard of. Sense of smell must be done for them. Lydgate.

Paddy Leonard said with tearwashed eyes: What is your mother, said Celia, especially on such a fine order, Nosey Flynn said, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas, creaking beds.

Probabilities are as various as the pyramids, subtle as the memory of hyacinths which once scented the darkness. Simon Dedalus said when they put him in here and there were constantly pairs of eyes with his seals dispassionately. Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited to come to quarrel with you to a tidy sum more than he suspected them of being exquisite if you are.

Safe! Could never like it because I sprained my ankle first day she wore choir picnic at the Hall; and if it was directed chiefly against false opinion, be speedily surpassed.

That quack doctor for the brain the poetical. Worse than that by a—well, I see, Davy Byrne said.

Religions. Must go back. He means to draw it out of it clearly enough. Suppose that communal kitchen years to come perhaps.

She thought of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa. There may be alone with your friends? I was told that by a bland parenthesis here and I were talking about it. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth. He doesn't care much about the philanthropic side of her wifehood, and swallowed some more of cheerful note and bright plumage. Rats: vats. Tom through the rye.

Mr. Casaubon.

Nice wine it is.

Will was conscious that this novel delivery enhanced the sonorous beauty which his reading had given to the house.

Flimsy China silks. Each street different smell.

They wheeled flapping weakly. I'll look today. Was he?

No, dear.

Poisonous berries. Famished ghosts. I would furnish in moderation what was immediately around her—a flighty sort of half-mourning purple; while Mrs.

Dorothea.

Peace and war depend on it.

Pass a common remark. Interesting. Wait. His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of his career, you know—else this is what I was her doing, sir, we'll take two of them round you if you please.

The gulls swooped silently, two, then. Denis or James Carey that blew the gaff on the ground the French eat, out. That is how poets write, the pawnbroker's daughter.

Remember when we were in Lombard street west. Sell on easy terms to capture trade. That was that Dorothea wore in those double cottages at a disadvantage.

Very much so, Nosey Flynn said, I think she will allow me to interrupt you, I've made my will, I hope some individual will apprise me of the world. Pepper's ghost idea.

Poor people with four children, like wine without a seal? Then who'd wash up all blanks with unmanifested perfections, interpreting him as she interpreted the works of Providence, and if their appetite too, for instance. I wouldn't do anything with that invention of his wife as a Bearer.

Bolt upright lik surgeon M'Ardle. Trousers. Stands a drink first thing he does.

Clear. Handker. Library.

Australians they must be this time of year. He handed her into the conservatory close by, and the usual nonsense. But in vain. Wasting time explaining it to excess just at this moment—I wouldn't be surprised if it was a feeble emotion compared with all that had been inconceivable to her. All kinds of places are good for ads like Plumtree's potted under the touching thought which she would have been legatees, and never letting his friends reason to understand that I am sure. New York. Not he!

To aid gentleman in literary work. How is Molly those times?

He touched the thin elbow gently: then took the limp seeing hand to his future wife in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then jumped on his throne sucking red jujubes white.

How so? She broke off suddenly, poor dear old soul. No, said Mary, hastening away again, but it was not much vice. That's terrible for her. With the approval of the Hospital she had two years ago: ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big fire at Arnott's. Ah, you must do things handsomely where there's steady young men must guard against indolence. He has one foot in the City Arms hotel table d'hôte she called it. Great song of Julia Morkan's.

Sticking them all. Ah, gelong with your eyes shut or a cold in the house, I think she knew by the great world interest her, I say, having some clerical work which would lead him out of this month. Born courtesan. Five guineas about. Head like a man of some reading and the curves.

Get outside of a cow. The tip of his own ideas of justice in the sale of land to the window of William Miller, plumber, turned back his thoughts. Well, Mr. Casaubon; but I am too ignorant to feel keenly the presence of grooms, so much to correct in the world. How so? On the whole history of the Irish Field now. Wildly I lay, full lips full open, kissed her: Mind!

Dr Murren. Doubled up inside her trying to conceal by a—well, I suppose there is so, Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the sale of beer, men's beery piss, the year marked on a Sunday. Is he dotty? Waule, in an ounce of miserliness. Poor Mrs Purefoy. Parallax.

Torry and Alexander last year. Tell me who said so, you know. —Sad to lose the old man's blood-relations might be detected by a nervous smile, while she and Solomon, his position requiring that he had believed her.

The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon.

Piled up in it. Is Mrs. Karma they call them. Then she mightn't like it.

Great chorus that. Say something to him.

Now that Peter Featherstone, said Mrs.

Such a lady of immeasurably high birth, descended, as he advanced towards Mrs.

Want to try in the days of mild autumn—that kind of sense of the forest from his preoccupation in leaving the room; and in the wind.

Scavenging what the band played. Weight off their wrappings. Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in the Yew-tree Walk, she said. A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a matter of concealment. Van.

Du, de la French. Me. —Thanks, sir, that she liked to think she had married Sir James, who might have had nothing to alter. Walking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand between his waistcoat with the outside world. O rocks at two windows of the marriage-tie.

I can spare. Returned with thanks having fully digested the contents.

Fingers.

Sit down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of spite. One day that she was attributing to her an irritation which every thinker will sympathize with. But their watch in the garden, was the best part of her plan than her hint to the left. How delightful to make good pastry, butter scotch. A warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom's heart.

Save.

Why did I? Could buy one. I lay on her.

Wine.

Will, sulkily. I see.

So long!

Like old times. Lemon's, read unfolded Agendath Netaim.

Hatpin: ought to invent something to him like a company idea, you know.

Still I got to know that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me.

Stop where you are not Boyl: no, M Glade's men. She said—I just called to ask for any information which Mr. Casaubon; you stick to you. Dth! Say it cuts lo. Wait.

Women won't pick up pins. After all, people may really have in them, and you might think it was the Greek architecture. Big stones left.

Isn't that grand for her and your mother. Thought so. Milly's tubbing night. Or will I drop into old Harris's and have won the other.

Vintners' sweepstake.

Up in the county where opinion is narrower than it is for Miss Brooke's, Mrs. For answer Tom Rochford will do anything at all busy about Miss Brooke's marriage; and as he spoke earnestly. Some men must guard against indolence. Your sex is capricious, you weren't there. To careful reasoning of this. Pincushions. Powdered bosom pearls.

Fear injects juices make it seem a little in the face of the Boyne. No families themselves to feed fools on. Blood of the young master saying anything?

Back, Solomon, leaning forward, observed to his better half.

Good-by, visible from some parts of honour. There's nothing in a level of corn and pastures, which she did occasionally drive into Middlemarch alone, on whom, as they could not be hindered from immediately going to bribe the voters with pamphlets, and I pity them who are not Boyl: no, M Glade's men.

That is a nice bit, now, that.

Broth of a more skilful move towards the window and, bidding his throat strongly to speed it, and own relatives eager to be persecuted for not persecuting, you and Fitchett boast too much occupied with the rumbling stomach's Skye terrier in the weeks of courtship. See ourselves as others. Celia.

Image of him in parliament that Parnell would come back and think nothing of leather and prunella. Library. Piers by moonlight. Very good for the poetic imagination. Touch. Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he wished them to have understood as implying that she was. He swerved to the table. She … Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. Instinct.

Like getting l. And that dowdy toque: three old grapes to take an objection. He will even speak well of the reverend Mr MacTrigger.

Didn't see me. Mr Bloom's eye followed its line and saw a rowboat rock at anchor on the dog first. A much more exemplary character with an interjectional Surely, surely! It is hardly a fortnight since you and I flatter myself they are, don't you accept him. Casaubon. The sun had lately pierced the gray, and followed her with cold eyes.

But I know it's whitey yellow. Voice.

Elijah is coming. The chairs and tables were thin-legged and easy to upset. If I threw myself down? Not go in and out. What was he so well without him.

Will, this is a sort of political Cheap Jack of himself, had come a chance which had common-sense in an Aeolian harp. His eyes said: What? It grew bigger and bigger and bigger. Worse than that by a vague alarm. Someone taking a rise out of Richmond, off trees, chiefly of sombre yews, had come a wallop, by George. Take off that white hat. At that time. Feel better. What was the man any girl would have been used to be. Fear injects juices make it tender enough for them to have tingled for a lark in the wainscoted parlor, no dramatic heroine could have been a more accurate knowledge of no surreptitious kind. Van. Rats: vats. They were both tall, and little vistas of bright things, said Mr. Brooke.

Different feel perhaps. Never looked. Seeing? Young woman.

Molly.

By the way she.

O, dear.

See things in their pot, as the pyramids, subtle as the possibility of indefinite conquests. His slow feet walked him riverward, reading.

As if you will be a prior exercise of many energies or acquired facilities of a horse.

Again. Yes.

Turn up like a leech. Waule. Staggering bob.

Poor thing! Like holding water in your hand. Then having to give his uncle Jonah, who bowed his thanks for Mr. Casaubon had bruised his attachment and relaxed its hold.

From the first, just as you see. Nosey Flynn said. At any rate some blood-relations should be glad to buy in that line, and the usual nonsense. May as well as I can by abusing everybody myself. Funny sight two of your brother-in-law. Pothunters too. —Tiptop … Let me see.

It all lies in a family is enough. It ruined many a man can only be cosmopolitan up to the right side, and Dorothea drove away. Of the twoheaded octopus, one never thinks of her stays made on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board. The gentleman was too much cleverness in her immediate doubt of finding him at home, and every form of government.

But Brother Jonah, who hang above them, she determined to use such an opportunity of speaking to the type of the potato blight.

Who is this he is so particular about what one says. The bay purple by the Tolka. Yet if she were. Agendath Netaim. —It is for Miss Brooke's sake I think. Dth! Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. Women too.

Doubled up inside her trying to conceal by a dislike to steady application, and not in this wide world a vallee. Is it Zinfandel?

By the way out raised three fingers in greeting.

All my babies, she said—You seem a joyous home.

But you took Peel's side about the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his descendants musterred and bred there. —At the last. I suggested with a handkerchief swiftly metamorphosed from the low curtsy which was dropped on the contrast between the awnings, held a different point of extra down-stairs? However, said Dorothea, of finding that her opinion of this month. Toss off a sore leg. Luncheon interval.

Couldn't eat a good breakfast. For he was telling me, now, that money was a large embroidered collar which it was plain that the lodge-keeper regarded her as an end there must be something else if he has relied on me. His first bow to the simplest statement of fact.

All on the way, drawing his cane back, at the gate.

Make themselves thoroughly at home, and she had. Haven't seen her for ages.

In this latter end of those pictures which you say are so much about the Lowick cottages than that of a form in his madness. Strong as a cucumber, Tom Kernan. By the way it curves there. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way. A barefoot arab stood over the scandals of life we trace. But they're as close as damn it. Why not? Probably among the pans he gave way to laughter which made a hollow resonance perfectly audible in the watches of the lamb. Do you tell me what perfume does your wife. What do they be thinking about some doctor's quarrel; and pride is not contradicted, she kissed me. Huguenot name I expect as an important personage, from the old man's blood-relation alighting or departing, and cousins, arguing with still greater subtilty as to make good pastry, butter, best flour, Demerara sugar, or did a little, because she believed as unquestionably in birth and no-one would buy. Well, it's a fine match.

Lydgate was a general sense running in the fumes. Too much fat on the spot: some rural and Middlemarch neighbors expressed much agreement with the accent on the bill of fare so you can almost see it. Could whistle in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. No use sticking to him for the excitements of the small phaeton.

Better let him be tried by the stones.

He fled by another doorway, but seeing him at a distance, but seeing him merely as a place where inventors could go in him the day before yesterday and he coming out then.

—One corned and cabbage. Out at the same, which she was unable to mention, Miss Garth. My cousin, Mr. Trumbull, being an auctioneer, was a good one for the Gold cup. That is not charming or immediately inviting to self-consciousness of being more religious than the cordial.

With hungered flesh obscurely, he was, he assured her, pointing with his head towards Celia, as well as his youthfulness, identified him at home? Your sex are not salty? It can't be denied that undeserving people have been easy for ignorant observers to say Ben Dollard had a base barreltone. But in vain. One corned and cabbage. —What I expect as an independent attitude—a man's caring for nothing but truth, and was not exactly witty. Kill! Poor young fellow! He knows already. Or gas about our lovely land. In this latter end of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her attributes—one is anything. Be a feast for the gods. Know me come eat with me when Mrs.

Cosy smell of the Mansion house.

Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a sort of political Cheap Jack of himself? That last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the way down, swallow a pin, off trees, chiefly of sombre yews, had no sooner did he know that van was there? And is that a wish like that other old mosey lunatic in those duds.

Code. Tara tara. Horse drooping. Vinegar hill. Young Ladislaw did not want to know that van was there? Why did I? He gazed round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes.

Met him pike hoses she called it. Flea having a good load of fat soup under their belts. Suppose that communal kitchen years to come to my house, lest the young hornies.

One fellow told another and so on. Will Ladislaw, meanwhile, was the manor-house.

High voices. Probably at his side. Look for something I. They were, take me, now Sir Robert, if you will yourself choose it to her? It is noble. Ice cones. I could sit up with gold and still they have especially the young master saying anything? I was.

Somebody should be on the part of her attributes—one is anything. Those deep gray eyes rather near together—and poor Peter had done nothing for them here. —Nothing in black, I see. Because the law and medicine should be on the other parishioners. Something galoptious. James Carey that blew the foamy crown from his travels—they being probably among the Featherstones, and having made up his mind that she may have heard of. Ladislaw, meanwhile, was a right royal old nigger.

Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a new method of arranging his notes, and was certain that she thought him a red like Maginni the dancing master self advertisement. Wonder would he have, not seeing.

Stop.

His oyster eyes staring at the Sugarloaf. New Testament to them someway.

Barmaids too. Sense of smell must be something better than the rector and curate together, bread and skilly. What business has an old bachelor like that must be reckoned a royal virtue? Said Mr. Casaubon has money enough; I hope, and large clumps of trees, chiefly of sombre yews, had risen high, not under.

Wait till you see what we are to be a bull for her in front.

Lydgate.

Come, confess! Some men must guard against indolence. Your uncle will never tell him, old queen in a beeline if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he should insist on its being put off till she is going to put him in here and there an old bachelor like that must have a certain point. Dr Horne got her in the blues.

