#like this man is in LOVE he’s JOYFUL he’s DANCING there’s a revolution and an apocalypse and he has his guitar

[deprivedmusicaljunkie]

listening to hozier on shuffle is such a baffling experience because i’ll go from “the last time i felt your weight on my chest / you said ‘we didn’t get it right but love we did our best’” so i’d have to sit with that for a couple of minutes. and then with no warning whatsoever we jump into the happiest little twirl-around-in-a-garden, splash-in-the-waves love song where this irish ass motherfucker is going on about how he’s had “no love like your love”. like FUCK

[musicarenagh]

B-MACK Speaks: New Music, Creative Processes, and Future Plans Hey boys, guess what… I had an opportunity to speak to the one and only Bruce Mack, the B-MACK!This male individual is really versatile and has multiple gifts or skills. I was happy to be able to talk to him after he released his latest funky tune “Duckgrease Burning at The Crabhouse. “ In this particular convo, Bruce was very much willing to share the meaning of his song as well as the creative process in this new track. As you would ask, it is a straight vibe!B-MACK distinctive vocal section complement each other so well with the soulful recording by MsLarayne. It is this soulful mix of funk, rhythm and blues that you will be dancing to. However, Bruce is not only a dope composer combined with the lead vocalist but a total maestro when it comes to sound production. With this attitude, he masterfully incorporates hip-hop, funk, soul, and R&B steadily into the album. It has been like that since B-MACK and his crew Michael cox on bass, Ben tyree on guitar, chris Eddleton on the drums, Leon gruenbaum on keys since their formation in the year 2017. They primarily take influence from greats such as Funkadelic and the late Charles Bradley. Bruce shared with me more about his whole journey into the world of creativity – starting from the young man who first witnessed the musical revolutions in Harlem and the Bronx and up to the present-day home studio experimenting in Staten Island. He is not only an amazing singer, his story is equally interesting, for real!You have to come with me to enter the fantastic world of B-MACK!Let's goooo! Listen to ‘Duckgrease Burning at The Crabhouse’ below https://open.spotify.com/track/3EqJNaVj6lUpURU62thKUM?go=1&sp_cid=bd24a14b968c0f6b344048ee4e7aabff&intent=addToLibrary&utm_source=embed_player_v&utm_medium=desktop&nd=1&dlsi=fa4c4ed776284865 Follow B-MACK on Facebook Twitter Soundcloud Bandcamp Youtube Instagram Tiktok   What is your stage name B-MACK Is there a story behind your stage name? It’s actually the short version of my name (Bruce Mack) that became a nickname started by the late Greg Tate - founder of the band Burnt Sugar the Arkestra Chamber, which I’m also a contributing member of. I’ve always liked the sound of “B-MACK” as it feels simultaneously strong and joyful when I hear it. All the other band members followed suit, affectionately referring to me as B-Mack, so when I put the press release together for the recent singles I decided to relinquish using my full name and call the whole band “B-MACK”. It is more inclusive of the players as they contribute to the sound that is based around my songwriting & voice. Did it with all caps because the name is unpredictable as are the songs and I’m a big dude. Where do you find inspiration? I find inspiration in the observation of nature. I love camping, hiking and while doing so, I gaze at nature’ often making comparions to or how it applies itself to urban life. What was the role of music in the early years of your life? In my early years (1960’s-70’s), music was like a moderator for everything I witnessed going on in my neighborhoods (Harlem & the Bronx) and around the world such as the heroin epidemic, corrupt police, racism, Vietnam war, the assasinations of the Kennedy’s, Malcolm X, and MLK. Music provided a language that helped me understand it all and was therapuetic in learning that an artist could speak, sing and/or play out their social awareness. Are you from a musical or artistic family? I guess to some extent we were… there were six of us, four girls and two boys. The oldest - Emmajane has passed on leaving 3 older sibling - Florence, Delores, Walter and younger sister Lydia, all talented. Emma was a hair & make-up stylist, Delores & Florence could replicate and resize images from magazine onto a wall via drawing or painting. Walter loved singing as he does to this day in church and I often imitated him when he babysat me. But aside from Emma who had a career as a hairstylist, they never pursued careers in the arts.

Youngest sibling Lydia is a wonderful singer and went to Fiorello H. LaGuardia School of Performing Arts in New York City to do so. I always felt she was “the real deal” and remember being so impressed by her making it into that school, it is probably the most well respected performimng arts high school in NYC. She actually did pursue a career in music and invited to sing in one of her groups for a short period, but life as it can do took her in a different direction. But she did teach one of her daughters to sing and that happens to be LaRayne aka MsLaRayne who is featured on the bridge of Duckgreaser… I went to DeWitt Clinton H.S. at that time, a bit of a scatter-brain and torn between sports and music. But the vapors from my early love of music kept flowing around me… Our mother, Sallie Catherine Mack loved the performing arts, particularly dance and music, and in my formative years she always set aside time to address curiosities about what and who Lydia and I were listening to. I was a bit more curious being 3yrs older, so ‘Ma (as I called her) would tell me who the artist were and introduced me to who they were inspired by. That knowledge became important to my development in the business of music in later years and as an educator. Who inspired you to be a part of the music industry? Well, when you say “music industry” I think of the creative side as well as the business side… creatively I would say Sly&The Family Stone, business-wise I would say Tommy Boy Records. Tommy Boy was an independent record label based in NYC that made me feel empowered to create my own path to expose my writing and performing skills, which I eventually did with my good friend Kenneth A. Edmonds when we formed our own indie record labe Attic Sounds, in the mid-eighties, releasing an extended-length double-sided single ‘Chemical Pollution’ b/w ‘You Got Me’ with our band (the original) PBR Streetgang. How did you learn to sing/write/to play? I was inspired to sing by listening to recordings of Lambert Hendrix & Ross, King Pleasure, Betty Carter and other greats. I learned to sing by mimicking horn solos on James Brown recordings that featured Maceo Parker and Fred Wesley. After high school, I took voice lessons at the JazzMobile Workshop and then studdied classical voice in college. Writing came naturally to me because I connected it to abstract painting, which allowed me to put words&thoughts together in unconventional ways. This worked well for me being someone not well-read or knowledgeable with figures of speach, yet I’ve always been socially aware, historically informed, romantic with nature and empathetic. I’m also a student of Sly Stone, Joni Mitchell and Brenda Russell. I play several instruments… piano, electric bass, drumset and various percussion all self-taught. I generally acquired those skills when I would pick up an instrument attempting to create an ostinato or rhythm pattern because it would at least sound or feel like I had some ability. If it felt easy to be creative on, I would continue with it. I played around with piano and synths quite a bit because aside from it being great accompaniment with my voice, I could also convey feeling and/or the rhythm I wanted other players to capture. [caption id="attachment_55619" align="alignnone" width="2000"] I learned to sing by mimicking horn solos on James Brown recordings that featured Maceo Parker and Fred Wesley.[/caption] What was the first concert that you ever went to and who did you see perform? The P-Funk Earth Tour, 1976 at Madison Square Garden. The headliner was Parliament-Funkadelic with opening act Booty’s Rubber Band. How could you describe your music? Quirky original songs fused with an eclectic blend of edgy funk and rock. Describe your creative process. My creative process is more like a short manual of approaches. One approach very personal to me often starts with the rhythm of a melodic or lyrical phrase in my head that I’ve been repeatedly singing for days,

sometimes months at a time before dropping it on a rhythm track with chord changes in Logic Pro or GarageBand. Then I will start to layer it with other sounds or instruments I am hearing. Sometimes the ideas come to me as complete arrangements and or lyrics all at once! Which is fun because I then open up the recording software and work feverishly to capture the idea and feeling. This was the case with Duckgrease Burning at The Crabhouse. Another favorite approach is jamming or collaborating live with other musicians… I’ll bring a notepad of lyrics, and as we establish grooves we like…I’ll attempt to see which what lyrics or poem might fit, then I record the session with a handheld stereo (in case the idea is sonically sound and salvageable) device, take it home, drop it into one of the DAWs (digital audio workstation) and begin experimenting, doubling instruments, adding keys, vocals, etc.. What is your main inspiration? Nature. What musician do you admire most and why? Guitarist/composer/producer Vernon Reid. Because of his ability to instigate exploration and experimentation in any genre of music. To be that is beyond self-gratification because it is inclusive of all musicians involved in projects he is at the helm of or as a side contributor. Did your style evolve since the beginning of your career? Although my style has always centered around funk, it has evolved in that I now incorporate elements, concepts and genres of Afro-Caribbean, West Africa, South America and electronica. Who do you see as your main competitor? That’s an interesting and excellent question. I haven’t given it much thought, but if the late great Charles Bradley (R.I.P.) were alive… I would consider him my competition because of our closeness in vocal range, tone, how we apply our voices to song, similarity in genres and band instrumentation. Although his palette of meloncholy was much deeper. So who’s left? Hmmm…. I’ll have to say this fantastic artist based here in NYC called Blak Emoji. What are your interests outside of music? Cooking, hiking, camping, I love the outdoors! If it wasn't a music career, what would you be doing? I think I would be a forest ranger or something in that field - no pun intended. What is the biggest problem you have encountered in the journey of music? Although I have changed, it was my fear of trusting and giving 100% of myself to the music. Doing other jobs to earn money caused me to waste energy, which resulted in a lack of discipline to practice, which in turn made it stressful for me to work as a sideman because I had to put so much more in with short periods of time to get the music together for whatever gig I was on. If you could change one thing in the music industry, what would it be? Increase the royalty fees paid to artist by streaming platforms. https://open.spotify.com/artist/4laJvxjPZv91uVjkRj3bbf Why did you choose this as the title of this project? During the fall of 2023, I was cooking, testing different spices and temperatures to use for cooking Duck breast and rendering duck fat aka duck confit aka duckgrease, and found in all cases it came out well and was easy to do. So after a few bites, a couple glasses of wine, and some solo dancing in the kitchen… I started using the term “duckgrease” as a metaphor for making it easy to have a good time. I was having a moment and such a good time, It made me forget my woes and the state our country is in… Then I began to imagine there being a place for everyone to go enjoy themselves as well and sat down to write this mini tale of a fictitious getaway. Pure escapism. That’s why I called this project “Duckgrease Burning at The Crabhouse! What are your plans for the coming months? Plans for the coming months include recording new songs to combine with previous releases for a full length album that will include vinyl & CDs. The release of a concept video for Silent Witness, booking B-MACK band in venues, and get to the woods! Oh and one small thing… Come

August 9th & 10, I will be performing several songs with and conducting Burnt Sugar the Arkestra Chamber at Lincoln Center in a concert tribute to Melvin Van Peebles, directed by his son & film director Mario Van Peebles. Do you have any artistic collaboration plans Yes, producer Michael Cox and I are planning to do an album of electronica dance music with various singers and featured instrumentalists. Also looking forward to recording a duet with NYC Blues Hall of Fame bassist Pete Cummings in early summer. What message would you like to give to your fans? Thank you for indulging my work with your continuous support, and to keep yourself and children creative and uplifted with positivity during these complex times. When we all get pass the madness, there will be banana pudding waiting for us at the ‘Crabhouse! One Love.