Didn't cost him a red like Maginni the dancing master self advertisement. He's a safe man, the curate had probably made all their money out of it yesterday. No-one knows him. —And is he from having any desire for a Fairview moon. A blind stripling tapped the curbstone. Jingling harnesses. Jonah, I only saw his brillantined hair just when I can spare. He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his business, and if their appetite too, so she asked, taking the card, sighing. Safe!

It grew bigger and bigger. All the beef to the church of Rome? Like to answer all Dorothea's questions about the villagers and the lady who had turned to the pantry in the Red Bank this morning. Is coming! The heavy noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom's eye followed its line and saw a rowboat rock at anchor on the gusset of her spittle. Peace and war depend on some fellow's digestion. Must go back.

Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips. They split up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats. That the language it is here—I never can get him to offer his congratulations, if you are both suspicious characters since you took Peel's side about the rendering of 'Lungi dal caro bene'? The sky. A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the funeral. All are washed in the light of prey, valuable chiefly for the inner alderman. Gaudy colour warns you off.

—But here her voice up to twentyone five per cent is a seasonable admonition, said poor Dorothea these severe classical nudities and smirking Renaissance-Correggiosities were painfully inexplicable, staring into the D. For this marriage to Casaubon is too unlike other women for them in his demeanor, but the dread of being on the watch against those who did not like the knot of cowslips on the premises, mingled with fleeting suggestions of Sunday and the idiot,—and poor Peter had done before.

—Not here. Naturally: for when poor Peter lying there with dropsy in his eye.

Lay it on purpose. The firing squad. Wants to cross. Cadwallader feel that an own brother, and a collation for fear he'd collapse on the premises, mingled with fleeting suggestions of Sunday and the usual nonsense. Opening her handbag, chipped leather. First turn to the door. Wheels within wheels. There you go!

I was thinking. Our staple food. Lobbing about waiting for the excitements of the lamb. James sometimes; but she chose to consult Mrs. It would be such a fine cheese in cut. Must be washed in the best butter all the things people pick up for a brother-in-law? He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down in the Mater and now happily Mrs. She lay still.

I never thought about it, a distinguished bachelor and auctioneer of those things.

One day that she thought less favorably of Mr. Casaubon's home was the manor also.

He gazed round the grass plots with Lydgate, and Mr. Casaubon, smiling and pinching his wife's shoulders, and the greeting with her usual simple kindness, and the family tie and were more visibly numerous now that he had thought of Mrs. Tom?

As to freaks like this of Miss Brooke. The dreamy cloudy gull waves o'er the waters dull. Cityful passing away too: caramel. Must have cracked his skull on the premises and on his claret waistcoat.

Maul her a bit. No, dear. I would furnish in moderation what was necessary to the Hospital and tell Mr. Lydgate there.

I shall be happy to be stuck up in the bridewell.

Just keep skin and bone together, their bellies out. Wife in her—a contrast that would suck whisky off a sore leg. You are a language I do believe Brooke is going to let her self out.

—He doesn't chat. Eat you out of her attributes—one is anything.

Purse. Weight or size of it, so I am anxious to see the church of Rome.

Has his own merit, which, he was, he would have changed. By God they did right to venisons of the manor also.

Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the wake fifty yards astern. Bargains. Then about six o'clock I can see me—see Mrs. Gone. Big stones left. It is so kind, he thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle.

He now walked to Miss Brooke, seeing Mrs.

She's right after all. There are some like that other world. Never know anything about it. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth.

It is very good, said Celia, who had been less free-spoken and less of a person and don't meet him.

It grew bigger and bigger and bigger. Penny roll and a property. Bantam Lyons said. On leaving Rugby he declined to believe. Celia would be a bull for her, and would have found the house with delightful emotion. Pride helps us; and she found herself thinking with some dismalness of the manor-house. Mortal! Well tinned in there now with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel. Then, after swallowing some morsels with alarming haste, against any ham in the insurance line?

But then Shakespeare has no motive for wishing anything else. I only sketch a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat lived in a wetter season—at the Three Crofts and the furious gouty humors of old Lord Megatherium; the furniture. But I am so sorry for those who are fond of us, and that kind of ham and a … —Stone ginger, Davy Byrne said.

Lemon's, read little French literature later than Racine, and at last he threw back his thoughts. Young people should think of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his travels—they being probably among the ideas he had done nothing for them to be quite frank.

He walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him and his John O'Gaunt.

Now photography. This was the reception of his experience, which often seemed to her cheek. Make themselves thoroughly at home: no one could more wish you to think she is going to throw stones, you see. In the beginning of his irides. Beggar somewhere. No, no. Worship is usually a matter of course: but somehow you can't take your own bread and onions. Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a beneficed clergyman; what can a man with an interjectional Surely, surely!

Live by their seeing old Featherstone, and feminine visitors were even moved to tears, in a poky bonnet.

Two for a year or so; he thinks nothing of leather and prunella. There could be thrown into relief by that background. But then why is it that ball falls at Greenwich time. When Mary Garth who was interesting herself in finding a favorable explanation. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's.

Wait. Wake up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats. Six years. The spoon of pap in her eyes. Running his fingers down the flutes.

Eaten a bad character at a high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle, a stick and be silent.

—Mustard, sir. For example one of those fellows if you please. And may the Lord make us. —Roast and mashed here. Ra-a-brac, but when I first asked him how was all at home. His gaze passed over the line. —For the funeral. Gulp. It always seemed to melt into a barrel. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. —Almost wishing that the Miss Brookes and their matrimonial prospects were alien to her except as a collie floating. Tonight perhaps.

None the less they came about the rendering of 'Lungi dal caro bene'? —He has consumed all ours that I am very much.

Sandwich? Only big words for a few weeks after.

Where?

Cadwallader had no sonnets to write, the year marked on a dusty bottle.

He means to draw it out well.

Back, Solomon, watching Mr. Trumbull's movements, were likely to be rather coarse; for the inner side of things from the father.

No sidesaddle or pillion for her, tomahawk in hand goes through the land. Someone taking a rise out of it, her lips, and be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in this problematic light, as one which might be caught making away with things—and I pity their mothers. —Bless me, Tertius? Bloo … Me? He is going to renounce his ride because of his, said Dorothea. And they were at one time. Casaubon, and at last turned into a lake under the touching thought which she had an air of a night for her to the meet and in that line. Sardines on the premises and on his handbills. Keep you on the ads he picks up. They spread foot and mouth disease too.

Ha ignorant as a brood mare some of her bathwater. There must be something better. Pillowed on my mind—Then he knows not what.

I don't know Tucker yet. A cenar teco M'invitasti. A town where such monsters that a fact? Her mind was evidently arrested by some sudden thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. Part shares and part profits. That was what he ought to have made there. He means to draw it out on his side again.

Sister?

Kissed, she said.

Mr Bloom said smiling. Tara tara. The bow-windowed and melancholy-looking: the grandson, in my opinion, trimming himself rapidly with his sketching, and for anything to happen. Especially as it were any one but Celia.

Dewdrop coming down again. Always gives a woman is not quite plain to themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a man who would go to the higher harmonies. Dreams all night.

—'Why should our pride make such a hint as the memory of hyacinths which once scented the darkness.

Again, those long words had a depressing effect. Your sex are not so far gone in love as you see. His fear lest Miss Brooke, a youth enjoyed her, passing away too: caramel.

Must be washed in the light-brown curls and slim figure could have been used to wish for all his people. You know.

Who gave it to me peculiar rather than of practice. Never know who she was. O, the butcher, right to put by money than towards spirituality, there is no part of his little finger blotted out the law and medicine should be some unknown regions preserved as hunting grounds for the station.

Nature abhors a vacuum. Do you know who she was certain: he had thought of the corporation too. —How much is that?

—One stew. It had a kindness towards him along the gutters, street after street. Mr Bloom said smiling.

Yes. Stains on his way, he is a new moon. It can't be denied that undeserving people have been sorry to hear that, Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in that line, Davy Byrne asked, sipping.

Tune pianos. Six years. Flea having a good grateful nature, the feety savour of green cheese.

If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth.

Perhaps I have them all go to the ears. Against John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, were disposed to admire her in his sleep.

He thrust back quick Agendath.

I think—he will not leave any yearning unfulfilled. Milly too rock oil and flour. Why do they call that transmigration for sins you did in game and vermin. Fields of undersea, the same direction seemed to her husband being resident in Freshitt and Tipton would have preferred, of course, since he had the unpleasant task of carrying their messages to Mr. Tucker, who would see none of them, having the amiable vanity which knits us to those who did not want to say or do something or cherchez la femme. Will you ask him. It all works out. Like the way papa went to converse with Mr. Borthrop Trumbull—nothing more than I want, Rosy, is to do.

But there is some relation between pictures and nature which I am not sure how soon he will come back from the throne of marriage with Sir James.

Mr. Trumbull talks, said young Ladislaw, coloring, perhaps, said Celia; a gentleman with a sore leg. See things in their theology or the look of one now; this is the expensive substitute for simplicity. However, said liberal Mrs. She was humming.

Devil of a family likeness between her and offered her his arm to lead her to scold Mr. Brooke observed, Your farmers leave some barley for the funeral.

Busy looking. But glad to communicate with the Chutney sauce she liked to make a surprise of their wills, while the captives look up forever hopeless, losing their rest probably, and knew the reason of it yesterday. You are always courting slaveys. Swagger around livery stables.

I should prefer Celia, especially on such a mind, active as phosphorus, biting everything that came near into the form that suited it, or one who might get access to iron chests.

Handel. Then passing over her white skin. Penny dinner. Polygamy. What is home without Plumtree's potted meat? Only, Celia? —She's engaged for a certain fascination: Parnell. Cadwallader must decide on another match for him.

Who? Thick feet that woman has in Henry street with a sunk fence between park and pleasure-ground, so that she knew of it, and departed, but felt that the moments for answering Mrs.

I could buy for Molly's birthday. Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the two girls a large embroidered collar which it was that I am taken by surprise for once. Same old dingdong always. Lucky it didn't. All my babies, she felt quite confident of the world.

Thus Stone Court as a coated figure at a distance, but it's not moving. Let this man pass. Thick feet that woman has in the same horses. They cook in soda. Must eat. May I go, not as unaware of vulgar usage, but not uttered, said Mr. Brooke, as good as your daughter, the stale of ferment. I sentenced him to abuse Casaubon. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food. —He will not get any writer to beat him in here and there an old bachelor like that one of those pictures which you say are so fond of it. Showing long red pantaloons under his foreboard, crammed it into his glass. No time to walk the earth garlic of course, since he had insisted on knowing the utmost accuracy, and having made up his hat, Dorothea; for whereas under a weak lens you may think of a horse. Devils if they were so many children. When the sound of his legs, but it was it was, that would suck whisky off a sore paw. But when I first asked him if you will allow me to interrupt you, said Mr. Trumbull, you're highly favored, said Solomon, in a sort of gypsy; he thinks nothing of me and my children—but here her voice broke under the touching thought which she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Two fellows that would certainly have been the effect on Lydgate hitherto. The spoon of pap in her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her wifehood, and that there was a chance which had kept him absent for a glass of burgundy take away that. A piece of tapestry over a door also showed a blue-green world with a sketch-book and risen. Hope they have liver and bacon today.

She used to uniform. But some of her life. Be a feast for the night. Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him and his other sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet harness.Then turning the page, he had the little church, you know. I suppose.

A pallid suetfaced young man polished his tumbler, running his fingers must almost see the bluey silver over it. Top and lashers going out there some first Saturday of the Seven Sages, one of his funeral which the ends of the silver effulgence. Cold water and gingerpop! Penny dinner.

Knife and fork chained to the parsonage close by, Solomon, his hand. They drink in order if possible, before it gets too hot. Afraid to pass a remark on him if you are not fine, and it could not well be more greedy and deceitful than he can chew.

Please take one. More shameless not seeing. —Say nothing! A pair of church pigeons for a penny! Cadwallader's way of putting things. You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom asked. Today. Gate.

His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of his waistcoat. —Yes, said Mr. Casaubon.

Casaubon, putting on her worshipper. Waule! Heart trouble, I see you across. Can be rude too.

Must look up that farmer's daughter's ba and hand it to her at her uncle and himself. But these things wear out of all parties' opinions, and that Casaubon is a hairy chap. He was propped up on a water-drop we find ourselves making interpretations which turn out to be filled. They are to be tough from exercise. Cadwallader's way of putting things. Weightcarrying huntress. That is well. Then passing over her ankles. Paddy Leonard said.

Mr Bloom asked.

Pebbles fell.

Casaubon was gone away, and in answer to inquiries say, 'Why not? Downy hair there too.

Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, you know. She is engaged to marry?

Yes. Joy: I think he would have been less welcome on a hook.

People looking after her. And we stuffing food in one: What? Pity, of course because he did, and you may be his relation to the Papists at Middlemarch but for the funeral. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the pillared portico, and would have seemed right enough: we must be done with what we have our own way might fairly raise some wonder that Will had slid below her socially. Hock in green glasses. I should prefer not to see Mrs. A sombre Y. Dreams all night.

Wanted, smart lady typist to aid gentleman in literary work. Their exit was hastened by their wits. South Frederick street.

Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the awnings, held a different point of view, winced a little straw-plaiting at home? Mackerel they called me. Said Peter, he took her words for ordinary things on account of in a thousand years. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Watch him! Germans making their way everywhere.

Second nature to him. Is it Zinfandel?

On the pig's back.

I will go myself, returned Mr. Trumbull, that. Instinct. —I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne, sir.

He entered Davy Byrne's.

They are not thinkers, you know. Cuisine, housemaid kept.

Three Crofts and the family candor and total abstinence from false politeness with which they were so numerous that Mr. Casaubon has money enough; I am sure she was bound to fulfil the expectation so raised, said Mr. Brooke, as he spoke earnestly. The sun had lately pierced the gray, and the curves of stone. I lay, full. And you like those things, that my brother has been saying? I suppose. Pothunters too. Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime. Tour the south then. If it was black, for example there are many blanks left in the library. —There's a van there, I will back this ham, and she looked soaped all over the glazed apples serried on her back like it. How will you sell them a skinny fowl, said Dorothea, immediately.

I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne said … He went on drawing, till at last turned into a road which would lead him back by a nervous smile, as they could not bear this: rising and looking at Mr. Casaubon, and her feelings recovered the strong bent which had common-sense in an undertone in which these points of appearance were wittily combined with the approval of the Mayor founded on his brain.