[imagine-a-dream]

Come a little bit closer.

pt.1

summary: When your dear friend Otto Octavius invited you for a regular cup of coffee and a chat, you never imagined it would end up being something more. warnings: none in this part, but the next one is 🍋 requested by: @politicstanner So uhh... It's not exactly followed your request, so if you want me to write another work that will be more fluffy, message me! Hope you like it anyway and sorry in advance. wc: 1.2k A/N: Can be read as post-NWH Otto or just alternative reality to Spider-Man 2 Woo-hoo! It’s already 326 followers here! I can’t believe it guys, love you all! ♥ Thank you for reading my works!

Today, Otto invited you to his flat to catch up after another week of hard work on another genius project of his. You have been friends for many years now, and it has become a common occurrence for you to meet from time to time to check in on each other. You would often just sit and talk, telling stories about your life, sharing your thoughts and plans for the future. You seemed to never bore one another, being able to find subjects to talk about for hours, almost literally about anything and everything.

Sometimes, if you were exceptionally lucky and Octavius was in this compliant mood, you were able to coax him into doing a movie marathon. But it is a very rare occasion. After all, he was still a freshly redeemed supervillain, and as a capable and promising scientist, one of the terms of his freedom ordeal was the job of creating technical marvels for society’s benefit and development. It was a demanding job, but the older man seemed to enjoy it, even under pretty strict government control. He wanted it. He wanted to be a better person; he wanted to create a better future; he wanted, no, needed to be useful to benefit the world he nearly destroyed because of his pride that overshadowed his brilliant mind.

He swore to never return to this mindset again; to do anything in his power, and even beyond that, to prevent this kind of catastrophe. At least until the day he died. And he kept his word. He was a good man, and that was one of the traits that made you fall in love with him.

And currently, sitting in his warm kitchen, nursing the cup of already cold coffee in your equally cold hands, you tried very hard to stay focused and listen to what he was saying, but were failing miserably. Otto was explaining to you his current experiment with microtechnology (or something along the line, you were not sure about the exact name of it, and at this point you were too scared to ask) and how useful it could be. He said it was the future. A revolution.

His human arms were moving animatedly, expressing the emotions he felt and couldn’t verbalise fully with his voice and words. His fingers danced in the air, drawing bizarre patterns with the grace of a ballet dancer. His metallic arms acted in the same manner, moving rapidly around the small room, almost knocking over a kettle that was a bit too close to the edge of the stove and a cup of Otto’s beverage.

His round face was radiating with excitement, cheeks dusted with a faint pink, making his feature glow. A huge, proud, and enthusiastic smile did not leave his lips for a second, stretching them wildly. It’s been a long time since you last saw him like this. Happy and joyful. So free and open. You knew that at this moment, his exceptional mind was racing with all of these new ideas he had yet to try out, and his heart was full of hope about the better future that he could provide. You know him too well by now.

He truly was a vision, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from this beautiful, intelligent, and very passionate man in front of you. Being so enamoured with him, you failed to hear him calling for you. Only when his smile faltered, turning into a slightly confusional frown, did you stir, like waking up from your dreamy state.

You cleared your throat and blinked a couple of times, trying to cover up your embarrassment and dig out from your clouded brain at least some of the words he said for the last hour. The blood rushed to your cheeks, making your face grow extremely hot.

"What? Sorry, I… Uhh"

A smile left Otto’s face entirely, and a shameful scowl took its place.

"No, no, Y/n, my dear, no need to apologise. I am the one who should be apologising. I must be boring you with all of this nonsense, talking for hours… But you have to forgive this little sin to an old man, I haven’t had an audience in quite a long time. It must be my long-forgotten professor's side letting me know that it's still somewhere deep inside of m-"

"No!" You interrupted him, and your voice sounded way louder than you intended, bouncing off the walls right into your ears.

You cringed internally and continued to speak, trying desperately to come up with an excuse for your absent attention, "No, Otto, you’re not boring me at all! I love listening to you! I really do. You know it. It’s just… you know how little I understand about maths and physics. And all these numbers and reactions, it’s nothing but magic for me, you know."

You gave him a sheepish smile and cleared your throat again. The older man relaxed noticeably after your little confession and chuckled understandingly.

"Ah, I see. Well, maybe I could simplify it a little bit?"

You nodded enthusiastically, and the tension in your body melted away in relief.

"Yeah, it would be awesome. Think of me as one of your dumbest students. Professor Octavius."

You did not know what kind of strange force possessed you at this very moment, but you did not question your choice of words and the audacity to give him a playful wink, until you saw his eyebrows go up and his cheeks turn two shades darker. He averted his eyes for a moment and coughed into his hand. You were ready to run away for good with the crushing embarrassment of your foolish behaviour, wishing for the ground to open up and swallow you, but were stopped by a small grin crooking the side of his mouth.

He shook his head slightly, as if not believing in what you just did or maybe shaking away some of his own thoughts, and chuckled lightly.

"Very well, then, my dear student."

The sudden change in his tone, now just an octave deeper and with a touch of rasp that could have been missed if you hadn’t listened to his voice so intently, sent a delightful shiver down your spine. When his soft brown eyes bore into yours all of a sudden, you make the greatest effort to control your body from shaking visibly.

After this short moment of… something, you were not entirely sure what to call everything that happened in these few seconds or if any of this was not your overly-vivid imagination. Everything went back to normal again. Or almost everything. The man before you was still the same old Otto you knew, still an excited scientist happy to share his knowledge with anyone who would listen. He was still a man proud of his intelligence and work, but you could sense that something in the air between you shifted just slightly.

His eyes darkened just enough to turn the soft brown into burnt umber. His lips curled just enough to make his smile look just a little more sinister. His body drew closer, shortening the distance between you just enough for you to catch on to his cologne.

Maybe it was just your wishful thinking, that hidden desire you had for the older man who captured you with his kind words and bright mind, like a spider would capture a fly in his web. You never let your feelings out, tucking them in so deep that you sometimes forget that what you felt was a little bit more than just simple admiration. And now, when his eyes were travelling up and down your body, almost as if he was studying you, taking in any subtle change in your body language, you finally remembered.

These heavy gates of social norms and fears of your anxious mind, which were holding in your darkest fantasies and deepest desires, finally opened.

And you were afraid of what was behind those barricades.

masterlist | request rules

comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated! ♥

[softlimefluff]

Date hc for Kakyoin please

(YESSS I love our Cherry King 🍒)

💘 Date HC

-When you and Nori have been in a relationship for a while, you both brainstorm to come up with more date ideas, keeping a list together for when you need inspiration. Sure, you love going out for food, hanging out at home together, and going on walks, but it’s fun to change things up sometimes!

Your favorites on the list include: 

-Arcade date! It’s no secret that Kakyoin is a gamer, so going on a date night to an arcade is like heaven (you know those cool game bars that have popped up everywhere? He’d love that). Spending a night doing multi-player arcade cabinets, dance dance revolution, and grabbing drinks and snacks (with the occasional stolen kiss) is his ideal evening.

-Stargazing! Nori is definitely on the nerdy side and will either know constellations by sight or pull up the star walk app on his phone to find them with you. Plus it’s a great opportunity to bring a blanket outside and pull you into his arms to stay warm and cuddle~

-Midway food crawl! Sure, you might enjoy going on rides at the fair, but even more, you two take on the midway food stalls with joyful abandon. He’s going to buy you that 2 foot tall alien cup just because he loves you. No questions asked. You’ll grab items until your arms are full, then find a table and do food reviews on insta stories together. (Selfie mode filming all adorable with lots of laughs as you feed each other and break down giggling as Kak makes weird, cute faces at you 🙈)

-Water park day! Loves chilling with you in the lounge chairs (and helping you put on sunscreen of course), taking you on the lazy river, and being your hype man when you take on the scarier rides! Again, lots of snacks, smooches, and fun in the sun.

-Paintball! Nori gave you puppy eyes until you agreed to this one. While you ended up having fun, it also stung like a binch and left you with a bunch of welts. Nori does his best to make it up to you by kissing all of the bruises as an apology~

-Chinese takeout and movie marathon! Not just one or two movies, this will be some kind of saga that takes a time investment like LOTR or HP or Star Wars. He doesn’t mind though because he gets to spend the whole time next to you and make out during the slow or boring parts~

[jenishreads]

6 Binge-worthy Books to Shake Up Your Idle Mind 📚

Books have been an very effective agent, bringing major changes into the life of people. Whether the book is "The Communist Manifesto' by Karl Marx  or 'Harry Potter Novels' by J. K. Rowling. Each had their own impact on readers in terms of revolution, spirituality, relaxation, inspiration, reality escape or downright skill upgrading. Most of the readers down the lane start preferring only certain type of books. Eventually they miss other amazing books that can open their mind to different perspective. This led me to read books based on various subjects, and yes; sometimes it is fun to be jack of all and master of none.

Thus, If there's some curiosity burning inside you and want to read something different other then the usual genres. I have some recommendation for you.

The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand

Inquilab Bhagat Singh on Religion & Revolution by Irfan Habib

Islam for the Politically Incorrect: With a foreword for Donald Trump by Khaled Diab

Dark Matter by Blake Crouch

Think Like a Rocket Scientist: Simple Strategies for Giant Leaps in Work and Life by Ozan Varol

The Man Who Played with Fire: Stieg Larsson's Lost Files and the Hunt for an Assassin by Jan Stocklassa, Tara F. Chace (Translator)

The listed book are from my read list that I have found most Interesting and I hope you will find it too. I have quoted one highlight from every book. You can access my Goodread book list and its highlights at goodreads.com

1. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand

Despite of this book releasing in the year 1943 and the setting of the plot according to it, I am still amazed that those societal prejudice and ways has not been changed as of yet. Author has very well created the characters keeping in in mind the competition that existed in the architectural world. But while reading it can be accepted that, the mentioned norms exist in all kind of profession in the modern world too.

To sell your soul is the easiest thing in the world. That's what everybody does every hour of his life. If I asked you to keep your soul - would you understand why that's much harder?

I have listened to this book on Audible (Narrated by Christopher Hurt) and it was notably long (32 hrs 2 mins) but its all worth it. Some people can find it boring due to its in-detail description of characters and the air surrounding it but it is the aspect that I found most important and literally joyful.

2. Inquilab Bhagat Singh on Religion & Revolution written by Irfan Habib and narrated by: LS Ravi

This book is the compilation of Bhagat Singh's Articles, notes and Letters. I chose this book, to get to know more about the freedom fighter after reading his essay 'Why I Am an Atheist". I used to consider him the person who wanted the freedom based solely on violence but this book really changed my mind and explained many things about Bhagat Singh the person.

A God-believing Hindu might be expecting to be reborn as a king, a Muslim or a Christian might dream of the luxuries to be- enjoyed in paradise and the reward he is to get for his sufferings and sacrifices. But what am I to expect? I know the moment the rope is fitted round my neck and rafters removed, from under my feet. That will be the final moment that will be the last moment. I, or to be more precise, my soul, as interpreted in the metaphysical terminology, shall all be finished there. Nothing further.

I listened it on Audible (Narrated by LS Ravi). It is an awesome book, because you journey through his notes and articles, from those literature; it is visible that how his ideas regarding the revolution evolved. His writing includes the topics related to communism, politics, religion and personal development. Any reader can enjoy this books because of the proper representation by the author and his insightful detailed comments.

3. Islam for the Politically Incorrect: With a foreword for Donald Trump by Khaled Diab

Islam, the, most talked about religion. Some people say that it's a religion of peace whereas If you see around you can only relate it to violence and terrorism in social, political and spiritual circle. Khaled Diab here explains that Islam is more than that and most of it is hidden behind the curtain that many people chose to ignore.

Devout Muslims who feel they are duty-bound to defend the honour of Muhammad through violence or intimidation should take a deep breath and recall the Quranic injunction: “For you is your religion, and for me is mine religion.”

The author is a prominent journalist and his wide knowledge reflects here. He has has beautifully explained Islam in context with all the expects like religion, political, sexual and geographical. He has shows each and every aspect of Islam very carefully without any bias. If you want to be an unbiased entity on the subject of Islam read this and recommend it to everyone. It's a completely insightful and enjoyable read.

4. Dark Matter by Blake Crouch

I had the honor of listening to this book on Audible (Narrated by Jon Lindstrom) and it is an absolute gem. This book by Blake Crouch is a must read because by default this book is classified in the genre of SF and Horror. But for me its an absolute love story, because the story has an antagonist that goes through some of the mind bending things just to get to his love.

It's terrifying when you consider that every thought we have, every choice we could possibly make, branches off into a new world.

Blake Crouch has done an amazing job on this because from story telling to characters to twist and turns, everything is just terrific. I don't want to write more about it and spoil it for you because I want you to have an experience of this must read.

5. Think Like a Rocket Scientist: Simple Strategies for Giant Leaps in Work and Life by Ozan Varol

When it comes to motivational or self development books, I usually don't prefer them. But this book by Ozan Varol has some type of an very different energy. Here the author explains various strategies that scientist uses when they face various difficult situations. The book should have been an straight manual for humans but the author has explained everything very beautifully so that the reader gets inspired by it and not just get motivated temporarily.

We’re hesitant to think big, reluctant to dance with uncertainty, and afraid of failure. These were necessary during the Paleolithic Period, keeping us safe from poisonous foods and predators. But here in the information age, they’re bugs.

The author also describes his experience as a former rocket scientist and the time when he was in an operation team for the 2003 Mars Exploration Rovers project. You don't need to have experience in science field to read this, you just need to have the curiosity. This book will be an amazing help for the readers seeking knowledge in improving themselves daily.

6. The Man Who Played with Fire: Stieg Larsson's Lost Files and the Hunt for an Assassin by Jan Stocklassa, Tara F. Chace (Translator)

Well, we all love movies where the journalist investigates a true complex crime with the involvement of various shifting nodes. But this non-fiction book is on another level where the journalist Jan Stocklassa carried out an mind-blowing investigation based on the initial research done by the famous writer Stieg Larsson (author of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) on the assassination of Olof Palme, the Swedish prime minister.

Some of the world’s biggest export contracts applied to weapons, and if anyone stood in the way of these deals or threatened to reveal secrets that could harm the bottom line, then a human life was a low price for being able to complete the highly lucrative and often shadowy deals.

Here the description of the investigation done by the author takes him to places and put him into an dangerous situation. And that  is really a thrill to watch because there are some techniques in there that can teach you to be a better communicator and most importantly when to step out. Its been an amazing read for me and if you are curios enough you will be enjoying it very much.

[confusinglump]

Instant Family?

Title is not that great, hell even the story might not be that great. But I'm giving it a go. Once again, I'm not a great writer but this has been rolling around my head.

Henry had laughed so much tonight, his cheeks still hurt. A very competitive game of DDR (dance dance revolution) with Elsa and her kids, turned into the silliest dance party he's ever been too. Furniture had been pushed to the side so Elsa could properly teach the kids how to dance the running man. Henry dared not to get up and try that at all, he'd need more than those two beers at dinner to even attempt it.

Henry loved the energy and closeness of her family and they welcomed him like he had been a friend they've know for years. Henry admired they way she handled the kids herself. She didn't sweat the small stuff and she understood they are great days and others where its okay to have cereal for dinner. The excitement surrounding them was so infectious that he found himself often walking over to their condo after the gym. He felt completely accepted and it reminded him of his home back in Jersey.

Though at times his heart felt heavy, he longed for a family just like this. Rambunctious kids running outside with vivid imaginations. He imagined someday rolling out of bed on a lazy Saturday morning to the smell of chocolate chips waffles and bacon. Hearing the hushed squabbling over how many pieces of bacon they could sneak before setting the table.

Five year old Isabella had let Henry in on the bacon heist that occured every Saturday morning. It was cutest thing to see Isa explaining to him that he should probably use his superman powers.

"Henry you gotta be super duper fastest!"

Henry smiled at the seriousness in her tone. Isa had even offered to distract her mom if he needed help, since he didn't have the suit on. That was his first of many Saturday morning waffles.

Henry was caught off guard with the screaming excitement of Elsa and kids when Push It by Salt n Peppa came on. He couldn't help but smile at how free and in the moment she was. He laughed loudly and shook his head, when Elsa started shimming her shoulders and shaking her head. Strands of her hair were coming out of her loose ponytail, her eyes were closed and she smiled bright. it tugged his heart when he saw her in these joyful moments. The kids fed off of her energy, 5 yr Isa was mimicking her mothers rhythmic movements. He was surprised and impressed that even 12 year old Marco was dancing.

Elsa danced hopped her way over to Henry and made a big show of of using her air lasso to pull him to her. Henry let out the biggest laugh at her silliness. He shook his head but rose to his feet and rolled his shoulders along with the music. He hadnt felt this carefree in long time. He was loving it.

**"Alright, alright niños, its time to get ready for bed." Elsa called out as she shut off the speakers.

His favorite chorus of "But mom" started.

Elsa laughed and shook her head.

"Sorry guys tomorrow is another day, go get ready for bed I'll clean up."

The kids grumbled as usual but listened anyway.

Henry sighed, this only meant he had to leave soon. He already missed them. He thought about Elsa a lot, envisioning waking up to her morning kisses before the hustle and bustle of getting the kids up for school. He could see himself teaching the kids rugby, proper soccer and maybe taking them camping. He wouldn't mind a few princess dress up parties or helping Isa sell all her troops girl scout cookies either.

At first when he meet the new single gym member he tried to be completely charming, hoping to ask her out.  But a little self doubt crept up on him and he lost his nerve. Later he heard through the gym grapevine that Elsa wasn't ready to date. That stung a bit, he definitely felt a spark when they talked.  Then he learned that she was divorced with two kids and that threw him for a loop. He wondered if he was responsible enough to date a parent. Dates would require extra planning so anything spontaneous might be out of the question.  He supposed it was for the best. If they had started dating and it became serious how could he leave her and her kids for months at a time. She would need someone more present right? He couldn't do that to them, so he kept his feelings towards her to himself. And hoped she wouldn't catch him staring. Instead he settled for friendship and greedily accepted an open invitation to her house anytime.

Henry started moving furniture back and picking up pillows off the floor while Elsa swept up a bit.

"You don't have to help me clean up Henry."

"I really don't mind."

Elsa beamed and it made his heart beat a touch faster.

**

He was lingering a bit after saying his final goodbyes and wishing Isa a goodnight. Marco would always pound his fist and Isa would raise her arms so he could carry her into a big hug. Sometimes he'd make silly faces just to hear her cute little giggle.

***

Elsa felt her stomach in knots, she felt hot, sweaty and completely nervous. Last time she walked Henry out she gave him small peck on his cheek. She hugged him like always but he smelled so delicious and when hugged her a little tighter she just went for it. She was definitely sure he thought it was just a friendly peck. There was no way he'd be interested in someone like her, right? But oh god did he make her swoon everytime he offered to throw the football around with Marco or when he'd set up a little tea party fort with Isa. He was completely sweet and patient with them. He didn't know how much it meant to her that her kids got to see a how caring and understanding a man could be. Marco really looked up to him, always eagerly taking in any advice Henry gave him.

For almost a year they've known Henry and her feelings for him seemed to triple each time he was around. He always offered a sympathetic ear and encouraging words. He was so tender sometimes it felt like her heart was going to split. He was such a goofball and she was sure that not everyone knew that side of him.

**

The kids had already rushed off to bed and that left both of them standing around awkwardly.

"Walk me out?"

"Of course."

She lead him down the narrow hallway to the front door. Elsa opened the door and as Henry passed in front of her he playfully nudged her shoulder.

"Everything okay Elsa?"

"Oh, um yes. I'm just tired."

"Are you sure, do you need anything," his voice a little more serious.

"Hmmmm, maybe next time you can bring Kal? I'd love some fluffy cuddles."

"Ugh, Kal gets all the attention!"

"Oh stop it, you know we love you too!" Elsa laughed.

Henry laughed along but he felt giddy about her saying "love" even though it was in friendship kinda way.

"Come here," she said as she opened her arms.

And this was his favorite part of the night.

This time he leaned down wrapping his arms around her waist and she quickly wrapped hers around his neck. She whispered in his ear, "thanks for coming over" and he squeezed her tighter hoping for a repeat of last week. He felt her turn her face and gently kiss his cheek again. His body felt like it was vibrating and he swore he could feel her heart beating out if her chest. Henry pulled away slightly to look at her, he smiled a her blushing face. He saw her eyes glance down at something, his lips maybe? She bit the corner of her lips and slowly pulled him back down to her. Henry then felt her soft lips kiss his once then twice and finally he kissed her back. Her lips parted and he hungrily kissed her, he hoped she could somehow feel how he felt about her. Elsa moaned into his mouth and Henry gripped her hips. She pulled back breathlessly, her chest rapidly heaving. Henry felt a jolt of sensations, his body feeling cold and hot with a flush around his ears.

Elsa was in some kind of euphoric state and suddenly she felt freezing wave of embarrassment rush over her. She quickly pulled away, stuttering an apology.

"I, I don't know what came over me. I didn't mean to, mean to...I'm really sorry Henry." " You should probably go," she whispered.

Henry was completely confused as to what was happening now. Did she regret kissing him? She wasn't even looking at him.

"Elsa, can we talk about this for a minute."