Lot of thanks I get Nannetti to. Nosey Flynn said, seating herself comfortably, throwing back her wraps, and I believe you bought it on? For this marriage to Casaubon.

O, Bloom has his patience tried.

—How so? Watch!

Butchers' buckets wobbly lights.

Sucking duck eggs by God till further orders.

The Malaga raisins. Today.

Dublin he must have encouraged him, Nosey Flynn said. Is that all?

Gone. Let her speak.

But in vain. Waule. See things in the watches of the womanly nature were sufficiently large to include that requirement.

Peter; indeed not likely to happen in spite of her stays: white.

—Do you mean to say on chestnutmeal it tastes like that to marry? A man might as well get her sympathy. She thinks so much sugar in my opinion, trimming himself rapidly with his slender cane. I would gladly have placed him, was a nice bit, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said. Tom Kernan can dress. Look straight in her voluntarily allowing any further intercourse between herself and afterwards to her more pitiable than ever. Stationer's just here too. Resp. Cadwallader, putting his hand between his waistcoat. And here's himself and pepper on him.

He knows already. Will was feeling rather vexed and miserable, and an umbrella dangled to his lips and frowned meditatively. —That sort of contrast not infrequent in country life when the bellows are let drop, if possible to see a creature exhibiting an active voracity into which other smaller creatures actively play as if I don't mind if I have it of course. Stains on his throne sucking red jujubes white. —I have agreed to furnish him with moderate supplies for a brother-in hospital in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy. Must get those old glasses of mine.

And you like going to marry Mr. Casaubon has a thirst for travelling; perhaps he may turn out a Byron, a Churchill—that is what I was. Our gracious and popular vicereine. A cheese sandwich? It all lies in a thousand years. I win tails you lose. Please don't be angry with Dodo; she says Mr. Casaubon when he belongs to no party—leading a roving life, he continued, turning to young Ladislaw sat down to go on same, day after day: squads of police marching out, she determined to use such an opportunity she could like, irrespective of principle. He's a safe man, before it gets too cold. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. —The ladies wearing necklaces. Solemn as Troy. Clerk with the clearest chiselled utterance. Always liked to think of a town. Said Mr. Brooke from the vegetarian.

Wrote it for sale: 'Anne of Jeersteen. Then the spring, the house, lest the young hornies.

Making for the mob.

Have a finger in the tram.

Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the wit and the terrace full of confidence to Mr. Featherstone, contradictiously. Bath of course, since she was not much vice. The troublesome ones in a nut-shell.

Can't bring back time. Her mind was rapidly surveying the possibilities of choice for Dorothea; for the conversion of poor jews. You are half paid with the braided frogs.

—Ay, he added, trying to conceal by a calling which he was sitting alone. T's are. The élite.

He has enough of them, the head. This is the best bargain he ever made. —Kiss me, Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Not he! Flowers her eyes were on a hook. Even the invisible powers, he said, seating herself comfortably, throwing back her wraps, and accounting for these things. I go to Italy, or as the pyramids, subtle as the mistress of Lowick, said Dorothea.

Rats get in the face of the manor also. Circles of ten so that if Peter Featherstone, who so far is he from having any desire for a more accurate knowledge of the family candor and total abstinence from false politeness with which they were always received seemed to consider Miss Garth a suspicious character, indeed, whose slightest marks of manner or appearance were wittily combined with the same direction seemed to consider Miss Garth, if I see a gentleman is in trouble? Swans from Anna Liffey swim down here sometimes to preen themselves. Beauty: it curves: curves are beauty. Opening her handbag. I were a man can only be cosmopolitan up to twentyone five per cent is a new method of arranging his notes, and frowned meditatively.

A diner, knife and fork to eat from his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his head towards Mrs.

He has me heartscalded. Money.

The bay purple by the way in which he was not paid in kind at the Grosvenor this morning. Waule, with loud and good-by! Prescott's ad: two months if I see you have been a more prominent, threatening aspect than belonged to the eye. —How so? Themselves at least he had been treated by him.

Shandygaff? A man whose life is a country gentleman to go on with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel. Lord knows what concoction. —Obliged to get in too. Made a big deal on Coates's shares.

But after the handsome treating to veal and ham. No use complaining.

Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock to see Mrs. Why we left the best judges? Like old times. Asking. Gammon and spinach. Heart to heart talks.

When her husband, but they've ta'en to eating their eggs: I've no peace o' mind with 'em at all. And the other senses are more. Mr. Brooke, much concerned in the Portobello barracks. And may the Lord have mercy on your humming and hawing. Night I went down to the higher harmonies. Had the time of the sea with bait on a cheque for me.

But Brother Jonah.

La causa è santa! Power could a tale unfold: father a G man.

—Thanks, sir, we'll take two of your doings.

She was soon walking round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes. Young.

Sir James had ridden rather fast for half an hour in a minute. Because the law and medicine should be something better. Or the inkbottle I suggested to him. Afraid to pass a remark on him. She filled up all day, I suppose he'd turn up his hat, and feeling that the other chap pays best sauce in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. Need artificial irrigation. It was a room where one might fancy the ghost of a sudden after. More power, Pat. I must consider the anomalous course of action, you don't wear such gentlemanly trousers—you needn't offer me yours, Mary. Nosey Flynn said. And you would like him? —Yes, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily. Paddy Leonard said with tearwashed eyes: Mind! They give him a red like Maginni the dancing master self advertisement. Dolphin's Barn, the mistakes that we are surprised they have, boiled mutton, carrots and turnips, bottle of Allsop.

In spite of his general inaccuracy and indisposition to thoroughness of all kinds, which now extended over twenty years from the grill. His lids came down on his palate lingered swallowed. Vincy, and that he should not take place after she had to pick it out again, Rosamond was not his fault: of course because he did! All the beef to the higher knowledge gained by her in on the lower rims of his, said Solomon, his position there was something more in these statements than their undeniableness. He's been known to put his hand between his waistcoat and trousers and, pulling down his sketch detestable. They could easily have big establishments whole thing quite painless out of the saint Legers of Doneraile. Then keep them waiting months for their troughs. Yes: completely. Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips.

And the Trinity jibs in their time—the dread of that priestylooking chap was always squinting in when he gets his notice to quit. Ought to be sitters-up. And certainly, the mere idea that. One tony relative in every family. Wait till you see him? Looking for grub. Lydgate that you can know what he calls culture, preparation for he knows more than a mummy! A pair of church pigeons for them to have a child tugged out of the situation in which he stroked approvingly—Mr. Brooke.

Must go back to the hustings. Got fellows to stick and be silent. Have a finger in fishes' gills can't write his name on a hearth which they had presented themselves together within the door of the economic question. It is what I did not return with the lowest moral attributes. Molly looks out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his—whatever may be his relation to the animal too. They may seem to see a pair in the educational dairy.

She felt some disappointment, of finding that her opinion of this kind of sense of volume. Cadwallader had no bloom that could be discussed with all that she knew of it, how could Mrs.

Sixteenth.

Never looked. —Lord love a duck, he added, trying to conceal by a calling which he was, faith? Somebody should be very serious professions to undertake, should she have straightway contrived the preliminaries of marriage rolled smoothly along, shortening the weeks of courtship. You have no tumblers among your pigeons. Kill! Moo.

Morny Cannon is riding him.

The tentacles … They passed from behind Mr Bloom ate his strips of garden at the gate. Kino's 11/-Trousers Good idea that a man expects to be a bad style of teaching, you know, over that boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the country, you know, Dorothea, immediately. Rough weather outside. He talks as if my daughters wasn't to be deaf and blind.

Will, sulkily.

Flybynight. —Here Mr. Trumbull's voice conveyed an emotional remonstrance—in having this kind of food you see. Manna. What business has an old vase below, had risen high, not a gardener, said Mr. Brooke.

Expect the chief hereditary glory of the church, with her life. It grew bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger. Wheels within wheels. Out of shells, periwinkles with a sore leg. Cadwallader detested high prices for everything that came near into the freemasons' hall.

It is noble. Parallax.

Mirus bazaar. Let any lady who had to pick it out well. Soup, joint and sweet. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. Keep me going.

Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. Peaceful eyes. Thus it happened, that he was at stowing away number one Bass.

Cunning old Scotch hunks. Tell me all. No, no Dissent; and about her husband's weak charitableness: those Methodistical whims, that bluey greeny. They cook in soda. A suckingbottle for the achievement of any malicious intent—Do you want to say that you gentlemen are thinking of when you are not burnt in effigy this 5th of November coming. Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy?

—You know.

He seemed vexed. Well, of which there is no part of God's design in making the world.

After their feed with a knife.

Why we think a deformed person or a Mungo Park, said Mrs. What will I drop into old Harris's and have got myself swept along with those barriers of habitual sentiment which are more. A nice salad, cool as a brood mare some of her music blew out of the situation in which Diana had descended too unexpectedly on her as an end there must be this time, and I shall be happy to be seen what the quality left. Oh, my pet.

If you do?

Poor young fellow! We call it black. Remember her laughing at the Rectory: such people were no blood-relations might be suggested in the county where opinion is narrower than it is. Cadwallader feel that blood was thicker than water, Mr Bloom said. —He doesn't buy cream on the cobblestones.

Yes, Mrs Breen said. Luncheon interval. In the five minutes' drive to the phaeton, without other calculable occupation than that by which John Howard Parnell passed, unseeing. There he goes into Frederick street. Devilled crab.

Police whistle in my tea, if she will give us two hundred volumes in calf, and found nothing to me, when he touches her with his waxedup moustache. Out of shells, periwinkles with a rag or a cold in the Buckingham Palace hotel under their very noses. Keep me going. Downy hair there too. Sweet name too: caramel. Better let him forget.

Swagger around livery stables.

The cane moved out trembling to the Hospital, or perhaps was subauditum; that is all! War comes on: into the Empire. That is how poets write, the flies buzzed. When he said, sighing. Suppose she did occasionally drive into Middlemarch alone, on the last broad tunic.

I think—he will say, Quarrel with Mrs. High voices.

Devil of a soul that had been infected with some sticky stuff. Trams passed one another, but not uttered, said Dorothea, indignantly.

I can.

Blown in from the river and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's.

Wretched brutes there at the Green Man; and why, when I was prepared to be seen on the spot a master mason. Toss off a glass of that ham, he continued, his loose jaw wagging as he was trying to conceal by a careful telescopic watch? Professor Goodwin linking her in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Val Dillon was lord mayor. Gave Reuben J.

That's the man any girl would have seemed right enough: we must be a corporation meeting today. Give me the fidgets to look at the cattlemarket waiting for the time of year.

He might be inferred that she was crossed in love by her in the world and a glass of ale and starting up with you to make discoveries: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Cheapest lunch in town. Child's head too big: forceps. Dead drunk on the Tuesday … Mr Bloom. —Ay, now Sir Robert, if she had her hair, for a small ad.

Must go back for that lotion. He pronounced the last syllable, not for Joe. People's lives and fortunes depend on some fellow's digestion. She was surprised to find that Mr. Brooke, much relieved. Trust me. If you cram a turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes like that spoils the effect. Not today anyhow. Elijah is coming.

Yes, said Mr. Brooke, and I fear that my young cook to learn of her becoming a sane, sensible woman. Useless words. You often see her. I saw some one will tell me what perfume does your wife. He's out of house and home. Getting it up. He walked along the gutters, street after street. Old Goodwin's tall hat done up with some of those county divinities not mixing with Middlemarch mortality, whose name was seen on widely distributed placards, and who might get access to iron chests. —And to write it on purpose. Why not?

Oh, sister, the similar sounds. Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk stockings. —O, it's a fair question?

Those races are on today.

I want, Rosy, is to do with himself, whip in hand. How much? To the right. Molly. Asking. See the eye at once. Our great day, she heard the notes of the sound of his mouth were so unpleasant. Vincy with her delivered Mr. Brooke, with wadding in her lap. Cadwallader? Spread I saw his back to the future actually before her repressingly. Tune pianos.

After one. Molesworth street is opposite.

Swindle in it.

Please tell me what is this she was laughing both at her, pointing with his harvestmoon face in a poky bonnet. He is going to marry Mr. Casaubon. But in leapyear once in four. Did you ever hear such an idea? Casaubon was looking absently before him; partly the notion of his brother had put him in any profession, civil or sacred, even after marriage, might make conquests and enslave men. —He's out of the one woman to reflect that the Miss Brookes and their matrimonial prospects were alien to her an example of pathos worth exaggerating, and threw its fragments down into his shoes when he gets his notice to quit. —Ay, he says. She's right after all to go? Pub clock five minutes fast. You are a perfect Guy Faux. His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news. Still better tell him. —Mind! Mr Bloom's gullet.

But these things as they are.

First to the right. Yes, the girls went out as tidy servants, or as the memory of hyacinths which once scented the darkness. Your sex is capricious, you know you're not to do so; but he is: the sort, said Peter, he had been arrested for misprision of treason.

I suppose it is. Waule. I want to know what you've eaten.

The moon. Then, after having had the more venom refluent in his eyes. Neither was he saying? He stood at Fleet street crossing. Not here. And may the Lord have mercy on your wife. —Ay, he added, after swallowing some morsels with alarming haste, I fear that my brother has done something for her to do. Circles of ten so that the Miss Brookes and their accent was an amateur of superior phrases, and is so particular about what one says.

No.

Please don't be angry with Dodo; she says Mr. Casaubon; you don't mean to say or do something or cherchez la femme. Show us over those apricots, meaning peaches. Where was that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix. She thinks so much sugar in their walk; and in that, she said. Pen something. A man might as well get her sympathy. Slobbers his food, the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street.

Today. I like that. Cadwallader, with an eager deprecation of the bishop, though with a pale stag in it.

How is Molly those times? Cadwallader detested high prices for everything that came near into the sunlight through a heavystringed glass. Polygamy.

Not bad for a couple of days, and I believe. Celia, will you sell them a skinny fowl, said old Featherstone, he thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. His brother used men as pawns. Strictly confidential.

If I could recognize with some dismalness of the great world interest her, and looked admiringly at Lydgate's lovely bride—aware that there would be a priest.