"Mommy?"

They both turned to see Isa rubbing her eyes walking towards them.

"Can we talk about it tomorrow? I'll call you" she whispered.

"Mommy, come read to me please."

Elsa quickly scooped up Isa and turned back to Henry pleading him with her eyes.

He wanted to stay, he wanted to tell her he'd wait outside if she wanted, so they talk tonight.

"Please Henry."

The looked she gave him broke his heart, her eyes were starting to well up her nose getting a little pink.

"Okay. Tomorrow?"

She nodded, feeling relieved.

He closed the gap between them and hugged them both.

"Goodnight princess."

"Nite Henry."

He kissed Elsa's cheek and walked out the door.

*** FYI DDR is still awesome and so is Salt n Peppa. Push it, push it real good🎶🎶🎤🎶🎶

[neriad13]

Best of the Best - Media Consumed 2018

Books - Fiction

The Lies of Locke Lamora - Scott Lynch

I devoured the entire series in a series of months this year and what I’m about to say holds true for all of them (probably more than for the latter two than the first)...but I have a particular soft spot for the plot twists and humor of the beginning. So, it’s my choice for the year, though it is representing the series as a whole.

This is the series that showed me what inclusive fantasy can be like. It’s a story predominantly about straight white dudes written by a straight white dude (a comfort zone I am struggling to break out of) and yet, it is one that purposefully skirts the tropes of the genre and plays with them in such a way that it makes the world feel welcoming to a reader who is neither straight nor male. There’s lesbian pirates, multiple queer characters, copious well-written women and non-white characters as major players in the narrative. This was a book that gave me hope and help as I struggled to bust out of my old patterns of thinking and writing. And yet, it was familiar enough that it was enough of a comfort zone to retreat to in times when I needed to seek comfort in fiction.

And it’s so much good fun. Half a year later and I’m still cracking up at “Nice bird, asshole.”

Books - Nonfiction

Dictator Style - Peter York

This book was weirdly heart-wrenching. There’s something so melancholy and strange about surveying the living spaces of these paragons of human misery and trying to figure out what they were thinking through medium of their wallpaper choices. That, and the knowledge that even the seemingly all powerful are far more tacky and slipshod than commonly believed, stuck with me.

Fic

Batya - Valya

I didn’t read a whole heck of a lot of fic this year and only counted those that were above a 30k word count. There were plenty of short fics that I loved, but alas, I did not write them down. Goals for next year!

So, Batya, BioShock fic - AU in which Ryan discovers Jack far earlier than intended and decides to adopt him as his son. Once this fic gets going, it’s intense. And sad. And beautiful, all of which apply heavily to the relationship between Jack and Kyle. The final scene between them is pure poetry and had me thinking of them dancing as Rapture fell apart around them for days afterward.

Film

I saw so many hecking good movies this year. I’m just barely able to pare it down to a top three.

Black Panther - Ryan Coogler

This movie was exhilarating. The design, the energy, the acting, the humor, the primal drama of two types of activism duking it out in the bowels of the earth...I walked out of the theater in a daze, hardly believing that I’d seen what I had.

When Marnie Was There - Hiromasa Yonebayashi

This movie contains the most accurate portrayal of social anxiety I have ever seen in fiction, period. It hit especially close to home for me, as this year was the one in which I faced and struggled with my own lifelong anxiety. I watched it wondering how on earth filmmakers half a world away got the details of my own childhood down so precisely on film. When the credits hit and “Fine On the Outside” played, I bawled at my computer screen.

Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse - Bob Persichetti, Peter Ramsey, Rodney Rothman

This movie was a staggering technological accomplishment. It pushed the boundaries of animation and filmmaking in ways I have flat-out never seen before. It was joyful, it was dramatic, it was tragic, it was gorgeous. It was a celebration of everything animation is capable of. And the fact that a brown kid is at the center of it?

Stunning.

Comics - Webcomics

Alethia - Kristina Stipetic

This is beautiful world in which the characters are forced to make terrible choices, as the main character struggles to find the meaning in such things.

Also, it’s all lesbian robots. The artist drew the comic specifically because she wanted more women in fiction that she could relate to. It’s a fascinating, meditative piece of work.

Comics - Fiction

Akira - Katsuhiro Otomo

This manga is a masterpiece of destruction and resurgence. The art is stunning, the characters are charming and the action is absolutely unbeatable.

But my favorite section was the one which focuses on Chiyoko - an unapologetically masculine woman with an arsenal of heavy weapons - while she’s on desperate rescue mission in hostile territory. My eyes were glued to the page as she blew away her foes and struggled against them in turn, her plight given the gravity and intensity that is so rarely bestowed on female action heroes.

For that alone - best fiction comic of the year.

Comics - Nonfiction

Marbles: Mania, Depression, Michelangelo and Me - Ellen Forney

I read so many fantastic comic memoirs this year. It was difficult to choose from among them - almost all of them were highlighted as among my favorites of the year. But there’s something about a seasoned artist drawing and talking about her own battles with mental illness after a long (and ongoing) war that stood out to me.

It’s a tale of seemingly endless medication adjustment, therapy and the breaking down of personal stigmas surrounding mental illness and the drugs used to treat it. Though I don’t share the artist’s diagnosis, it was a book that gave me confidence in choices about the treatment of my own mental illness.

Shows

A Series of Unfortunate Events S2 - Barry Sonnenfeld, Bo Welch, Mark Palansky, Allan Arkush, Loni Peristere, Liza Johnson, Jonathan Teplitzky

What can I say about something that is perfect? Every joke hits. Every bit of wordplay makes me burst out laughing. The absurdity and surreality of the situations are a sight to behold. The acting is phenomenal. The writing improves upon the books in every possible way. And in all of this, not an inch of the story’s darkness is ever given up.

Games

This was the year I played the first Fallout (the ending destroyed me), That Dragon, Cancer (very much hit home), 1979 Revolution: Black Friday (can you make a historical game that both teaches, entertains and reveals the human cost of a complex conflict? Yes. Yes, you can.) Pillars of Eternity (A well-written Atheist in my video game? It’s more likely than you think.) and Tales From the Borderlands (the humor! The art! The voice cast! The rock-solid writing!). All of them were top contenders and yet...there was really only one choice for me.

Papo and Yo - Vander Caballero

This is a game about the relationship between a boy and his alcoholic father. It is heavily based on the lead developer’s own experiences. It’s a fraught relationship - torn between the sober moments when the hero’s father loves him, protects him, takes care of him, plays with him - and the moments when drinking turns him into a monster of rage.

The hero sets out to find a cure for his father’s addiction and after great trial discovers…

*spoilers, though the answer is probably pretty obvious, though no less painful for its obviousness*

...that no such cure exists and that the only thing he can do is let him go.

I sobbed uncontrollably at the ending of this game and sniffled long after. The message stuck with me months after I’d played it.

All of the hurt, confusion, anger and grief of letting go of my own toxic person - there it had been, on the screen right in front of me. This game helped me come to peace with that decision in my own life and for that, I am astounded and humbled by the simple artistry of this game. If you have your own toxic person in your life - be the problem alcohol, religious fundamentalism, intolerance or any other form of abuse - play this game and know that it’s okay to leave them behind. 

[mylordmyfriendsposts]

Understanding 2nd Samuel

The reign of King David – A great king, but not a great family man.

A big part of this book is a surprisingly open stories about David’s domestic problems. They are not restricted to his adultery with Bathsheba, but include the rape of his daughter by one of his sons, and another son’s attempted revolution.

The writer tells it like it is. He doesn’t try to hide any of David’s flaws, even though David is the most revered King of Israel. David is a Godly man, who is never power hungry, and the prestige that he has, never stops him from repenting of his sins.

2 Samuel 1 verse 1 to 16:

The second part of Samuel opens with David morning the death of Saul.

2 Samuel 5 verse 1 to 12 verse 31:

The first seven years of David’s reign  are spent in civil war, with David battling against Saul’s son, Ishbosheth. When the conflict is concluded and Ishbosheth is killed, David becomes King of all Israel. David goes on to conquer the enemies of Israel and develop the nation into a sort of small empire.

2 Samuel 6 verse 1 to 23:

Since the time of Eli the Priest before Samuel, when the Philistines captured The Ark Of The Covenant, the ark has been out of the spotlight. The Philistines returned the ark because it caused them all kinds of problems, but the ark sat in neglect at a private place of worship. David know how significant it is, and the most sacred object in all Israel, it is a symbol of God’s presence among His people.

David brings the ark back to Jerusalem, in a move that will unite in one location the king’s throne with the symbolic Throne of God. While the Ark is returning in a joyful procession, King David dances as he also accompanies the Arks return. His enthusiasm is so unrestrained that his wife, a daughter of King Saul, criticizes David for acting undignified and dancing around half naked. That does not worry David, because he was celebrating in honor of the Lord. David place the ark in a tent used as the temple. The real Temple was to be built by David’s son Solomon years later.

2 Samuel 11 verse 1 to 26:

David watches Bathsheba take a bath on her roof. David was having trouble sleeping and goes for a walk on the roof of his palace.When he sees Bathsheba,who is a beautiful woman taking a bath. David invites her to the palace, he commits adultery with her. Bathsheba later discovers she is pregnant and is carrying David’s child. David calls Bathsheba husband home from war, so he will sleep with his wife, so her husband will think it is his child.The solider sleep alone, because his comrades are still in battle. David arranges for him to go back to battle in the front line, the solider dies in battle. David marries Bathsheba.

Nathan the prophet, confronts David about his sin. {Nothing is hidden from God}. Though David repents, Bathsheba’s son dies, but she will have another son to David, called Solomon.

2 Samuel 18 verses 1 to 33:

Davis son Absalom rebels against His father, because David fails to punish another of his sons, for raping Absalom’s sister. Absalom is killed in a battle  against his father David. Absalom long hair gets court in tree branches and he dies in the battle.

2 Samuel 24 verses 18 to 25:

David makes Israel a powerful nation, and expands his Kingdom. In the process David commits sins against God, that God feels obliged to punish. God gives David three options of punishment, the one David choose a plague kills thousands of his people. When the plague ends David build an alter on God’s instruction. Later Solomon will build the first temple on that site of the alter.

A question to ask ourselves, do we desire to be a man or woman after God’s own Heart? Realize that God isn’t looking for perfection, for “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” {Romans 3 verse 23} We as God’s men and women, are not unblemished, but we are progressing. Hopefully we love God with all our heart and soul, and even thought we stumble and fall at times, we should be quick to ask Our Lord and Our Friend for forgiveness.

We can all learn from Davis story in 2 Samuel, sin is never committed in a vacuum. Others are always affected by our sin. Be willing to ask Our Lord and Our Friend, for His strength to help us resist sin so that it doesn’t affect our relationships with Him and bear consequences for others.

The important message to take from 2 Samuel is: Sin has consequences, but God will always forgive us if we ask.