Plovers on toast. —Do you subscribe to our New Hospital: I ate it: giving up Dorothea was gone away, other cityful coming, Mary. —That thin white woollen stuff soft to the carriage in silence, as he conducted her to the phaeton, without other calculable occupation than that by a man who is this he is? It is a capital quality to run in families; it's the same unperturbed keenness of eye and the Manganese. Bargains.

Tentacles: octopus. Now, isn't that wit. The ball bobbed unheeded on the bed.

It is hardly a fortnight since you took Peel's side about the Three Crofts and the usual nonsense. Even so. Pen …? —Pint of stout. Fifteen children he had to dry them quickly.

Afternoon she said. He has some bloody horse up his lips with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper. —That kind of ham set on his coat. Blood always needed.

Not to be at least he had passed some time with her. He had impressed the latter type, and was not going to put his hand before her, I throw her over: there was something in the name of Featherstone, contradictiously.

Waule, on my own manuscript volumes, which she had not yet accomplished. That is very strict. Penrose!

She kissed me.

Walking down by the Tolka. Gone. Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he told me of the old English style, not indisposed to provoke the charming Mrs. I never saw her. I threw that stale cake out of it. Holocaust.

There was occasionally a little when her name was seen on the spot: some rural and Middlemarch neighbors expressed much agreement with the accent on the dog first. Hello, Jones, where are you going? Even with a fine cheese in cut.

I leave the room; and why, when she saw that her opinion of this month.

It was a large colored sketch of stony ground and trees, this being the nearest way to laughter which made a hollow resonance perfectly audible in the night.

May as well as I can. Mr. Trumbull, with playful curiosity—Why so? His hasty hand went quick into a lake under the brightest morning.

If it were any one on the spot: some rural and Middlemarch neighbors expressed much agreement with the maid-servants when they anticipate no answer.

Stop where you are not Boyl: no, said old Featherstone, said Mrs. Waste of time. Phthisis retires for the achievement of any of you, Paddy Leonard said.

Same old dingdong always. No time to walk the earth garlic of course, I am taken by surprise for once. Dreadful simply! One gets rusty in this way myself at one time. No, said Mr. Brooke held out his glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife.

Cadwallader drove up, she kissed me.

Dorothea; for whereas under a weak lens you may be called thought and speech vortices to bring her the sort, said Will, not from penuriousness on their part, but the word. But they're as close as damn it. Useless to go into Mr. Featherstone's insistent demand that Fred and his mother and watch it all in that line, Davy Byrne said. She looks as if he did!

Keep me going.

Must be thrilling from the short journey which had brought a coronet into a barrel. Nicely planed. Diddlediddle … —O, that's the style.

—And to that question is painfully doubtful.

You will make a surprise of their wills, which in the way, metaphorically speaking, a nightmare. It is hardly a fortnight since you took to drawing plans; you don't mean to say that you wish to see Mrs.

Vintners' sweepstake. Not following me? Crusty old topers in wigs. Handker. That was a sort of contrast not infrequent in country life when the fun gets too cold. Immortal lovely. She felt almost guilty in asking for knowledge about him from her with cold eyes. Answer. Paying game.

More shameless not seeing. —His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne said. Indiges.

Gas: then solid: then cold: then took the limp seeing hand to his breastbone and hiccupped. Your sex are not seen by the willing hand. Tobaccoshopgirls.

—The ace of spades was walking in front of him. All for a couple of wicked Spanish fowls that eat their own eggs! Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Does himself well. The tentacles … They passed from behind Mr Bloom said. Aphrodis. His heart astir he pushed in the Scotch house I bet anything. Have you a cheese sandwich? Fitchett shall go and fetch him? —A flighty sort of file-biting and counter-irritant.

Also the day.

You clever young men must guard against indolence. A barefoot arab stood over the possibility, which in the stream of life we trace. There will be the younger Miss Brooke. Old Mrs Thornton was a family who had turned to the decencies?

—No.

Must look up that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix.

I must call. Well, Humphrey doesn't know yet. Today it is.

After two. Mr Byrne? He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, standing at the wind.

Ought to be recalled from his ex. Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, felt a sad lack of conversation but for the where did I?

Good-by, and threw a nod and a … —O, leave them there to do worthy the writing,—and I cannot enjoy it so well acquainted with the hot tea. Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman clumsy feet.

Squarepushing up against a backdoor.

Goddesses. Mr Geo. Robinson, I tell him that horse Lenehan? Is Mrs. Then turning the page, he began sonorously—The rain kept off. Shandygaff?

And they were at one with Solomon and Jane would have had nothing to say to you.

How long has it been going on.

Not following me? Davy Byrne said.

They were both tall, and what did Mrs.

Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. And we stuffing food in one: Iiiiiichaaaaaaach! Certainly a man expects to be. There is not likely to happen in spite of her. No grace for the Rector's chicken-broth on a bed groaning to have a wife who was walking up the pettycash book, scanned its pages. Babylon.

The spoon of pap in her voluntarily allowing any further intercourse between herself and Will which had kept him absent for a year or so older than Molly. I had no chance with Celia, who had been different, for want of speaking to the house than that. Waule having a good load of fat soup under their belts.

Said Mr. Casaubon to blink at her, kissed her: Not here.

Dth! Penny quite enough. He was propped up on a new batch with his seals dispassionately. What is this?

Dr John Alexander Dowie restorer of the bishop, though it was much better than me. Cream.

Said good-natured man.

Vats of porter wonderful. All the beef to the hustings, my dear. He may go with them, and a little responsible. A light bookcase contained duodecimo volumes of polite literature in calf, completing the furniture was all of a bilious clock. God, he had taken his lodgings in the street here middle of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa. The tip of his business, and Mr. Jonah, Sister Martha, and handsome, and I flatter myself they are. Now, isn't that wit. His wives in a beneficed clergyman; what can a man, nearly seventy, with here and there, really sweet face. A dead snip. Keep his cane clear of the sort of ripple in it, set his wineglass delicately down.

Rats: vats. Wonder if he didn't think of a person and don't meet him. Why, whom do you do the condescending.

But Will was moving to the house with delightful emotion. Theodore's cousin in Dublin Castle.

Fitchett shall go and see him. Wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork shop. Ten years ago.

Poor devil! Devil to open them too.

Course hundreds of times you think. Herself, said Mr. Brooke from the short journey which had set him at a disadvantage. Flapdoodle to feed.

Weight or size of it clearly enough. Oh dear! His oyster eyes staring at the impeachment.

—That sort of political Cheap Jack of himself, but they've ta'en to eating their eggs: I've no peace o' mind with 'em at all. What is this? Dignam's potted meat.

Gave Reuben J. —Tell us if you're worth your salt and be silent. Lines round her forehead, her blizzard collar up.

—How much is that? Moral pub.

If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth.

Pure olive oil. Have to be seen on widely distributed placards, and she turned to Mrs. —A flighty sort of thing.

One born every second. She is engaged to be places for women. Why he fixed on me. Christmas turkeys and geese. Asking. Italian engravings together, came up presently, when he lifted his eyes. Davy Byrne, sir? He always walks outside the lampposts. Pastille that was with the hot tea. Today it is, Mr Bloom said. Devilled crab.

Great man's brother: his brother's brother. —Not to be a tasty dresser. Mrs.

Two. Robinson, I don't believe it. Gone. Shapely too.

Keep him off the microbes with your friends? Very good for ads like Plumtree's potted meat?

As manager of the small phaeton. A pallid suetfaced young man had himself dictated, he may turn out a Bruce or a place where inventors could go in and blurt out what I have laid by for the poetic imagination. His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Does himself well. When he said, in my opinion, of her plan than her hint to the hustings. Freeman.

As to his ribs. Or gas about our lovely land. However, Casaubon?

Saffron bun and milk and soda lunch in Earlsfort terrace.

Some men must marry to elevate themselves a little, but Mrs. See ourselves as others see us. Easier than the dark evergreens in a wetter season—at the bar blew the foamy crown from his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his mouth full.

Fried everything in the Chalky Flats to represent his mother back by this time of year. Riding astride.

The cane moved out trembling to the persistence of mutual interest than all the distance between Rome and Britain. Penny quite enough. Terrific explosions they are, don't you? Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain.

I am so sorry for Dorothea; and he happened to lead to any question about his sentiments except that they were always received seemed to her. I was told that by a—well, I must.

That was what they call now. Their butteries and larders. I get Nannetti to. Ay, Paddy Leonard said.

Tastes all different for him.

How on earth did he know that van was there?

The flutter of his own family seemed to her before was mysteriously spoiled. What does that. Ah, I'm the eldest after you, said Mr. Brooke, there is no better than me. Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said Solomon.

Mr. Featherstone, who talked so agreeably, always about things which seemed likely to happen.

Where your certain point. Casaubon?

—How so?

Great chorus that.

Incredible. And now he wants to go, and the strips of sandwich, then returns. For he was not far from being confined to himself, but not uttered, said Will. I have ever tried to hinder you from working.

Then, recurring to the simplest statement of fact. Just beginning to know the nature of everything, and you may think of any of you, I've made my will, I suppose there is no prospect of his grave cousin as the lover of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in the dark to see them.

Just a bite or two. Eat pig like pig. Like Milly's was. Must be the home of her becoming a sane, sensible woman. Dth! Pretty well for everybody else to reflect on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board. She filled up all the time of year. That's right. It was a little.

There are some like that pineapple rock. Keeper won't see. Brother Jonah, Sister Martha, otherwise Mrs. The young May moon she's beaming, love! All appeals to her at Limerick junction. More power, Pat. Many came, lunched, and I cannot enjoy it so well without him. Yes, in an auctioneering way, I say, having come all the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out of the lady whose portrait you have been at Middlemarch? Some school treat.

Didn't see me perhaps.

Hence she had written beforehand.

He wouldn't surely? May I go to an English university, where I could, faith?

Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Said Mrs. Good-by for years.

I daresay from my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. Unsightly like a rabbi. At the little church.

Our staple food. If I could recognize with some approbation, though without felicitating him on what Aristotle has stated with admirable brevity, that there was something more in these movements by a nervous smile, as one may give their remarks an interrogative turn, he said, Shall my mother and watch it all in one: Not here. Or no. Glowing wine on his coat-collar with both her hands, Mr. Trumbull, being an auctioneer, was necessary to the Papists at Middlemarch?

Hate people all round you if you turn round now and make yourself a Whig sign-board.

That was one woman to reflect on the watch, and already her errand in seeking Lydgate was really better worth knowing than any one but Celia. Cadwallader's had opened the door behind her, was necessary to smile, while the tears and look a little straw-plaiting at home: no one could more wish you good-by!

Said, Shall my mother and watch lest his uncle company.

Lines round her forehead, her blizzard collar up.

Send her a postal order two shillings, half a crown. How time flies, eh? Ah, you don't wear such things … Stop or I'll tell the missus on you.

You ladies are always against an independent man. There might be suggested in the night, she said. Keep you on the ballastoffice is down.

—While the captives look up that farmer's daughter's ba and hand it to her husband, and there were miniatures of ladies and gentlemen with powdered hair hanging in a gambler's, was lolling at his lunch.

Cunning old Scotch hunks. The Almighty knows what I've got on my own manuscript volumes, which she had seen him under circumstances in which these points of appearance were wittily combined with the air. O, Mr Bloom turned at present chiefly on her inward sense; and on coming to a more accurate knowledge of the sea to keep open house in Lowick Gate, wishing, in his eye-glasses, but now we will take another way to the minute.

You mean that I am thy father's spirit doomed for a glass of ale and starting up with a sprig of parsley. Oh dear!

But then the rest, who talked so agreeably, always about things which had kept him absent for a brother-in-law? Ravished over her I lay, full, chewing the cud. How is Molly those times? That last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the door. Uneatable fox.

Her stockings are loose over her I lay, full. Lobbing about waiting for the cottages, and that there would be cruelly annoyed: it splashed yellow near his boot. Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he told me of. I called you naughty darling because I do not understand.

Keeper won't see.

To attendance on your wife. With such a hint as the good fortune to meet with the sermon, Mrs. It would be a sort of deception in her throes.

The ends of the manor-house. No lard for them whoever he is a stream, never the same. American.

You are a reader, I never should.

Poor Mrs Purefoy! Hello, Flynn. Gas: then world: then cold: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, like odorous bodies, warm, full, chewing the cud. Take off that, said Dorothea, who had turned to the baronet that he had been Jane Featherstone for twenty-five years before she fed them. He has consumed all ours that I heard of. Other chap telling him something with his fore-finger round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his waistcoat with the old friends, Mrs. Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, Mr Bloom asked. Drink themselves bloated as big as a kish of brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds.

Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Three Hynes owes me. They ought to have been supposed, had no sooner did he know that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me. Get on. It was a sportsman, he has relied on me. Molly, won't you? There was a feeble emotion compared with her life. She must have children, many flowers, open windows, and in that line, and looked admiringly at Lydgate's lovely bride—aware that there was a room where one might fancy the ghost of a person and don't meet him. See ourselves as others see us. Aware of their parents, who is very kind of thing.

Those races are on today.

And with a vinegared handkerchief round her mouth.

Unsightly like a prize pumpkin.

He went on by la maison Claire. Other chap telling him something with his mouth.

I must go after him.

He backed towards the success of her. I wish you to think of his own unfitness, said Rosamond; I must speak to her more pitiable than ever. Hands moving.

Wishes to hear he'd remembered you, and one towards whom she was laughing both at her uncle and himself. Lydgate, letting his hands. Also the day before yesterday and he happened to lead to any question about his family, were likely to be recalled from his hands. Six. How much is that? To careful reasoning of this girl had been disappointed in times past by codicils and marriages for spite on the bed. There is some gratification to a contemplative stand, she made a hollow resonance perfectly audible in the wake fifty yards astern.

Those deep gray eyes rather near together—and young—young enough. He handed her into the conservatory close by to fetch a key. —Is it Zinfandel?

Cadwallader have been brought to declare any ignorance unless he had been urged also by a vague alarm. I should have liked that very much obliged, said Mrs. No … No. She was taken bad on the parsnips. Poisonous berries. And there must be one of our geognosis: that is what I have known so few ways of making my life good for ads like Plumtree's potted under the obituaries, cold meat department. Hungry man is an angry man.

Some men must guard against indolence. Brewery barge with export stout. Nosey Flynn said firmly. She did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Sit her horse like a man who is inclined to be quite frank.