God Bless.

O F J.

[dfroza]

Today’s reading from the ancient book of Proverbs and book of Psalms

for September 30 of 2021 with Proverbs 30 and Psalm 30, accompanied by Psalm 9 for the 9th day of Astronomical Autumn and Psalm 123 for day 273 of the year (now with the consummate book of 150 Psalms in its 2nd revolution this year)

[Proverbs 30]

[The Mysterious Sayings of Agur]

These are the collected sayings of the prophet Agur, Jakeh’s son—

the amazing revelation he imparted to Ithiel and Ukal.

God, I’m so weary and worn out,

I feel more like a beast than a man.

I was made in your image,

but I lack understanding.

I’ve yet to learn the wisdom

that comes from the full and intimate knowledge of you,

the Holy One.

[Six Questions]

Who is it that travels back and forth

from the heavenly realm to the earth?

Who controls the wind as it blows and holds it in his fists?

Who tucks the rain into the cloak of his clouds?

Who stretches out the skyline from one vista to the other?

What is his name?

And what is the name of his Son?

Who can tell me?

[A Pure Heart Is Filled with God’s Word]

Every promise from the faithful God

is pure and proves to be true.

He is a wraparound shield of protection for all his lovers

who run to hide in him.

Never add to his words,

or he will have to rebuke you and prove that you’re a liar.

God, there are two things I’m asking you for before I die, only two:

Empty out of my heart everything that is false—

every lie, and every crooked thing.

And give me neither undue poverty nor undue wealth—

but rather, feed my soul with the measure of prosperity

that pleases you.

May my satisfaction be found in you.

Don’t let me be so rich that I don’t need you

or so poor that I have to resort to dishonesty

just to make ends meet.

Then my life will never detract from bringing glory to your name.

Never defame a servant before his master,

for you will be the guilty one

and a curse will come upon you.

There is a generation rising that curses their fathers

and speaks evil of their mothers.

There is a generation rising that considers themselves

to be pure in their own eyes,

yet they are morally filthy, unwashed, and unclean.

There is a generation rising that is so filled with pride,

they think they are superior and look down on others.

There is a generation rising that uses their words like swords

to cut and slash those who are different.

They would devour the poor, the needy, and the afflicted

from off the face of the earth!

There are three words to describe the greedy:

“Give me more!”

There are some things that are never satisfied.

Forever craving more, they’re unable to say, “That’s enough!”

Here are four:

the grave, yawning for another victim,

the barren womb, ever wanting a child,

thirsty soil, ever longing for rain,

and a raging fire, devouring its fuel.

They’re all insatiable.

The eye that mocks his father and dishonors his elderly mother

deserves to be plucked out by the ravens of the valley

and fed to the young vultures!

[Four Mysteries]

There are four marvelous mysteries

that are too amazing to unravel—

who could fully explain them?

The way an eagle flies in the sky,

the way a snake glides on a boulder,

the path of a ship as it passes through the sea,

and the way a bridegroom falls in love with his bride.

Here is the deceptive way of the adulterous woman:

she takes what she wants and then says,

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

[Four Intolerable Things]

There are four intolerable events

that are simply unbearable to observe:

when an unfaithful servant becomes a ruler,

when a scoundrel comes into great wealth,

when an unfaithful woman marries a good man,

and when a mistress replaces a faithful wife.

[Four Creatures Small and Wise]

The earth has four creatures that are very small but very wise:

The feeble ant has little strength,

yet look how it diligently gathers its food in the summer

to last throughout the winter.

The delicate rock-badger isn’t all that strong,

yet look how it makes a secure home, nestled in the rocks.

The locusts have no king to lead them,

yet they cooperate as they move forward by bands.

And the small lizard is easy to catch

as it clings to the walls with its hands,

yet it can be found inside a king’s palace.

[Four Stately Things]

There are four stately monarchs

who are impressive to watch as they go forth:

the lion, the king of the jungle, who is afraid of no one,

the rooster strutting boldly among the hens,

the male goat out in front leading the herd,

and a king leading his regal procession.

If you’ve acted foolishly by drawing attention to yourself,

or if you’ve thought about saying something stupid,

you’d better shut your mouth.

For such stupidity may give you a bloody nose!

Stirring up an argument only leads to an angry confrontation.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 30 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 30]

A song of David. For the dedication of the temple.

I praise You, Eternal One. You lifted me out of that deep, dark pit

and denied my opponents the pleasure of rubbing in their success.

Eternal One, my True God, I cried out to You for help;

You mended the shattered pieces of my life.

You lifted me from the grave with a mighty hand,

gave me another chance,

and saved me from joining those in that dreadful pit.

Sing, all you who remain faithful!

Pour out your hearts to the Eternal with praise and melodies;

let grateful music fill the air and bless His name.

His wrath, you see, is fleeting,

but His grace lasts a lifetime.

The deepest pains may linger through the night,

but joy greets the soul with the smile of morning.

When things were quiet and life was easy, I said in arrogance,

“Nothing can shake me.”

By Your grace, Eternal,

I thought I was as strong as a mountain;

But when You left my side and hid away,

I crumbled in fear.

O Eternal One, I called out to You;

I pleaded for Your compassion and forgiveness:

“I’m no good to You dead! What benefits come from my rotting corpse?

My body in the grave will not praise You.

No songs will rise up from the dust of my bones.

From dust comes no proclamation of Your faithfulness.

Hear me, Eternal Lord—please help me,

Eternal One—be merciful!”

You did it: You turned my deepest pains into joyful dancing;

You stripped off my dark clothing

and covered me with joyful light.

You have restored my honor. My heart is ready to explode, erupt in new songs!

It’s impossible to keep quiet!

Eternal One, my God, my Life-Giver, I will thank You forever.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 30 (The Voice)

[Psalm 9]

I’m thanking you, God, from a full heart,

I’m writing the book on your wonders.

I’m whistling, laughing, and jumping for joy;

I’m singing your song, High God.

The day my enemies turned tail and ran,

they stumbled on you and fell on their faces.

You took over and set everything right;

when I needed you, you were there, taking charge.

You blow the whistle on godless nations;

you throw dirty players out of the game,

wipe their names right off the roster.

Enemies disappear from the sidelines,

their reputation trashed,

their names erased from the halls of fame.

God holds the high center,

he sees and sets the world’s mess right.

He decides what is right for us earthlings,

gives people their just deserts.

God’s a safe-house for the battered,

a sanctuary during bad times.

The moment you arrive, you relax;

you’re never sorry you knocked.

Sing your songs to Zion-dwelling God,

tell his stories to everyone you meet:

How he tracks down killers

yet keeps his eye on us,

registers every whimper and moan.

Be kind to me, God;

I’ve been kicked around long enough.

Once you’ve pulled me back

from the gates of death,

I’ll write the book on Hallelujahs;

on the corner of Main and First

I’ll hold a street meeting;

I’ll be the song leader; we’ll fill the air

with salvation songs.

They’re trapped, those godless countries,

in the very snares they set,

Their feet all tangled

in the net they spread.

They have no excuse;

the way God works is well-known.

The shrewd machinery made by the wicked

has maimed their own hands.

The wicked bought a one-way

ticket to hell.

No longer will the poor be nameless—

no more humiliation for the humble.

Up, God! Aren’t you fed up with their empty strutting?

Expose these grand pretensions!

Shake them up, God!

Show them how silly they look.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 9 (The Message)

[Psalm 123]

A Prayer for Mercy

A song of the stairway

O God-Enthroned in heaven, I lift my eyes toward you in worship.

The way I love you

is like the way a servant wants to please his master,

the way a maid waits for the orders of her mistress.

We look to you, our God, with passionate longing

to please you and discover more of your mercy and grace.

For we’ve had more than our fill of this scoffing and scorn—

this mistreatment by the wealthy elite.

Lord, show us your mercy!

Lord, show us your grace!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 123 (The Passion Translation)

[the-tailor-retailored]

The French Revolution: A History Volume 1 Excepts

it is a summing-up of Life; a final settling, and giving-in the “account of the deeds done in the body:” they are done now; and lie there unalterable, and do bear their fruits, long as Eternity shall last

that praying Duke of Orleans, Egalité’s grandfather, who honesty believed that there was no Death! He, if the Court Newsmen can be believed, started up once on a time, glowing with sulphurous contempt and indignation on his poor Secretary, who had stumbled on the words, feu roi d’Espagne (the late King of Spain): ‘Feu roi, Monsieur?' (the *late* king?) —‘Monseigneur,’ (My Lord) hastily answered the trembling but adroit man of business, ‘c’est une titre qu’ils prennent (’tis a title they take)

Man, “Symbol of Eternity imprisoned into Time!” it is not thy works, which are all mortal, infinitely little, and the greatest no greater than the least, but only the Spirit thou workest in, that can have worth or continuance.

These things befell not, they were slowly done; not in an hour, but through the flight of days: what was to be said of it? This hour seemed altogether as the last was, as the next would be.

As victory is silent, so is defeat. Of the opposing forces the weaker has resigned itself; the stronger marches on, noiseless now, but rapid, inevitable: the fall and overturn will not be noiseless.

If when the oak stands proudliest flourishing to the eye, you know that its heart is sound, it is not so with the man; how much less with the Society, with the Nation of men! Of such it may be affirmed even that the superficial aspect, that the inward feeling of full health, is generally ominous. For indeed it is of apoplexy, so to speak, and a plethoric lazy habit of body, that Churches, Kingships, Social Institutions, oftenest die. Sad, when such Institution plethorically says to itself, Take thy ease, thou hast goods laid up;—like the fool of the Gospel, to whom it was answered, Fool, this night thy life shall be required of thee!

Intelligence so abounds; irradiated by wit and the art of conversation. Philosophism sits joyful in her glittering saloons, the dinner-guest of Opulence grown ingenuous, the very nobles proud to sit by her; and preaches, lifted up over all Bastilles, a coming millennium.

let the Absurd fly utterly forsaking this lower Earth for ever. It is Truth and Astræa Redux that (in the shape of Philosophism) henceforth reign. For what imaginable purpose was man made, if not to be “happy”? By victorious Analysis, and Progress of the Species, happiness enough now awaits him.

With the working people, again it is not so well. Unlucky! For there are twenty to twenty-five millions of them.

the masses consist all of units. Every unit of whom has his own heart and sorrows; stands covered there with his own skin, and if you prick him he will bleed.

what a thought: that every unit of these masses is a miraculous Man, even as thyself art; struggling, with vision, or with blindness, for his infinite Kingdom

For them, in this world, rises no Era of Hope; hardly now in the other,—if it be not hope in the gloomy rest of Death, for their faith too is failing. Untaught, uncomforted, unfed! A dumb generation; their voice only an inarticulate cry: spokesman, in the King’s Council, in the world’s forum, they have none that finds credence.

At rare intervals they will fling down their hoes and hammers; and, to the astonishment of thinking mankind, flock hither and thither, dangerous, aimless; get the length even of Versailles.

The Château gates have to be shut; but the King will appear on the balcony, and speak to them. They have seen the King’s face; their Petition of Grievances has been, if not read, looked at. For answer, two of them are hanged, on a “new gallows forty feet high;” and the rest driven back to their dens,—for a time.

Clearly a difficult “point” for Government, that of dealing with these masses;—if indeed it be not rather the sole point and problem of Government

the masses count to so many millions of units; made, to all appearance, by God,—whose Earth this is declared to be. Besides, the people are not without ferocity; they have sinews and indignation.

governing; what by the spurt of your pen, in its cold dastard indifference, you will fancy you can starve always with impunity; always till the catastrophe come!—Ah Madame, such Government by Blindman’s-buff, stumbling along too far, will end in the General Overturn

trouble us not with thy prophecies, O croaking Friend of Men: ’tis long that we have heard such; and still the old world keeps wagging, in its old way.

For all is wrong, and gone out of joint; the inward spiritual, and the outward economical; head or heart, there is no soundness in it. As indeed, evils of all sorts are more or less of kin, and do usually go together: especially it is an old truth, that wherever huge physical evil is, there, as the parent and origin of it, has moral evil to a proportionate extent been.

—what unspeakable, nigh infinite Dishonesty ... must there not, through long ages, have gone on accumulating! It will accumulate: moreover, it will reach a head; for the first of all Gospels is this, that a Lie cannot endure for ever.

Their King has become a King Popinjay; with his Maurepas Government, gyrating as the weather-cock does, blown about by every wind. Above them they see no God; or they even do not look above, except with astronomical glasses. The Church indeed still is; but in the most submissive state; quite tamed by Philosophism; in a singularly short time; for the hour was come.

Peace? O Philosophe-Sentimentalism, what hast thou to do with peace, when thy mother’s name is Jezebel? Foul Product of still fouler Corruption, thou with the corruption art doomed!

it is singular how long the rotten will hold together, provided you do not handle it roughly.

On the other hand, be this conceded: Where thou findest a Lie that is oppressing thee, extinguish it. Lies exist there only to be extinguished; they wait and cry earnestly for extinction. Think well, meanwhile, in what spirit thou wilt do it: not with hatred, with headlong selfish violence; but in clearness of heart, with holy zeal, gently, almost with pity. Thou wouldst not replace such extinct Lie by a new Lie, which a new Injustice of thy own were; the parent of still other Lies? Whereby the latter end of that business were worse than the beginning.

It has been well said: “Man is based on Hope; he has properly no other possession but Hope; this habitation of his is named the Place of Hope.”

Off Ushant some naval thunder is heard. In the course of which did our young Prince, Duke de Chartres, “hide in the hold;” or did he materially, by active heroism, contribute to the victory? Alas, by a second edition, we learn that there was no victory; or that English Keppel had it.

Brave Suffren must return from Hyder Ally and the Indian Waters; with small result; yet with great glory for “six” non-defeats;—which indeed, with such seconding as he had, one may reckon heroic.

Dance on, ye foolish ones; ye sought not wisdom, neither have ye found it. Ye and your fathers have sown the wind, ye shall reap the whirlwind. Was it not, from of old, written: The wages of sin is death?

The name jokei (jockey) comes from the English; as the thing also fancies that it does. Our Anglomania, in fact , is grown considerable; prophetic of much. If France is to be free, why shall she not, now when mad war is hushed, love neighbouring Freedom? Cultivated men, your Dukes de Liancourt, de la Rochefoucault admire the English Constitution, the English National Character; would import what of it they can.

Of what is lighter, especially if it be light as wind, how much easier the freightage! Non-Admiral Duke de Chartres (not yet d’Orléans or Egalité) flies to and fro across the Strait; importing English Fashions; this he, as hand-and-glove with an English Prince of Wales, is surely qualified to do. Carriages and saddles; top-boots and rédingotes, as we call riding-coats. Nay the very mode of riding: for now no man on a level with his age but will trot à l’Anglaise, rising in the stirrups; scornful of the old sitfast method, in which, according to Shakspeare, “butter and eggs” go to market.

Elf jokeis, we have seen; but see now real Yorkshire jockeys, and what they ride on, and train: English racers for French Races.

A problematic Chevalier d’Eon, now in petticoats, now in breeches, is no less problematic in London than in Paris; and causes bets and lawsuits. Beautiful days of international communion! Swindlery and Blackguardism have stretched hands across the Channel, and saluted mutually: on the racecourse of Vincennes or Sablons, behold in English curricle-and-four, wafted glorious among the principalities and rascalities, an English Dr. Dodd,[43]—for whom also the too early gallows gapes.

Duke de Chartres was a young Prince of great promise, as young Princes often are; which promise unfortunately has belied itself. With the huge Orléans Property, with Duke de Penthievre for Father-in-law (and now the young Brother-in-law Lamballe killed by excesses),—he will one day be the richest man in France. Meanwhile, “his hair is all falling out, his blood is quite spoiled,”—by early transcendentalism of debauchery. Carbuncles stud his face; dark studs on a ground of burnished copper. A most signal failure, this young Prince! The stuff prematurely burnt out of him: little left but foul smoke and ashes of expiring sensualities: what might have been Thought, Insight, and even Conduct, gone now, or fast going,—to confused darkness, broken by bewildering dazzlements; to obstreperous crotchets; to activities which you may call semi-delirious, or even semi-galvanic!

the circles of Beauty and Fashion, each circle a living circular Passion-Flower: expecting the magnetic afflatus, and new-manufactured Heaven-on-Earth. O women, O men, great is your infidel-faith!

under the strangest new vesture, the old great truth (since no vesture can hide it) begins again to be revealed: That man is what we call a miraculous creature, with miraculous power over men; and, on the whole, with such a Life in him, and such a World round him, as victorious Analysis, with her Physiologies, Nervous-systems, Physic and Metaphysic, will never completely name, to say nothing of explaining. Wherein also the Quack shall, in all ages, come in for his share.

Through all time, if we read aright, sin was, is, will be, the parent of misery. This land calls itself most Christian, and has crosses and cathedrals; but its High-priest is some Roche-Aymon, some Necklace-Cardinal Louis de Rohan. The voice of the poor, through long years, ascends inarticulate, in Jacqueries, meal-mobs; low-whimpering of infinite moan: unheeded of the Earth; not unheeded of Heaven. Always moreover where the Millions are wretched, there are the Thousands straitened, unhappy; only the Units can flourish; or say rather, be ruined the last. Industry, all noosed and haltered, as if it too were some beast of chase for the mighty hunters of this world to bait, and cut slices from,—cries passionately to these its well-paid guides and watchers, not, Guide me; but, Laissez faire, Leave me alone of your guidance! What market has Industry in this France? For two things there may be market and demand: for the coarser kind of field-fruits, since the Millions will live: for the fine kinds of luxury and spicery,—of multiform taste, from opera-melodies down to racers and courtesans; since the Units will be amused. It is at bottom but a mad state of things.

and now has not Jean Jacques promulgated his new Evangel of a Contrat Social; explaining the whole mystery of Government, and how it is contracted and bargained for,—to universal satisfaction? Theories of Government! Such have been, and will be; in ages of decadence. Acknowledge them in their degree; as processes of Nature, who does nothing in vain; as steps in her great process. Meanwhile, what theory is so certain as this, That all theories, were they never so earnest, painfully elaborated, are, and, by the very conditions of them, must be incomplete, questionable, and even false? Thou shalt know that this Universe is, what it professes to be, an infinite one. Attempt not to swallow it, for thy logical digestion; be thankful, if skilfully planting down this and the other fixed pillar in the chaos, thou prevent its swallowing thee.

Blessed also is Hope; and always from the beginning there was some Millennium prophesied; Millennium of Holiness; but (what is notable) never till this new Era, any Millennium of mere Ease and plentiful Supply.

Man is not what one calls a happy animal; his appetite for sweet victual is so enormous. How, in this wild Universe, which storms in on him, infinite, vague-menacing, shall poor man find, say not happiness, but existence, and footing to stand on, if it be not by girding himself together for continual endeavour and endurance? Woe, if in his heart there dwelt no devout Faith; if the word Duty had lost its meaning for him!

For life is no cunningly-devised deception or self-deception: it is a great truth that thou art alive, that thou hast desires, necessities; neither can these subsist and satisfy themselves on delusions, but on fact. To fact, depend on it, we shall come back: to such fact, blessed or cursed, as we have wisdom for.

let the theory of Perfectibility say what it will, discontents cannot be wanting: your promised Reformation is so indispensable; yet it comes not; who will begin it—with himself?

How, beneath this rose-coloured veil of Universal Benevolence and Astræa Redux, is the sanctuary of Home so often a dreary void, or a dark contentious Hell-on-Earth! The old Friend of Men has his own divorce case too; and at times, “his whole family but one” under lock and key: he writes much about reforming and enfranchising the world; and for his own private behoof he has needed sixty Lettres-de-Cachet. A man of insight too, with resolution, even with manful principle: but in such an element, inward and outward; which he could not rule, but only madden. Edacity, rapacity;—quite contrary to the finer sensibilities of the heart! Fools, that expect your verdant Millennium, and nothing but Love and Abundance, brooks running wine, winds whispering music,—with the whole ground and basis of your existence champed into a mud of Sensuality; which, daily growing deeper, will soon have no bottom but the Abyss!

It is a doomed world: gone all “obedience that made men free;” fast going the obedience that made men slaves,—at least to one another. Slaves only of their own lusts they now are, and will be. Slaves of sin; inevitably also of sorrow.

Shall we say, then: Wo to Philosophism, that it destroyed Religion, what it called “extinguishing the abomination (écraser l’infâme)”? Wo rather to those that made the Holy an abomination, and extinguishable; wo at all men that live in such a time of world-abomination and world-destruction! Nay, answer the Courtiers, it was Turgot, it was Necker, with their mad innovating; it was the Queen’s want of etiquette; it was he, it was she, it was that. Friends! it was every scoundrel that had lived, and quack-like pretended to be doing, and been only eating and misdoing, in all provinces of life, as Shoeblack or as Sovereign Lord, each in his degree, from the time of Charlemagne and earlier. All this (for be sure no falsehood perishes, but is as seed sown out to grow) has been storing itself for thousands of years; and now the account-day has come.

Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. And yet, as we said, Hope is but deferred; not abolished, not abolishable. It is very notable, and touching, how this same Hope does still light onwards the French Nation through all its wild destinies. For we shall still find Hope shining, be it for fond invitation, be it for anger and menace; as a mild heavenly light it shone; as a red conflagration it shines: burning sulphurous blue, through darkest regions of Terror, it still shines; and goes sent out at all, since Desperation itself is a kind of Hope. Thus is our Era still to be named of Hope, though in the saddest sense,—when there is nothing left but Hope.