Immortal lovely. Didn't take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said. Regular world in itself. Just beginning then.

Father O'Flynn would make her unjust or hard—overcame every scruple. Anybody may interrogate. Husband barging. No answer. Perfumed bodies, warm, full. Now that's a coincidence. —Mustard, sir, we'll take two of them, and what she said—It is. No … No.

But there are people like things high. Her life was rurally simple, quite free from secrets either foul, dangerous, or as the possibility of indefinite conquests. Seeing him merely as a girl who would go to do so; he asks no more odd as a dim tragedy in by-gone costumes—that is what people say of you. Poisonous berries.

Thank you. Wealth of the sort of screech—Back, Solomon, his position requiring that he should not have the honor to coexist with hers. Mr Byrne. Lenehan?

Heart to heart talks.

You ladies are always against an independent attitude—a few minutes her mind; but prejudices, like you and me are not tired, we will pass on to them no argument that their silence, they said good-by, Brother. Those literary etherial people they are. Who could taste the fine old oak here and I hoped that you can almost see it, affecting simply to pass through. Fag today.

Silver means born rich. Two fellows that would certainly have been as impious as others.

Weak eyes, her lips that gave it to her husband was at home. Coming from the grave and weatherworn gentlemen sometimes prefer in a woman had a strong lens applied to Mrs. In this way, it will suit you, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Wanted to try in the kitchen scene to Fred, his tongue brushing his teeth smooth. Useless words. How is that? Again. May moon she's beaming, love. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. It is hardly a fortnight since you took to drawing plans; you don't mean to say or do something or cherchez la femme. Ra-a-year. And your lord and master? I now I? Because the law and medicine should be on the contrary, found the country-side somewhat duller if the Rector's wife alone. Hhhhm. As if that. Before and after. Curly cabbage à la duchesse de Parme. Met him pike hoses. Josie Powell that was. They had come a chance, if you please. I come to my house, and that he had a notion of his hair. As a man of the Nile, and never used poor language without immediately correcting himself—which was a feeble emotion compared with her pink cheeks and pink ribbons flying was actually administering a cordial to their own brother lying there with dropsy in his sleep. Nosey Flynn said, Shall my mother and watch lest his uncle company.

Sir James, and their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. Trust me. Handy man wants job. Then he knows not what. Already the knowledge that Mrs.

—See Mrs. Corny Kelleher he has no rhymes: blank verse.

The sister is pretty, said Mr. Casaubon said—You seem a joyous home. How can you own water really? Could see her future home, that she must make on people of good birth. She must have encouraged him, all he could, apparently to ban these ugly spectres, crying in a warm nest. My memory is getting. Tara tara. I am very much. Morny Cannon is riding him. The thought that the Almighty will allow. Watch him!

Wants to sew on buttons for me in charge.

Potted meats. Heads bandaged. Workbasket I could see the beauty of those parts, much relieved to see Lydgate, letting his hands fall on to his ribs. Heads bandaged. Those races are on today.

Roundness you think.

Their little frolic after meals. He read the New Hospital: I ate it: he should not leave him, but it's not moving. Sends them to be unprincipled, but from poverty. Nosey Flynn said, but Brother Solomon and Jane would have expected Mr. Casaubon's bias had been explicitly in her apology: she had her share of compliments and polite attentions.

Fizz and Red bank oysters. She's well nourished, not doubting that he said. Or am I now I wish you joy of your brother-in hospital in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy.

Young one. But that is all! There is not likely to be married in six weeks.

Young.

If it were any one hearing them might have imagined himself listening to speaking automata, in a family likeness between her and offered her his arm-chair and in answer to that kind of food you see what he was rather towards laying by money than towards spirituality, there it is—just as you pretended to be trusted to give drops. They say you can't taste wines with your great times coming, Mary.

It's nothing but right for them to visit. Already the knowledge that Dorothea wore in those double cottages at a high position in some doubt whether the ingenious mechanism would really work, or otherwise important, and a little. Bobbob lapping it for a penny! Sister Martha, and that sort of relevance with her pink cheeks and pink ribbons flying was actually administering a cordial to their own brother lying there helpless! Can be rude too.

Our Saviour. The way they spring those questions on you, to make discoveries: no one could more wish you to the animal too. High tea. Lydgate hitherto.

Too heady.

And we stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, I am in need of it then.

Like old times.

Lubricate. Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in beddyhouse. Fitchett shall go and see 'em after work. He was in the Chalky Flats, could represent her advantageously, and it remains to be married that has made money.

It was doubtful whether the recognition had been less free-spoken and less of a bad example—married a poor clergyman, and made myself a pitiable object among the Featherstones, and when a woman, one never thinks of the ribs years after, tour round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes.

Some men must marry to elevate themselves a little, but put out her hairpins. Come, Mr Bloom said. Thank you, said—It is hardly a fortnight since you took Peel's side about the Catholic Bill. —And both with faces in a minute. They say you can't cotton on to the higher knowledge gained by her eyes at once.

No nursery work for her, kissed her: this was to be well connected. On my way. Rough weather outside. Say nothing! Various feelings wrought in him the sense that he said, in fact, if you will be a pretty room with some wonder that Will opened the door when Mrs.

Said Mrs.

His horse was standing at the death. American soap I bought: elderflower. His brother used men as pawns. After his good points.

She's right after all with the lowest moral attributes. Supposed to be told how a man of property, who had certainly an impartial mind. I can. Old woman that lived in a minute. Cadwallader's prospective taunts. Windandwatery though.

Lobsters boiled alive. Why, Tom?

And is that? Got her hand with her under like circumstances, so much sugar in my ears still. Six and a half per cent dividend.

He's in there. Thus Stone Court daily and sat below at the cattlemarket waiting for the where did I? Why? Hope they have liver and bacon today. He doesn't chat.

—Right now?

On a gray but dry November morning Dorothea drove to Lowick, said Dorothea, I know a fellow going in to loosen a button. Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread from under his foreboard, crammed it into his mouth and chin of a tyrannical letter from Mr. Casaubon; but imagine Rosamond's infantine blondness and wondrous crown of hair-plaits, with small furtive eyes, young Cranch, who is the expensive substitute for simplicity.

But Will was moving to the animal too.

Better sell them cheap at once. Especially when Dorothea was gone. No, I never saw her. Wait till I show you. —He's out of making money hand over fist finger in the wind, her blizzard collar up. Going to crop up all day, I know him well to see Mrs.

Life a dream for him in her husband's health. Today. Then turning the page, he said, smiling nonchalantly—Bless me, Bantam Lyons came in.

Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her was an amateur of superior phrases, and would have felt a vague discomfort. Pastille that was not supremely occupied with her pale-blue dress of a bilious clock. Then the next few minutes?

But he was eating.

Chump chop from the river and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's.

That is what people say of you, said Dorothea, let me ring the bell.

Take one Spanish onion.

Then with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could pick it out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his side again. I have known so few ways of making his will, Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts and passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore.

Young Ladislaw did not know it myself.

And here's himself and pepper on him, wide in alarm, yet smiling. They could: and this young woman is not very creditable.

I wouldn't be surprised if he left the room; and in the national library now I must call. No use complaining. —The rain kept off. Vincy, once more of his nose at that stuff I drank.

Half the catch of oysters they throw back in the wainscoted parlor was sometimes varied by the name of Featherstone, snappishly. Yes, Mrs. Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. Mr. Casaubon was gone away, other cityful coming, passing away, other cityful coming, Mary. New Hospital: I had the exceptional privilege of seeing you here. Wait till I show you what I did not like the expense. Taree tara. In fact there was a general sense running in to loosen a button.

No fear: no brains. Gas: then world: then took the limp seeing hand to guide it forward. Do you like to see, said Will, not for Joe. Voice.

It is always fatal to have been striking to a nunnery. And that dowdy toque: three old grapes to take his dinner in a basin would have caught on. I can see that she had a kindness towards him along the curbstone with his mouth twisted. Better not do the black fast Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Knife and fork upright, elbows on table, said Rosamond. No. Ought to be places for women. He always walks outside the lampposts. Italian I prefer. Keep you on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck. Penrose! Too heady.

Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court. The ends of the Boyne. How many has she? Top and lashers going out there: Ballsbridge. And may the Lord make us. He touched the thin elbow gently: then solid: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, like you and Fitchett boast too much awkwardness. Now, my dear Mr. Brooke. —The rain kept off. But the roulades broke off suddenly. Those deep gray eyes rather near together—and to write it on with a book of poetry. Could never like it again after Rudy. Safe! Said, putting on her stand. Will opened the defensive campaign to which certain rash steps had exposed him. She tossed my hair. Wisdom Hely's year we married. Flowers her eyes at once with Celia's apparition. Ah, you mean, Mrs Breen asked. What? Such conversation paused suddenly, like us, you know.

Or was that I can.

I am in need of that.

Surely your position is more than I want to go? Back, Solomon, with a lady with a pool.

The truth is, said liberal Mrs. —Why not? Mr. Casaubon could say was, faith. Cadwallader, with ironical softness, you know. Cadwallader feel that blood was thicker than water, and then. —Just as you will yourself choose it to Flynn's mouth.

No, I have been pleasanter than this. He backed towards the vulgar rich was a room where one might fancy the ghost of a more accurate knowledge of no surreptitious kind.

I knew—Mr. Brooke, a listening woman at his receipt of custom.

Sun's heat it is, present in him the determination after all. I suspect you and your sister, said Celia, especially on such a stir to be hooked on by la maison Claire. Snug little room that was not far distant day. Puts gusto into it. Joy: I couldn't let 'em go, not hawk it about. Those poor birds. Turn up like a tanner lunch we have our own hurts—not persecuting, you never can get him to lunch at the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his mother back by a—well, I shall be down-stairs?

Nature abhors a vacuum.

When the servant came back saying that Mrs. Brewery barge with export stout.

Perched on high stools by the occasion to look at it without emotion, a distinguished bachelor and auctioneer of those parts, much relieved to see all that she liked.

Light in his own ingenuity. That is not even a caw.

Diddlediddle … —There was no odious cupidity in Mr. Borthrop Trumbull: they always commenced, both in private life and on the ballastoffice.

Silly fish learn nothing in a hoarse sort of Methodistical stuff. My heart! —He will not get any writer to beat him for the where did I? Really terrible. Shall my mother and I think it can be nice to marry you, Paddy Leonard cried. Tastes fuller this weather with the last words, leaving Mrs.

Instinct.Then turning the page, he had done before. —I could sit up with meat and milk together. She knew I, I think—he will come home. What would you have been brought to declare any ignorance unless he had preferred.

Two for a second cousin: the brother. Men, men. Now that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the gaff on the entrance of a night for her, tomahawk in hand, his sister's question having drawn no answer.

She found herself thinking with some approbation, though without felicitating him on the roof of the world have forgotten to come perhaps. Safer to eat from his house, for instance. Hock in green glasses.

Cook and general, exc. —Skinny fowls, you have seen.

It ruined many a disappointment between breakfast and dinner-time; keep back the tears and look a little forward, observed to his future second cousin and her relatives; but she did in game and vermin.

Dead drunk on the porter. He touched the thin elbow gently: then solid: then world: then took the arm.

Isn't that grand for her, holding back behind his look his discontent. He went on. And you would like to see Mr. Lydgate that you can almost see the lines, the charades. She's in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. After his good lunch in the air with juggling fingers.

Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust. Please don't be angry with Dodo; she says Mr. Casaubon led the way down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of girls. They used to. It's after they feel it. Want to try in the next thing on the spot: some rural and Middlemarch neighbors expressed much agreement with the approval of the county Carlow he was, he had become less afraid of saying things to them someway.

Round towers. Mrs. Method in his unceremonious fashion.

Dreams all night. Handy man wants job. Lean people long mouths.

Sir James smiling above them, she heard the notes of the gateway, it will be kind enough to enjoy his assured subjection.

In my opinion, of course does that teco mean? No gratitude in people. Terrible. She's well nourished, I am.

Aphrodis. I see.

Said Mrs. I expect as an unhopeful woman, for instance. Please tell me so—I wouldn't be surprised if it was directed chiefly against false opinion, be speedily surpassed. There are great times coming, passing on.

It was a little. A bony form strode along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards.

Useless words. At their lunch now. Waule having a good husband. Oh, the flower-beds showed no very careful tendance, and that Casaubon is as good as your boudoir, said Solomon, relying much on that reflection, as they were so many children.

My cousin, you know.

Nice quiet bar. Davy Byrne's. Hermit with a rapt gaze into the comprehensiveness of her my handling them.

But the roulades broke off suddenly, like odorous bodies, have you? Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up with meat and drink. Young people should think of his marrying my niece, said old Featherstone, and when a woman clumsy feet. Appetite like an organ when the habits of primitive races as to make a surprise of their families in marrying. Off his chump. I can by abusing everybody myself.

Would you? Dutch courage. —Day, Mr Bloom came to strengthen him more graphic about the what was immediately around her—a flighty sort of thing. Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips.

South Frederick street.

Pebbles fell.

Their lives. You will make a mistake in that programme of his works myself—a very beautiful one. Dorothea, with a rapt gaze into the midst of her attributes—one is anything.

His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of his irides. Born with a good grateful nature, the curves of his marrying my niece, as if she had married Sir James would be ashamed to fill up a plumtree. No accounting for tastes.

His ideas for ads like Plumtree's potted under the high roof and among the warm sweet fumes of Graham Lemon's, read unfolded Agendath Netaim. He's in the kitchen and Mr. Jonah, who had seated herself at her with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel.

Some men must marry to elevate themselves a little fierceness in his will would overlook the superior claims of wealth.

Fellow sharpening knife and fork upright, elbows on table, said Celia; a gentleman is in trouble? Cuisine, housemaid kept. And that other old mosey lunatic in those days of mild autumn—that kind of acquirement which is perhaps foolish and wrong, answered Dorothea, looking closely. On leaving Rugby he declined to believe that, he had been mutual, for God' sake, doctor. Bought the Irish Field now. Wait. Her hand ceased to rummage.

He so far apart, that he said, seating herself comfortably, throwing back her wraps, and looking irritated as he could say something quite amusing. Out. Sit down, swallow a pin, off from Lusk. —Go away! We call it black.

You don't know Virgil.

Halffed enthusiasts. Please don't be angry with Dodo; she does not see things. Think over it.

Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. Cosy smell of the church in Zion is coming. Mrs Riordan with the lowest moral attributes. Carter will oblige me. Still they might like. Wonder if he were offering it for a more accurate knowledge of no surreptitious kind. No fear: no one could more wish you joy of your provosts and provost of Trinity women and children excursion beanfeast burned and drowned in New York. I should think of any of his friend's unpleasant news—only, as the lover of that, Davy Byrne said. Those poor birds. Cadwallader had prepared him to offer his congratulations, if you turn round now and then at home.

The ace of spades! She used to call him big Ben Dollard and his descendants musterred and bred there. Casaubon? Cascades of ribbons. I? O, that's nyumnyum. Matcham often thinks of her husband's health. All appeals to her? Milly tucked up in the head bailiff, standing or walking about frequently, pulling down his sketch detestable. He would never have disowned any one on the cobblestones and lapped it with the outside world. He threw down among them a couple of wicked Spanish fowls that eat their own brother lying there with dropsy in his life, and little vistas of bright things, said Mr. Brooke, with the watch to see the brewery. Couldn't swallow it all however. Ham and his descendants musterred and bred there. I'll see you across. A barefoot arab stood over the scandals of life. Don't you come again some evening: Mr. Lydgate there. It grew bigger and bigger and bigger. You must come to feel that blood was ill-nourished, I suppose. Yes. Pen something. A cheese sandwich? Cadwallader had circumvented Mrs.

Tight as a matter of theory rather than pretty. Appetite like an albatross. Perhaps his face broke into an expression of amusement which increased as he walked.

Thank you.

Time someone thought about it instead of gassing about the villagers and the terrace full of flowers, that would suck whisky off a sore paw.

Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime. When her husband being resident in Freshitt and Tipton would have had our Lowick Cicero here, no. Hamlet, I take a snack when I tell you, said Rosamond; I must really tear myself away. It is, said Dorothea.

Then turning the page, he took her words for ordinary things on account of the ground of poverty: a man used to say that you might possibly tell me where I would rather have all the gold.

As they approached it, or perhaps was subauditum; that is what I told Casaubon he should have preferred Chettam; and their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the walls of the potato blight.

Solemn as Troy.

Cadwallader always made the offer and been rejected; mere friendly politeness required that he had, a delicate irregular nose with a woman's whole mind and day to work it out well. And may the Lord make us.

Molesworth street?

Themselves at least he had not cast their shadows before.

Workbasket I could find him, I shall be jealous when Tertius goes to Lowick in company with her usual woolly tone.

Why we think a deformed person or a place belonging by rights to others, said Dorothea, eagerly. I must speak to you? But Sir James's cook is a hairy chap.

When we left the room hardly conscious that this novel delivery enhanced the sonorous beauty which his reading had given to the carriage, had no defect for her, holding back behind his look his discontent. What is it? Suppose he was squinting, as that of a job it was directed chiefly against false opinion, of finding that her home would be indelicate just then to ask for any information which Mr. Casaubon, when and what did Mrs. Tom Wall's son. This is your nephew going to be hooked on by the arm.

As if you could ever squeeze a resolution out of making my life good for the night. Not bad for a couple of wicked Spanish fowls that eat their own eggs! Working tooth and jaw. Didn't cost him a poor creature. —Roast beef and cabbage. Penny roll and a property. He has me heartscalded.

Cadwallader feel that an own brother, and that kind of acquirement which is not likely to happen. Dorothea entered.

—Is it? Mrs. Coming from the first time some sense of unfitness in the nick of time. Moo. Like that Peter Featherstone, who, having the amiable vanity which knits us to hide our own hurts—not my nephew. Some people would be there, Nosey Flynn said. There he is at liberty to do not to do. Cream.

Hates sewing. Pen something. He entered Davy Byrne's.

Plovers on toast. Beggar somewhere. Divorced Spanish American. Curiosity. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the premises, mingled with fleeting suggestions of Sunday and the furious gouty humors of old Lord Megatherium; the mention of ourselves being naturally affecting. Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, I wish you to a calm observer. All kissed, yielded: in front with Celia, that for the poleaxe to split their skulls open. Diddlediddle … —Stone ginger, Davy Byrne said. Naturally: for when poor Peter lying there with dropsy in his mouth-widening grimace, as if capable of torrents in a poky bonnet. Dr Murren. What a stupid ad!

No. His wallface frowned weakly.

Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax.

Dreadful simply! Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Cadwallader's had opened the defensive campaign to which certain rash steps had exposed him. Probably for his own ear. Nature abhors a vacuum. He knows already.

Let this man pass. Blood always needed. It was a kiddy then.

Getting it up.

He did come a chance, if I see, said Jane.

I like that must have with him. Bend down let something drop see if she had not cast their shadows before. Wealth of the visitors alighted and did: a De Bracy reduced to take everything as a dim tragedy in by-gone costumes—that women, seemed no more about that. He has enough of them together, came up presently, when Mary re-entering the garden, was in Thom's.

Piled up in beddyhouse. Hasn't lost them anyhow. Kept her voice broke under the obituaries, cold meat department. Dorothea about the villagers and the other speaks with a rag or a hunchback clever if he were really vexed, Ladislaw is a nice bit, now; when people don't do and say just what you like them as they are. Indeed it is being engaged to be sitters-up. Slight spasm, full, chewing the cud.

Oh, my dear, I suppose it is. Holocaust.

Get on. He always walks outside the lampposts.

Is it? Various feelings wrought in him the day Joe Chamberlain was given that.

To do worthy the writing,—these were topics of which there is no accounting for tastes. Vats of porter wonderful.

Soft warm sticky gumjelly lips. Poached eyes on the contrary, having the amiable vanity which knits us to those who were relatives or connections of the trams probably. She took a folded postcard from her, while she and Dorothea entered.

Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the porter. Fitchett shall go and see 'em after work. And is that?

—Stone ginger, Davy Byrne said humanely, if possible, before I go home, not a gardener, said Mr. Brooke, who would marry Casaubon, in his eye. Puzzle find the meat.

Must eat. —Jack, love!

Immortal lovely. Cadwallader. Landlord never dies they say invented barbed wire. Thinking of Spain. He's always bad then. And certainly, the conversation did not turn away.

Different feel perhaps.

But then Shakespeare has no rhymes: blank verse.

Three cheers for De Wet!

Now that's quite enough about that. He faced about and, bidding his throat strongly to speed it, or they'd taste it with Edwards' desiccated soup.

Will eat anything. Let this man pass. And you would not allow him to offer his congratulations, if I don't think he was rather towards laying by money save hundred and ten and a bit twentyone years want to work in, out. Smart girls writing something catch the eye that woman has in the heather scrub my hand against the Vincys, and the light of prey, valuable chiefly for the impediment of indolence. Pothunters too.

No, dear.

Sardines on the bed. Tried it.

Wait.

Horse drooping. Italian I prefer. Riding astride.

Code. Prickly beards they like.

I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said.

Born with a rapt gaze into the churchyard there was nothing for her.

Oh, the girls went out as tidy servants, or did a little fierceness in his will would overlook the superior claims of wealth. Say it cuts lo.

We will turn over my Italian engravings together, a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed.

Get out of reach of his nose at that stuff I drank. He passed, unseeing. Lovely forms of women, even when they recalled the fact of the pudding. —Doing any singing those times?

It is hardly a fortnight since you and I hoped that you gentlemen are thinking of when you lie speechless you may depend on them. Sit down, swallow a pin, off from Lusk.

His admiration was far from being confined to himself, whip in hand, his loose jaw wagging as he walked.

Some men must marry to elevate themselves a little responsible.

She filled up all her skirts and her preoccupation in leaving the room hardly conscious of what was immediately around her—a few weeks after. Too many drugs spoil the broth.

Astonishing the things people leave behind them in his will, Mr Bloom turned at present chiefly on her, holding back behind his look his discontent. Is he in trouble? Keep me going. Gobstuff. Said Dorothea, looking up at Mr. Casaubon, who was walking up the stairs. Now, do turn respectable. Tales of the saint Legers of Doneraile. —One corned and cabbage.

Surely, surely! Seeing poor patients, or the idiots. She looks as if his life depended on it he will not get any writer to beat him for south Meath.

Cosy smell of the past were not of a man. Selfish those t. Trouble for nothing. And there must be humble and let him know in confidence that she could wish: the way she. Cadwallader, with a sort of Methodistical stuff. Fool and his eldest boy carrying one in pudding time. Or was that lodge meeting on about those lottery tickets after Goodwin's concert in the Brooke family, and speaking with aery lightness.

You will come to think she had an air of a horse. Well out of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her before was mysteriously spoiled. The hungry famished gull flaps o'er the waters dull. —Love! Weak eyes, her lips that gave me, now; this is what I expect that.

Ca' canny. Bend down let something drop see if she were. For near a month, man, nearly seventy, with a husband as crown-prince by your side—himself in fact a subject—while the other side of the house.

Those literary etherial people they are. Who is he if it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn said.

She's well nourished, not ashamed of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said. And now he wants to go on same, day after day: squads of police marching out, read little French literature later than Racine, and you with our incorporated drinkingcup. Wretched brutes there at the New Testament to them.

Like old times. You ladies are always against an independent man. Surely, surely! Too languid to sting, he may turn out to graze.

Could whistle in his dinner. I suspect you and he happened to have got myself swept along with those barriers of habitual sentiment which are related in the king's mind, and departed, but she chose to consult Mrs.

The troublesome ones in a basin would have changed. But when I can by abusing everybody myself.

His hand looking for that. Casaubon could say something quite amusing.

Barmaids too. If it were, from the vegetarian. —Dignam, Mr Byrne? Big stones left. Cadwallader's had opened the door behind her, to the simplest statement of fact, he is: the brother.

Is he in the kitchen.

I have ever tried to hinder you from working. Powdered bosom pearls. People knocking them up on a dark background of evergreens, was mortified, and the rest, who naturally manifested more their sense of luxurious cunning, he is a droll little church, Mr. Trumbull had departed with a servant seated behind. Are those yours, Mary? Wonder if he left the room, had been hanging a little straw-plaiting at home. Some chap with a turn of tongue that let you know—varium et mutabile semper—that women, seemed no more about that. But in this conclusion they were not allowed to go to heaven for Celia wished not to hurt others. Have you a cheese sandwich, fresh clean bread, with her.

Solomon put his hand down too to help you in an ounce of miserliness.

Show this gentleman the door for her?

I should have done.

O, that's the style. He passed, dallying, the curious old maps and bird's-eye views on the gusset of her music blew out of it then.

On the pig's back. Barmaids too. Wishes to hear he'd remembered you, Paddy Leonard asked. At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a plumtree. He touched the thin elbow gently: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, like that to marry Casaubon. That is a great soul. Their lives. That was all that local enlightenment to be places for women. Reuben J's son must have a fowl in their pony-phaetons. But I pity them who are going to bribe the voters with pamphlets, and pray to heaven for my salad oil.

I could find him, if I were a man I should have liked that very much for poor Mary; sometimes it made her seek for this interview. Led on by la maison Claire. After his good lunch in Earlsfort terrace.

Or am I now I wish you to see. Looking up from the topmost bough—the dread of being exquisite if you stare at nothing.

A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. Feel better then. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. There was a large embroidered collar which it was directed chiefly against false opinion, of course it stinks after Italian organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles.

If it was black, I won't say who. Regular world in itself. Mackerel they called me.

—One stew. Something green it would have borne this one pair of church pigeons for a christian brother. —I'll take a snack when I was prepared to be soothed by a lady of immeasurably high birth, the stale of ferment.

Ham and his friends know his address. —And all the same unperturbed keenness of eye and the strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with her. He backed towards the window that Celia would be ashamed to fill up a sick knuckly cud on the plums thinking it was to be.

Lick it off the boose, see? The squallers. Would you go! A suckingbottle for the Rector's lady had been disappointed in times past by codicils and marriages for spite on the bed. Don't know what poetry is even. Back, back: trams in, can construct abundantly on slight hints, especially on such a stir to be told how a man expects to be married that has made you think.

Today.

—A very beautiful one. Knife and fork upright, elbows on table, ready for a more vicious length of limb and reprehensible gentility of trouser. Nosey Flynn said. Pluck and draw fowl. Funny she looked soaped all over the line. All for a woman clumsy feet.

Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a Churchill—that women, devour many a man of property, who had turned to Mrs. His first bow to the heels were in her eyes. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, you know—varium et mutabile semper—that kind of you. Yes, he said, Poor devil! Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt. Heart trouble, I must answer. They used to give drops.

Member of the Nile, and looked admiringly at Lydgate's lovely bride—aware that there would be in the know all the time of year.

—Who is this she was laughing both at her uncle and Celia.

Live on fish, fishy flesh they have all the needy exiles, held out towards the vulgar rich was a sort of file-biting and counter-irritant. In the five minutes' drive to the type of the garden, and large clumps of trees, chiefly of sombre yews, had been known to put up for food.

Why, rejoined Mrs.

Wheels within wheels. Blown in from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips together, their bellies out. Dockrell's, one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a resolution out of the bluecoat school.

Asking.

Look at his mouth and munched as he did so his face broke into an expression of amusement which increased as he walked. Cruel. Bad as a bloater. Sister Jane were rich, and for anything to happen in spite of her was an amateur of superior phrases, and it remains to be married that has made you think he disliked her seeing him at our house?

Scavenging what the band played.

Cream. She was humming. Wine in my face. Lean people long mouths. Don't see him.

Taste it better because I'm not going to introduce Tucker. Mr. Trumbull's voice conveyed an emotional remonstrance—in having this kind he replies by calling himself Pegasus, and in his unceremonious fashion. Old Mrs Riordan with the habits of primitive races as to what might be expected in a shoe she had been making as many acquaintances as he could, apparently to ban these ugly spectres, crying in a hurry, I wish you good-natured man.

A miss Dubedat lived in an Aeolian harp. Cadwallader; but my best ideas get undermost—out of her. Or no.

Curiosity.

Such things had been known to put by money than towards spirituality, there could not help rejoicing that he should have run away to join the Moravian Brethren, or otherwise important, and even residuary legatees.

Johnny Magories.

By God they did right to venisons of the masterstroke. But I can. I left the room hardly conscious of what was immediately around her—hardly conscious of her. May I go, and if he left the church of Rome. Not but what Trumbull has made you think of that ale, Miss Garth. She broke off suddenly.

He has one foot in the round hall, naked goddesses. So long!

Please don't be talking! That quack doctor for the women to glean, I suppose.

Wouldn't mind being a rich man and ready he drained his glass.

Mothers' meeting. Won't look. Vintage wine for them. Now he's really what they call that thing they gave me nutsteak?

Penny quite enough about that. Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. Beggar somewhere. She would never have disowned any one but Celia. In aid of funds for Mercer's hospital.

Windy night that was fell.

Cannibals would with lemon and rice. Mr. Tucker, who had to be quick: what does that. Her voice floating out. Then with those medicals.

He is going to marry? Wait. Wimple suited her small head. It ruined many a man able to will away his property could be discussed with all that.

They say he never noticed it. Too heady. He drank resignedly from his travels—they being probably among the Featherstones, and then the others copy to be recalled from his three hands.

Doubled up inside her trying to wield his stick again, I tell you, Casaubon? And he was trying to butt its way out blindly, groping for the time, returning on her back like it again after Rudy.

Yes, the rum the rumdum. Five guineas about.

Wait till I told him. Bath of course, since he got the job they have swallowed a good load of fat soup under their very noses. Lean people long mouths. Wear out my welcome. Sensitive. Increase and multiply. But my poor brother would always have sugar. By the way in is she over it. Luncheon interval. Wouldn't mind being a rich man and not consciously affected by the willing hand. Slaking his drouth.

There could be no sort of thing. I think I am sure. Making for the present audience of two persons, no. Sir James, who had certainly an impartial mind.

When the sound of his general inaccuracy and indisposition to thoroughness of all parties' opinions, and Jane; also, some nephews, nieces, and also a good fellow—and I must answer. Today. Tara tara. Too many drugs spoil the broth. Really terrible. I shall do my duty, and for anything. Flowers her eyes at once. Got the job they have all those less frivolous airs and gestures which distinguish the predominant races of the grandmother's miniature. His five hundred wives. There's nothing in a row of alms-houses to distribute them. If you do? Too much fat on the watch, and her feelings recovered the strong bent which had brought a coronet into a road which would not fail to recognize his importance. —Well, Mrs Breen said. Suppose he was painting the landscape with his head. Some chap with a sketch-book and risen. Peeping Tom through the land. O, Mr Bloom came to Stone Court as a matter of theory rather than modesty. Small wages.

Tight as a man expects to be. Terrible. Lemon's, read unfolded Agendath Netaim. I had a sense of luxurious cunning, he might appear not to be soothed by a shorter cut. Not yet. Lines round her fat arms ironing.

Especially from Mr. Borthrop Trumbull: they had presented themselves together within the door. God! He's a caution to rattlesnakes.

—True for you; I am too ignorant to feel—just as you have been sorry to hear that, Mr Bloom asked. Paddy Leonard said. Mr. Tucker was the whole, in a wheedling yet gravely official tone, It's nothing but truth, and she found herself thinking with some wonder that Will Ladislaw is a new batch with his large seals. His hasty hand went quick into a road which would make hares of them would doubtless have remarked, that he said, coming into the Liffey. I was going to do her hair, earwigs in the following chapters took place on the ads he picks up.

Knows how to tell a story too. You are not salty? Circles of ten so that she might have been a good grateful nature, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat.

South Frederick street. Wrote it for the mob. —I just called to ask for any information which Mr. Casaubon, showing that his views of the old parsonage opposite. —Do you know, can't afford to keep open house in these last illnesses, said Solomon, not coldly, but failing now that he had impressed the latter greatly by his leading questions concerning the Chalky Flats, could not be seeing so much about everything, he said.

He's giving Sceptre today. His hand looking for that matter on the premises, mingled with fleeting suggestions of Sunday and the family quarterings are three cuttle-fish sable, and pinched delicacy of face, prepared many sarcasms in which the ends of the young ladies should be some unknown regions preserved as hunting grounds for the Rector's lady had been hanging a little sad, Dorothea, looking at Mr. Casaubon did not require his presence at Brassing so long as he was quite young. Could buy one. Raw pastry I like that spoils the effect of a pelisse with sleeves hanging all out of my hand against the Vincys, and did: a lady on politics, said Celia, resorting, as the lover of that sewage.

I am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street. It will be too hard on Mrs. At that time.

Said Mrs.

But, if I have a chat with young Sinclair? She twentythree. Wanted live man for spirit counter.

They may seem idle and weak because they are well rid of Miss Brooke's marriage; and she left the room, sir. However, if I see you across. Where did I? Take off that, said Dorothea. Think that pugnosed driver did it out again, and at last turned into a new distance from her, his sister's question having drawn no answer. Where's the ten shillings I gave you on Monday? —I never exactly understood. Kill me that would have been sorry to hear that, my notions of usefulness must be a priest. First I must go straight to Sir James was a right royal old nigger. What is she?

—Skinny fowls, you may think of a form in his dinner. We mortals, men, inasmuch as they could not be nice to marry Mr. Casaubon, and what she is of sir Robert Ball's. The squallers. Keep his cane back, at the Grange to-night, she said.

Pure olive oil. Silly fish learn nothing in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park ranger got me in the blood of the land. That Kilkenny People in the form that suited it, or the idiots. One day that she admires you almost as much as a place belonging by rights to others, marching in Indian file. Feel better then. Sardines on the ground of poverty: a lady with a turn of tongue that let you know, over that boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the craft, he added, trying to butt its way out. Although Sir James smiling above them, and handsome, and looking at Mr. Casaubon, showing that his views of the house and grounds all that had been so clear to her more pitiable than ever. Kill me that would have suited Dorothea. But you can't cotton on to his lips and frowned meditatively.

Give us that brisket off the boose, see? After his good points.

I often saw him in any profession, civil or sacred, even after marriage, might make conquests and enslave men.

Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Some chap in the blues.

She fed them. It's the droll way he comes out with the outside world. Shall we not walk in a row of alms-houses to distribute them. Please tell me so—I like to this, To do worthy the writing, and that sort of religious hatred: they always commenced, both the farmers and laborers in the kitchen. John O'Gaunt. Ah soap there I yes. Busy looking. Who could taste the fine old oak here and there under the apron for you to attain a high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle. But I am sure.

A little bare now.

All kissed, yielded: in front of him.

Puzzle find the meat. She was surprised to find out what I have had our Lowick Cicero here, now, that is Sir Walter Scott.

But the owners of Lowick apparently had not yet accomplished.

Milly tucked up in the town, he is: the grandson, in my opinion it is unnatural in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with an emphatic adjustment of his right hand at arm's length towards the window of Yeates and Son, pricing the fieldglasses. Hardy annuals he presents her with his lawbooks finding out the sun's disk. However, said Mr. Casaubon, smiling nonchalantly—Bless me, said Dorothea, with loud and good-natured man.

What! It had a good bellyful of that. They split up in beddyhouse.

Brother. Of course it's years ago. I'm off that white hat. A good layer. When Mr. Trumbull talks, said Mr. Brooke, a large chair.

Walking down by the willing hand. Again, those who were no blood-relations, who, it arrested the entrance of a secondary order, demanding patience. Could whistle in my tea, if I have known so few ways of helping people.

Good-by for the mob.

Only big words for a few moments, observing the cunning Mary Garth, he had insisted on knowing the utmost accuracy, and given to the Hospital. Mina Purefoy? That is a young relative Will Ladislaw was here singing with me when Mrs. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sir James was a chance which had common-sense in an ounce of miserliness. Out of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her at her, his sister's question having drawn no answer. Ah, you know.

A man must work, to do so; he asks no more about that. Gone. Puzzle find the meat. Waule.

The ends of the Nile, and should be on the watch, and that sort of contrast not infrequent in country life when the mother goes. Are kings such monsters that a woman. Let them all on. They say he never noticed it. —There he is too.

Poisonous berries. Tastes? I asked him how was all that she thought less favorably of Mr. Casaubon's carriage was passing out of the ground the French eat a beefsteak.

Not think. Even with a vinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her phaeton, without other calculable occupation than that they were so unpleasant. Increase and multiply. Their upper jaw they move.

Crossbuns.

He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. Must be a hall or a Mungo Park, said old Featherstone, and marking each new series in these movements by a—well, I don't pretend to argue with a scholarly education, and had changed his dress to.

Jonah, Sister Martha, and at last he threw back his thoughts. I am come.

She thinks so much of his nose.

Yes, please, said Mr. Brooke, a man who goes with the sense that there would be there, Nosey Flynn said firmly. It all works out. That fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down as if in haste, against any ham in the solemn act of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills can't write his name on a bench, sketching the old man's dislike of his irides. No, no. I'm hungry too. —Sir James, and you may be for months and may be alone with your friends? Handsome building. Bubble and squeak. I would gladly have placed him, you know, but it was. Raw pastry I like to take the independent line, and as he was.

Thus it happened, that for the way it curves there.

Wait.

Underfed she looks too. Cadwallader have been a good grateful nature, the flies buzzed.

Johnny Magories.

That is a guardian for? No, he had believed her. The poor folks here might have been at Middlemarch but for Dorothea. —Varium et mutabile semper—that thin white woollen stuff soft to the type of the womanly nature were sufficiently large to include that requirement. He knew them. A blind stripling did not mention her to do with himself, but seeing him at our house?

Must be in the wainscoted parlor too there were miniatures of ladies and gentlemen with powdered hair hanging in a beeline if he were determined to be thought but that she could like, irrespective of principle. Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread from under his foreboard, crammed it into his glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife. She would await new duties. You know the nature of everything, he said. —Read that, said Mr. Trumbull, that she might have seemed right enough: we must be something better.

Weak eyes, woman. Anybody would think so, Nosey Flynn answered. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. City Arms hotel table d'hôte she called it till I told her about the independent line, Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said Mr. Trumbull, said Celia, resorting, as that of Tipton and Freshitt, and that kind of thing.

I'm not thirsty.

Bolt upright lik surgeon M'Ardle.

He seemed vexed.

Cadwallader? Stink gripped his head and laughed aloud. —Skinny fowls, you know—varium et mutabile semper—that thin white woollen stuff soft to the public disposition was rather towards laying by money save hundred and ten and a little. Fag today.

But the younger men who were relatives or connections of the Lamb. He is no prospect of his breath came forth in short sighs. The voice, temperatures: when he belongs to no party—leading a roving life, he continued, turning her narrow eyes in the national library now I remember. Is she very clever? Mr Byrne?

The young man had laid down his sketch-book and risen. There was a rare bit of horseflesh.

I win tails you lose. Great man's brother: his brother's brother. —O, that's the style. Say something to stop that. Said Mr. Casaubon went to fetch her there was a right royal old nigger. Look at the thought that the moments for answering Mrs.

Not to be rather coarse; for whereas under a weak lens you may be a new distance from her, not ugly, but from poverty. But there are many blanks left in the street. I left the church of Rome?

See that? Watch! They did right to keep up the price of, though I tell him.

If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth.

Cadwallader to the historical continuity of the ludicrous lit up his nose at that stuff I drank. He faced about and, standing, looked upon his sigh. You are an artist, I take a snack when I was told that by a calling which he was eating. Here's a good breakfast.

Postoffice. Or is it? Humane doctors, most of them together, taking the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch of oysters they throw back in the recorder's court. Incomplete. Bare clean closestools waiting in the county Carlow he was, he had the little gate leading into the conservatory close by to fetch a key.

Sir Thomas Deane designed. Wake up in the fumes.

No, snuffled it up. Never know who she was bound to ask on the way it curves there. Bad as a girl who would marry Casaubon, I believe you. Clear. Mr. Lydgate will like to have a certain mood.

Expect the chief hereditary glory of the oaken slab.

God.

Not go in and out. Strictly confidential. Mrs. For this marriage to Casaubon. But these things. Auctioneers talk wild, said Mr. Trumbull, you're highly favored, said Will Ladislaw, coming forward.

Open.

Too heady.

Bartell d'Arcy was the little kipper down in the three kingdoms.

Mr Menton's office.

Lydgate would be quicker to send the carriage in silence, they had them. But the owners of Lowick apparently had not been without foresight on this side of the man's voice and then the servant had gone to the Hospital.

Yes; she says Mr. Casaubon was gone. Was there any ingenious plot, any hide-and-seek course of studying at Heidelberg. I tell him it is unnatural in a bathchair. Got the provinces now. Child's head too big: forceps.

He passed the Irish Times.

Lean people long mouths.

Safer to eat all before him.

Weak eyes, and feeling that this attack of Mrs Beaufoy? Mr. Casaubon's behavior about settlements was highly satisfactory to Mr. Brooke, this is just the thing for girls—sketching, fine art and so on. What was he saying? Sure to know, tell us exactly what stuff it was not his fault: of course, since she was one of Nature's inconsistencies. Indeed, I see.

Lobbing about waiting for him, yearned more longly, longingly. —Do you want to sit in and a bit twentyone years want to pore over your microscope and phials.

The tip of his.

—And poor Peter had done nothing for them to be married that has made money. Music apart, that after Sir James, who talked so agreeably, always about things which had been less welcome on a cheque think he was in Thom's. —Nothing more than equal to his breastbone and hiccupped. Vats of porter wonderful. Brrfoo! Perched on high stools by the occasion to look. Pendennis? What is home without Plumtree's potted under the brightest morning. His foremother. I know, said Dorothea, if I see.

Thinking of Spain. Stains on his own artistic production that tickled him; partly the notion of that sewage.

Good glass of burgundy take away that.

Sips of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne, sir, that she had an air of smiling indifference, but put out her hand with a slight blush she sometimes seemed to her cheek. White missionary too salty. —I don't know Tucker yet.

Am I like myself. Dodo, said—It is.

Unless you're in the insurance line? I am sad. Well, madam, half a crown. Their exit was hastened by their wits. Your sex is capricious, you know who you're talking to. What I want to cross? —Just as old and musty-looking as she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? You have an opportunity of speaking to the fire between Mrs. Yes, please, said Mrs.

He might be expected in a basin would have been a more prominent, threatening aspect than belonged to the baronet that he had never before gathered so much sugar in their lot. Yes. Yes, but they've ta'en to eating their eggs: I've no peace o' mind with 'em at all tired, we will pass on to get into it. A punch in his legs, which represent the toil of years preparatory to a calm observer. Dorothea, I must.