If the soliloquising Barber ask: ‘What has your Lordship done to earn all this?’ and can only answer: ‘You took the trouble to be born (Vous vous êtes donné la peine de naître),’ all men must laugh: and a gay horse-racing Anglomaniac Noblesse loudest of all.

Men, though never so thickly clad in dignities, sit not inaccessible to the influences of their time; especially men whose life is business;

There are Duports of deep scheme; Fréteaus, Sabatiers, of incontinent tongue: all nursed more or less on the milk of the Contrat Social.

and now nothing but a solid phlegmatic M. de Vergennes sits there, in dull matter of fact, like some dull punctual Clerk (which he originally was); admits what cannot be denied, let the remedy come whence it will. In him is no remedy; only clerklike “despatch of business” according to routine. The poor King, grown older yet hardly more experienced, must himself, with such no-faculty as he has, begin governing; wherein also his Queen will give help. Bright Queen, with her quick clear glances and impulses; clear, and even noble; but all too superficial, vehement-shallow, for that work!

Less chivalrous was Duke de Coigny, and yet not luckier: ‘We got into a real quarrel, Coigny and I,’ said King Louis; ‘but if he had even struck me, I could not have blamed him.’

Baron Besenval, with that frankness of speech which stamps the independent man, plainly assures her Majesty that it is frightful (affreux); ‘you go to bed, and are not sure but you shall rise impoverished on the morrow: one might as well be in Turkey.’ It is indeed a dog’s life.

How singular this perpetual distress of the royal treasury! And yet it is a thing not more incredible than undeniable. A thing mournfully true: the stumbling-block on which all Ministers successively stumble, and fall. Be it “want of fiscal genius,” or some far other want, there is the palpablest discrepancy between Revenue and Expenditure; a Deficit of the Revenue: you must “choke (combler) the Deficit,” or else it will swallow you!

Controller Joly de Fleury, who succeeded Necker, could do nothing with it; nothing but propose loans, which were tardily filled up; impose new taxes, unproductive of money, productive of clamour and discontent.

Vain seems human ingenuity.

Great is Bankruptcy: the great bottomless gulf into which all Falsehoods, public and private, do sink, disappearing; whither, from the first origin of them, they were all doomed. For Nature is true and not a lie. No lie you can speak or act but it will come, after longer or shorter circulation, like a Bill drawn on Nature’s Reality, and be presented there for payment,—with the answer, No effects. Pity only that it often had so long a circulation: that the original forger were so seldom he who bore the final smart of it! Lies, and the burden of evil they bring, are passed on; shifted from back to back, and from rank to rank; and so land ultimately on the dumb lowest rank, who with spade and mattock, with sore heart and empty wallet, daily come in contact with reality, and can pass the cheat no further.

Observe nevertheless how, by a just compensating law, if the lie with its burden (in this confused whirlpool of Society) sinks and is shifted ever downwards, then in return the distress of it rises ever upwards and upwards. Whereby, after the long pining and demi-starvation of those Twenty Millions, a Duke de Coigny and his Majesty come also to have their “real quarrel.” Such is the law of just Nature; bringing, though at long intervals, and were it only by Bankruptcy, matters round again to the mark.

Honour to Bankruptcy; ever righteous on the great scale, though in detail it is so cruel! Under all Falsehoods it works, unweariedly mining. No Falsehood, did it rise heaven-high and cover the world, but Bankruptcy, one day, will sweep it down, and make us free of it.

anon, invites some dedicating Poet or Poetaster to sing “this Assembly of the Notables and the Revolution that is preparing.”[53] Preparing indeed; and a matter to be sung,—only not till we have seen it, and what the issue of it is.

with spoiled blood and prospects; half-weary of a world which is more than half-weary of him, Monseigneur’s future is most questionable. Not in illumination and insight, not even in conflagration; but, as was said, “in dull smoke and ashes of outburnt sensualities,” does he live and digest.

These Privileged Classes have been used to tax; levying toll, tribute and custom, at all hands, while a penny was left: but to be themselves taxed? Of such Privileged persons, meanwhile, do these Notables, all but the merest fraction, consist. Headlong Calonne had given no heed to the “composition,” or judicious packing of them; but chosen such Notables as were really notable; trusting for the issue to off-hand ingenuity, good fortune, and eloquence that never yet failed. Headlong Controller-General! Eloquence can do much, but not all. Orpheus, with eloquence grown rhythmic, musical (what we call Poetry), drew iron tears from the cheek of Pluto: but by what witchery of rhyme or prose wilt thou from the pocket of Plutus draw gold?

The force of private intrigue, and then also the force of public opinion, grows so dangerous, confused!

a Rustic is represented convoking the poultry of his barnyard, with this opening address: ‘Dear animals, I have assembled you to advise me what sauce I shall dress you with;’ to which a Cock responding, ‘We don’t want to be eaten,’ is checked by ‘You wander from the point (Vous vous écartez de la question).’

worse men there have been, and better; but to thee also was allotted a task,—of raising the wind, and the winds; and thou hast done it.

Unhappy only that it took such talent and industry to gain the place; that to qualify for it hardly any talent or industry was left disposable! Looking now into his inner man, what qualification he may have, Loménie beholds, not without astonishment, next to nothing but vacuity and possibility. Principles or methods, acquirement outward or inward (for his very body is wasted, by hard tear and wear) he finds none; not so much as a plan, even an unwise one. Lucky, in these circumstances, that Calonne has had a plan! Calonne’s plan was gathered from Turgot’s and Necker’s by compilation; shall become Loménie’s by adoption. Not in vain has Loménie studied the working of the British Constitution; for he professes to have some Anglomania, of a sort.

There are things, as we said, which should not be dwelt on with minute close scrutiny: over hot coals you cannot glide too fast.

‘Tithe, that free-will offering of the piety of Christians’—‘Tithe,’ interrupted Duke la Rochefoucault, with the cold business-manner he has learned from the English, ‘that free-will offering of the piety of Christians; on which there are now forty-thousand lawsuits in this realm.’

The unquietest humour possesses all men; ferments, seeks issue, in pamphleteering, caricaturing, projecting, declaiming; vain jangling of thought, word and deed. It is Spiritual Bankruptcy, long tolerated; verging now towards Economical Bankruptcy, and become intolerable. For from the lowest dumb rank, the inevitable misery, as was predicted, has spread upwards. In every man is some obscure feeling that his position, oppressive or else oppressed, is a false one: all men, in one or the other acrid dialect, as assaulters or as defenders, must give vent to the unrest that is in them. Of such stuff national well-being, and the glory of rulers, is not made.

Loménie’s first Edicts are mere soothing ones: creation of Provincial Assemblies, “for apportioning the imposts,” when we get any; suppression of Corvées or statute-labour; alleviation of Gabelle. Soothing measures, recommended by the Notables; long clamoured for by all liberal men. Oil cast on the waters has been known to produce a good effect.

The lower classes, in this duel of Authority with Authority, Greek throttling Greek, have ceased to respect the City-Watch: Police-satellites are marked on the back with chalk (the M signifies mouchard, spy); they are hustled, hunted like feræ naturæ. Subordinate rural Tribunals send messengers of congratulation, of adherence. Their Fountain of Justice is becoming a Fountain of Revolt.

What will not people bless; in their extreme need?

The evil is considerable; but can he not remove it, can he not attack it? At lowest, he can attack the symptom of it: these rebellious Parlements he can attack, and perhaps remove. Much is dim to Loménie, but two things are clear: that such Parlementary duel with Royalty is growing perilous, nay internecine; above all, that money must be had.

But apart from exile, or other violent methods, is there not one method, whereby all things are tamed, even lions? The method of hunger! What if the Parlement’s supplies were cut off; namely its Lawsuits!

In a victorious Parlement, Counsellor Goeslard de Monsabert even denounces that “levying of the Second Twentieth on strict valuation;” and gets decree that the valuation shall not be strict,—not on the privileged classes.

To a shower of gold most things are penetrable.

For the rest, in such circumstances, the Successive Loan, very naturally, remains unfilled; neither, indeed, can that impost of the Second Twentieth, at least not on “strict valuation,” be levied to good purpose: “Lenders,” says Weber, in his hysterical vehement manner, “are afraid of ruin; tax-gatherers of hanging.” The very Clergy turn away their face: convoked in Extraordinary Assembly, they afford no gratuitous gift (don gratuit),—if it be not that of advice; here too instead of cash is clamour for States-General.

During all that hatching of the Plenary Court, while Lamoignon looked so mysterious, Besenval had kept asking him one question: Whether they had cash? To which as Lamoignon always answered (on the faith of Loménie) that the cash was safe, judicious Besenval rejoined that then all was safe. Nevertheless, the melancholy fact is, that the royal coffers are almost getting literally void of coin. Indeed, apart from all other things this “invitation to thinkers,” and the great change now at hand are enough to “arrest the circulation of capital,” and forward only that of pamphlets. A few thousand gold louis are now all of money or money’s worth that remains in the King’s Treasury.

an Edict concerning Payments (such was the soft title Rivarol had contrived for it): all payments at the Royal Treasury shall be made henceforth, three-fifths in Cash, and the remaining two-fifths—in Paper bearing interest!

But the effect on Paris, on the world generally? From the dens of Stock-brokerage, from the heights of Political Economy, of Neckerism and Philosophism; from all articulate and inarticulate throats, rise hootings and howlings, such as ear had not yet heard. Sedition itself may be imminent!

Flimsier mortal was seldom fated to do as weighty a mischief; to have a life as despicable-envied, an exit as frightful. Fired, as the phrase is, with ambition: blown, like a kindled rag, the sport of winds, not this way, not that way, but of all ways, straight towards such a powder-mine,—which he kindled! Let us pity the hapless Loménie; and forgive him; and, as soon as possible, forget him.

The City-watch can do nothing; hardly save its own skin: for the last twelve-month, as we have sometimes seen, it has been a kind of pastime to hunt the Watch. Besenval indeed is at hand with soldiers; but they have orders to avoid firing, and are not prompt to stir.

On Monday morning the explosion of petards began: and now it is near midnight of Wednesday; and the “wicker Mannequin” is to be buried,—apparently in the Antique fashion.

and there are soldiers come. Gloomy Lamoignon is not to die by conflagration, or this night; not yet for a year, and then by gunshot (suicidal or accidental is unknown).[105] Foiled Rascality burns its “Mannikin of osier,” under his windows; “tears up the sentry-box,” and rolls off: to try Brienne; to try Dubois Captain of the Watch. Now, however, all is bestirring itself; Gardes Françaises, Invalides, Horse-patrol: the Torch Procession is met with sharp shot, with the thrusting of bayonets, the slashing of sabres. Even Dubois makes a charge, with that Cavalry of his, and the cruelest charge of all: “there are a great many killed and wounded.” Not without clangour, complaint; subsequent criminal trials, and official persons dying of heartbreak![106] So, however, with steel-besom, Rascality is brushed back into its dim depths, and the streets are swept clear. Not for a century and half had Rascality ventured to step forth in this fashion; not for so long, showed its huge rude lineaments in the light of day. A Wonder and new Thing: as yet gamboling merely, in awkward Brobdingnag sport, not without quaintness; hardly in anger: yet in its huge half-vacant laugh lurks a shade of grimness,—which could unfold itself! However, the thinkers invited by Loménie are now far on with their pamphlets: States-General, on one plan or another, will infallibly meet; if not in January, as was once hoped, yet at latest in May. Old Duke de Richelieu, moribund in these autumn days, opens his eyes once more, murmuring, ‘What would Louis Fourteenth’ (whom he remembers) ‘have said!’—then closes them again, forever, before the evil time.