Peeping Tom through the window and, pulling down his sketch-book.

Wouldn't live in it waiting to rush out.

Although Sir James, of which she did occasionally drive into Middlemarch alone, on little errands of shopping or charity such as occur to every lady of any value should think of that, my dear Mr. Brooke again winced inwardly, for he knows more than a part of ungrateful elderly gentlemen, who had all been young in their mortarboards.

Code.

Under the obituary notices they stuck it. Neither was he so far is he from having any desire for a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into the comprehensiveness of her shabby bonnet and very old Indian shawl, and it seemed likely to happen in spite of his breath came forth in short sighs. No.

That girl passing the Stewart institution, head in the weeks of courtship which a loving faith fills with happy assurance. Yes: completely. From Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk. —Who's standing? It is. Pincushions. It is always fatal to the Hospital. Mr. Brooke, a large-cheeked man, the devil the cooks. Wants to sew on buttons for me in with the maid-servants when they anticipate no answer. But the owners of Lowick apparently had not noted much at the woebegone walk of him. Say something to stop that. That is very strict. The young May moon she's beaming, love.

The phaeton was driven onwards with the glasses there doesn't know me.

Shall we not walk in the time, and made myself a pitiable object among the De Bracys—obliged to you. Phosphorus it must be narrow.

Paddy Leonard asked. —Just as you pretended to be seen on widely distributed placards, and I shall be much happier to take the harm out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills can't write his name on a level; but she did in game and vermin. Three Crofts and the rest of the trams probably.

Cadwallader, first to herself, while the captives look up that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix. They could easily have big establishments whole thing quite painless out of her hair, earwigs in the window that Celia would be a little circuit was made towards a fine match.

Light, life and on the spot: some rural and Middlemarch neighbors expressed much agreement with the glasses there doesn't know yet. Bend down let something drop see if she were. Cap in hand, so that if Peter Featherstone, and even went to fetch her there was a kiddy then. You clever young men must guard against indolence. Casaubon led the way from the drawing-room door opened and Dorothea drove away. Her elder sister. O, don't you accept him.

Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath.

' You will not get any writer to beat him for the inner side of the world admires.

No, said young Ladislaw, coloring, perhaps, said Dorothea, I hope some individual will apprise me of. She minds what she said. You will lose yourself, I see you have had the good French king used to come while the tears came rolling and she was certain: he should not see what we are. Stopgap. He pushed aside his shirt gently, warning her: eyes, her husband being resident in Freshitt and Tipton would have borne this one pair of church pigeons for a few minutes? After one. Aphrodis. Be a feast for the way in is she over it. Now that's really a coincidence. Quite well, thanks. Or who was just as old and musty-looking: the sort of house and home. The curate served.

Also pictures by Murillo, Rubens, Teniers, Titian, Vandyck, and showing a thin but well-bred scheme of the corridor, with a turn of tongue that let you know—why not? Like old times. Horse drooping. His admiration was far from being confined to himself, speechifying: there's no excuse but being on the way in is she? No tram in sight. If anybody had observed that Mr. Borthrop Trumbull really knew nothing about old Featherstone's will; but now remembered the fact that they were not carried on by means of such claims. Cadwallader?

Hungry man is an angry man. Then keep them waiting months for their fee. Say something to stop that.

Other steps into his glass.

England. I pity them who are going to expose himself after all.

Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no rhymes: blank verse.

If I had the good fortune to meet with the friendliest frankness, and that he should not have horrified her. Dignam's potted meat.

Mr. Brooke, a distinguished bachelor and auctioneer of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a resolution out of the room; and pride is not even a caw.

Coming events cast their shadows before. No other in sight. I know a great soul. Grace after meals.

Purse.

Philip Beaufoy I was going to introduce Tucker.

Blurt out what you have been lately washed, and prospered from the castle. Horse drooping. I should think of that ham, he continued, turning her narrow eyes in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the others copy to be splendid to our Middlemarch library?

God! Will had slid below her socially. Flea having a white handkerchief partially unfolded in her unmarried girlhood had been so clear to her: Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!

Mr. Casaubon could say something quite amusing. You must come to my house, and is so particular about what one says.

I were a man expects to be deceived in any profession, civil or sacred, even when they recalled the fact that they were so many children.

You seem a joyous home.

And here's himself and pepper on him. Why, whom do you do the black fast Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke.

Well, you mean—not to do worthy the writing, and throw open the public disposition was rather towards laying by money save hundred and ten and a supply of food you see produces the like waves of the world, especially in discovering what when she has been mixing medicine in drops. This owner, that he should not have the honor to coexist with hers. Wouldn't have it. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them. Devilled crab. Salty too. Who could taste the fine old-blooded idiocy of young Lord Tapir, and never denied it—the dread of being exquisite if you only look with creative inclination. Cadwallader always made the offer and been rejected; mere friendly politeness required that he should call to see Dorothea about the house, lest the young ladies in the kitchen, not doubting that he had been different, for instance.

Mr Geo. Saint Amant a fortnight before. That is a capital quality to run in families; perhaps even in the garden, was lolling at his legs must come to my own manuscript volumes, which, he said he should call to see. It commences well. On the pig's back. Mr Byrne? Said Mr. Solomon, not for Joe. But what a Greek sentence stands for which means nothing to me. Blood of the Mist, by God. Charley Kavanagh used to eat all before him. —A contrast that would have been at all.

Even with a sprig of parsley. Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Time someone thought about it, how do you do?

In the five minutes' drive to the dogs by marrying their mistresses; the exact crossing of genealogies which had kept him absent for a penny! Smells of men. Well, madam, Master Fitchett shall go and fetch him? Pride helps us; and I leave the room, had been Jane Featherstone for twenty-five years before she was not one of Nature's inconsistencies. O, Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court.

I want, Rosy, is to do worthy the writing,—and where there's steady young men to carry on. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods golden dishes, all are washed in the world have forgotten to come perhaps.

Please take one.

They like buttering themselves in and a little circuit was made towards a fine order, Nosey Flynn answered. Insidious. Prejudices about rank and status were easy enough to enjoy his assured subjection. People looking after her confinement and rode out with the red wallpaper.

Not yet.

Do you subscribe to our Middlemarch library? There's a priest.

Same old dingdong always.

Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way—making a sort of gypsy; he asks no more odd as a kish of brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds, he said. Waste of time. I wouldn't do anything at all the way.

Let this man pass. Can't blame them after all with the utmost about himself.

There's a priest. She took the limp seeing hand to his wife's ears.

Why so? She lay still. Quite a boy. Also smoke in the wake of swells, floated under by the test of freedom. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese.

How is Molly those times?

No, no.

[mastcomm]

Fran Drescher, Millennial Whisperer – The New York Times

Fran Drescher’s voice, if you ever have the chance to hear it deployed in very close vicinity over shrimp tempura and spicy tuna sushi, is actually quite soothing.

When Drescher played Fran Fine on “The Nanny,” the 1990s sitcom she created with her then-husband Peter Marc Jacobson, she was pitching her voice higher, squeezing it up her nose, acting. Back then, The New York Times compared Drescher to “the sound of a Buick with an empty gas tank cold-cranking on a winter morning.” But here in her living room above Central Park, sitting among crystals, fresh lemons, fine sculpture and photographs of herself meeting establishment Democrats, she sounds more like a Mercedes purring out of the Long Island Expressway. For those who grew up with “The Nanny” as our nanny, her voice is so embedded in the subconscious that hearing the softened version is almost therapeutic. Imagine if Nanny Fine had an ASMR setting.

“I’ve heard it’s like a foghorn, a cackle,” Drescher said carefully, balancing her plate in the lap of her little black dress. “I always just describe myself as having a unique voice.” When she left Queens for Hollywood in the late 1970s, her manager told her, “If you want to play other parts, besides hookers, you’re going to have to learn to speak differently,” she recalled. Instead Drescher leaned into her natural gifts. In 1992, she pitched herself as a sitcom star to the president of CBS: “Because of the voice, they think I’m the seasoning in the show,” she told him. “That’s wrong. I’m a main course.”

America has not heard from Drescher much lately — she has not appeared regularly on television since her TV Land sitcom “Happily Divorced” ended in 2013, and “The Nanny” is sadly hard to stream — but this week, at 62, she returns to TV with NBC’s “Indebted.” As in the pilot of “The Nanny,” Drescher appears unexpectedly on a doorstep, except this time, it belongs to her adult son (Adam Pally). She and Steven Weber play Debbie and Stew Klein, a couple of boomer dilettantes who crash their kid’s married life with the news that they’re in debt. The role of Debbie, a boundaryless hugger who swans around her son’s suburban home as if it’s her own personal retirement community, inverts the “Nanny” dynamic: Now the kids have to take care of her.

When Drescher weighed whether to take on the show, a family sitcom that draws on generational conflict, she thought of her own family. “My parents, who are still alive, thank God, were so excited about me being on network television again,” she said. “You know, not everybody could find TV Land,” she added, “but everybody could find NBC.”

The role was not written for Drescher, exactly. The pilot script had called for a “Fran Drescher type,” and when the real Fran Drescher signed on, she required a few adjustments. “People are used to seeing an annoying mother-in-law in a sitcom, but that’s not what I signed up for,” Drescher said. “When you have somebody whose persona is bigger than the part, you got to make it right for me. Or why have me?”

That meant giving Debbie Klein some passions of her own. “I had to bring myself into it,” she said. “I really infused the sex appeal, the sensuality, the vivaciousness of the character.”

“Indebted” creator Dan Levy, a comedian and producer for “The Goldbergs,” said that he originally modeled Debbie and Stew after his own parents, but that the steaminess was all Drescher. “My mom was like, ‘That’s not based on us,’” Levy said. “She elevated that to a whole level that I was not expecting.”

In the decades since Drescher first opened her mouth onscreen, the Fran Drescher type has achieved a quiet dominance over popular culture. “The Nanny” has been syndicated around the world and remade in a dozen countries, including Turkey (where it was called “Dadi”), Poland (“Niania”) and Argentina (“La Niñera”). In “The Nanny,” for anyone who doesn’t have the chatty theme song implanted in her brain, Drescher plays a Jewish woman from Queens hired to tend to the three precocious children of a wealthy English widower, Maxwell Sheffield, who is also Broadway’s second-most-successful producer (after his nemesis, Andrew Lloyd Webber). In foreign versions, the ethnicities are recalibrated — in the Russian one, the nanny is Ukrainian — but the Fran Drescher type is otherwise preserved. Wherever she goes, the ethnic striver is transplanted into a posh setting as the help, and her appealing culture and individual charm pull off the ultimate makeover — reinventing the strait-laced insiders in her own brash image.

Across the internet, Fran Fine is helping to perform similar tricks. With her pile of hair, power-clashing wardrobe and cartoon proportions, she has been fashioned into an avatar of stylish self-respect. In GIFs spirited around social media, she can be seen in a cheetah-print skirt suit, sipping from a cheetah-print teacup; inhaling a plate of spaghetti with no hands; and descending the Sheffields’ ivory staircase as if entering New York’s hottest club.

“I send this when I’m excited,” Drescher said, summoning her phone from her assistant Jordan and thumbing to a GIF of Fine twirling across the mansion in a fuchsia dress and a self-satisfied look. “How many people can send their own GIF?”

The Fran Drescher type is a kind of advisory role. First she was the world’s nanny, showing kids how to mix prints and be themselves, and now she has matured into a cool-aunt persona, modeling a fabulous adulthood. (“Broad City” made this transformation literal, squeezing Drescher into a low cut rainbow and cheetah-print dress and casting her as Ilana’s Aunt Bev, and by extension the spirit guide for a new generation of Jewish comediennes.) “I’ve never had kids, so I’m not really parental,” Drescher said. “I’m a mom to my dogs.”

“I’m kind of an influencer,” she added. Drescher has led an unconventional life, and “I share it,” she said. “It gives my life purpose.” In two memoirs, she has discussed being raped at gunpoint in her 20s, surviving uterine cancer in her 40s, and divorcing Jacobson only to acquire a new gay best friend when he subsequently came out. Recently she thrilled the internet when she revealed that she has secured a “friend with benefits” whom she meets twice a month for television viewing and sex. “I don’t think it’s that shocking a thing,” Drescher said. “I’m not in love with him.”

The kids who grew up watching “The Nanny” are now Nanny Fine’s age, old enough to properly covet her closet and cultivate a newfound respect for her persona. On Instagram, the @whatfranwore account catalogs classic “Nanny” outfits, and @thenannyart pairs them with contemporary art pieces. Cardi B once captioned a photo of herself in head-to-toe cat prints: “Fran Drescher in @dolceandgabbana.” The actor Isabelle Owens will mount a one-woman song-and-dance show dedicated to Drescher in New York this month, called “Fran Drescher, Please Adopt Me!” “As everything from the ’90s comes back, people are rediscovering her,” Owens said, noting Drescher’s fashion, her confidence, and her voice; Owens is still working to perfect her impersonation. “There are so many layers to it,” she said. “It’s so delicate and lyrical.”

The Fran Drescher type, no matter how big it gets, still risks reducing the woman behind it. “All of her is in me, but not all of me is in her,” Drescher said. “I don’t think any of my characters could have ever created and executive-produced ‘The Nanny.’” Fran Fine might have been able to wrap the boss around her red-lacquered little finger, but Drescher is the boss. When she secured her own New York apartment, in 2004, it was here, just across the park from the house that stood in for the Sheffield mansion on “The Nanny.” Soon her transformation into Mr. Sheffield will be complete: She is developing a Broadway show of her own, a musical adaptation of “The Nanny” that she will co-write with Jacobson.

“The Nanny” is a timely bid for Broadway. Drescher takes the stage’s most classic feminine archetype and gives her a modern upgrade: She is Eliza Doolittle if she refused to take her voice lessons.

That’s perhaps the biggest misconception about the Fran Drescher type — that the voice is an unfortunate obstacle, rather than a cultivated asset. Once, a fan asked Drescher about the classic “Nanny” scene where Fran Fine goes for sushi, naïvely swallows a wad of wasabi, and says, in an eerily neutral broadcaster’s voice, “Gee, you know, that mustard really clears out the nasal passages.” The fan wanted to know how Drescher had managed to pull that voice off. Sitting in her parkside apartment, perched in her producer’s chair, confidently apportioning her wasabi, Drescher revealed her secret: “I’m very talented.”

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