As good Archbishop Loménie was wont to say: ‘There are so many accidents; and it needs but one to save us.’—How many to destroy us?

What! To us also has hope reached; down even to us? Hunger and hardship are not to be eternal? The bread we extorted from the rugged glebe, and, with the toil of our sinews, reaped and ground, and kneaded into loaves, was not wholly for another, then; but we also shall eat of it, and be filled? Glorious news (answer the prudent elders), but all-too unlikely!

To which political phenomena add this economical one, that Trade is stagnant, and also Bread getting dear; for before the rigorous winter there was, as we said, a rigorous summer, with drought, and on the 13th of July with destructive hail. What a fearful day! all cried while that tempest fell. Alas, the next anniversary of it will be a worse.[118] Under such aspects is France electing National Representatives.

The incidents and specialties of these Elections belong not to Universal, but to Local or Parish History: for which reason let not the new troubles of Grenoble or Besancon; the bloodshed on the streets of Rennes, and consequent march thither of the Breton “Young Men” with Manifesto by their “Mothers, Sisters and Sweethearts;”[119] nor suchlike, detain us here. It is the same sad history everywhere; with superficial variations.

for the new popular force can use not only arguments but brickbats!

The plebeian heart too has red life in it, which changes not to paleness at glance even of you; and “the six hundred Breton gentlemen assembled in arms, for seventy-two hours, in the Cordeliers’ Cloister, at Rennes,”—have to come out again, wiser than they entered.

the Noblesse, with equal goodwill, finds it better to stick to Protests, to well-redacted “Cahiers of grievances,” and satirical writings and speeches.

“In all countries, in all times,” exclaims he departing, “the Aristocrats have implacably pursued every friend of the People; and with tenfold implacability, if such a one were himself born of the Aristocracy. It was thus that the last of the Gracchi perished, by the hands of the Patricians. But he, being struck with the mortal stab, flung dust towards heaven, and called on the Avenging Deities; and from this dust there was born Marius,—Marius not so illustrious for exterminating the Cimbri, as for overturning in Rome the tyranny of the Nobles.”[121] Casting up which new curious handful of dust (through the Printing-press), to breed what it can and may, Mirabeau stalks forth into the Third Estate.

But indeed, if Achilles, in the heroic ages, killed mutton, why should not Mirabeau, in the unheroic ones, measure broadcloth?

More authentic are his triumph-progresses through that disturbed district, with mob jubilee, flaming torches, “windows hired for two louis,” and voluntary guard of a hundred men... He has opened his far-sounding voice, the depths of his far-sounding soul; he can quell (such virtue is in a spoken word) the pride-tumults of the rich, the hunger-tumults of the poor; and wild multitudes move under him, as under the moon do billows of the sea: he has become a world compeller, and ruler over men.

Meanwhile such things, cheering as they are, tend little to cheer the national creditor, or indeed the creditor of any kind. In the midst of universal portentous doubt, what certainty can seem so certain as money in the purse, and the wisdom of keeping it there? Trading Speculation, Commerce of all kinds, has as far as possible come to a dead pause; and the hand of the industrious lies idle in his bosom. Frightful enough, when now the rigour of seasons has also done its part, and to scarcity of work is added scarcity of food!

actual existing quotity of persons: who, long reflected and reverberated through so many millions of heads, as in concave multiplying mirrors, become a whole Brigand World; and, like a kind of Supernatural Machinery wondrously move the Epos of the Revolution. The Brigands are here: the Brigands are there; the Brigands are coming! Not otherwise sounded the clang of Phoebus Apollo’s silver bow, scattering pestilence and pale terror; for this clang too was of the imagination; preternatural; and it too walked in formless immeasurability, having made itself like to the Night (νυκτὶ ἐοικώς.)!

These Brigands (as Turgot’s also were, fourteen years ago) have all been set on; enlisted, though without tuck of drum,—by Aristocrats, by Democrats, by D’Orléans, D’Artois, and enemies of the public weal.

the Brigands are clearly got to Paris, in considerable multitudes:[126] with sallow faces, lank hair (the true enthusiast complexion), with sooty rags; and also with large clubs, which they smite angrily against the pavement! These mingle in the Election tumult; would fain sign Guillotin’s Cahier, or any Cahier or Petition whatsoever, could they but write. Their enthusiast complexion, the smiting of their sticks bodes little good to any one; least of all to rich master-manufacturers of the Suburb Saint-Antoine, with whose workmen they consort.

Or was he only thought, and believed, to be heard saying it? By this long chafing and friction it would appear the National temper has got electric.

grim individuals, soon waxing to grim multitudes, and other multitudes crowding to see, beset that Paper-Warehouse; demonstrate, in loud ungrammatical language (addressed to the passions too), the insufficiency of sevenpence halfpenny a-day. The City-watch cannot dissipate them; broils arise and bellowings; Réveillon, at his wits’ end, entreats the Populace, entreats the authorities. Besenval, now in active command, Commandant of Paris, does, towards evening, to Réveillon’s earnest prayer, send some thirty Gardes Françaises. These clear the street, happily without firing; and take post there for the night in hope that it may be all over.[127]

Not so: on the morrow it is far worse.

two cartloads of paving-stones, that happened to pass that way” have been seized as a visible godsend. Another detachment of Gardes Françaises must be sent; Besenval and the Colonel taking earnest counsel. Then still another; they hardly, with bayonets and menace of bullets, penetrate to the spot. What a sight! A street choked up, with lumber, tumult and the endless press of men. A Paper-Warehouse eviscerated by axe and fire: mad din of Revolt; musket-volleys responded to by yells, by miscellaneous missiles; by tiles raining from roof and window,—tiles, execrations and slain men!

The Gardes Françaises like it not, but have to persevere. All day it continues, slackening and rallying; the sun is sinking, and Saint-Antoine has not yielded. The City flies hither and thither: alas, the sound of that musket-volleying booms into the far dining-rooms of the Chaussée d’Antin; alters the tone of the dinner-gossip there. Captain Dampmartin leaves his wine; goes out with a friend or two, to see the fighting. Unwashed men growl on him, with murmurs of ‘À bas les Aristocrates (Down with the Aristocrats);’ and insult the cross of St. Louis? They elbow him, and hustle him; but do not pick his pocket;—as indeed at Réveillon’s too there was not the slightest stealing.[128]

At fall of night, as the thing will not end, Besenval takes his resolution: orders out the Gardes Suisses with two pieces of artillery. The Swiss Guards shall proceed thither; summon that rabble to depart, in the King’s name. If disobeyed, they shall load their artillery with grape-shot, visibly to the general eye; shall again summon; if again disobeyed, fire,—and keep firing “till the last man” be in this manner blasted off, and the street clear. With which spirited resolution, as might have been hoped, the business is got ended. At sight of the lit matches, of the foreign red-coated Switzers, Saint-Antoine dissipates; hastily, in the shades of dusk. There is an encumbered street; there are “from four to five hundred” dead men. Unfortunate Réveillon has found shelter in the Bastille; does therefrom, safe behind stone bulwarks, issue, plaint, protestation, explanation, for the next month. Bold Besenval has thanks from all the respectable Parisian classes; but finds no special notice taken of him at Versailles,—a thing the man of true worth is used to.[

Poor Lackalls, all betoiled, besoiled, encrusted into dim defacement; into whom nevertheless the breath of the Almighty has breathed a living soul! To them it is clear only that eleutheromaniac Philosophism has yet baked no bread; that Patrioti Committee-men will level down to their own level, and no lower. Brigands, or whatever they might be, it was bitter earnest with them. They bury their dead with the title of Défenseurs de la Patrie, Martyrs of the good Cause.

Oh, one might weep like Xerxes:—So many serried rows sit perched there; like winged creatures, alighted out of Heaven: all these, and so many more that follow them, shall have wholly fled aloft again, vanishing into the blue Deep; and the memory of this day still be fresh.

and from this present date, if one might prophesy, some two centuries of it still to fight! Two centuries; hardly less; before Democracy go through its due, most baleful, stages of Quackocracy; and a pestilential World be burnt up, and have begun to grow green and young again.

This day, sentence of death is pronounced on Shams; judgment of resuscitation, were it but far off, is pronounced on Realities. This day it is declared aloud, as with a Doom-trumpet, that a Lie is unbelievable. Believe that, stand by that, if more there be not; and let what thing or things soever will follow it follow. “Ye can no other; God be your help!” So spake a greater than any of you; opening his Chapter of World-History.

No symbolic Ark, like the old Hebrews, do these men bear: yet with them too is a Covenant; they too preside at a new Era in the History of Men. The whole Future is there, and Destiny dim-brooding over it; in the hearts and unshaped thoughts of these men, it lies illegible, inevitable. Singular to think: they have it in them; yet not they, not mortal, only the Eye above can read it,—as it shall unfold itself, in fire and thunder, of siege, and field-artillery; in the rustling of battle-banners, the tramp of hosts, in the glow of burning cities, the shriek of strangled nations!

for is not every meanest Day “the conflux of two Eternities!”

A fellow of infinite shrewdness, wit, nay humour; one of the sprightliest clearest souls in all these millions. Thou poor Camille, say of thee what they may, it were but falsehood to pretend one did not almost love thee, thou headlong lightly-sparkling man!

Which of these Six Hundred individuals, in plain white cravat, that have come up to regenerate France, might one guess would become their king? For a king or leader they, as all bodies of men, must have: be their work what it may, there is one man there who, by character, faculty, position, is fittest of all to do it; that man, as future not yet elected king, walks there among the rest.

One ancient Riquetti, in mad fulfilment of a mad vow, chains two Mountains together; and the chain, with its “iron star of five rays,” is still to be seen. May not a modern Riquetti unchain so much, and set it drifting,—which also shall be seen?

The idea, the faculty of another man he can make his; the man himself he can make his. ‘All reflex and echo (tout de reflet et de réverbère)!’ snarls old Mirabeau, who can see, but will not. Crabbed old Friend of Men! it is his sociality, his aggregative nature; and will now be the quality of all for him. In that forty-years “struggle against despotism,” he has gained the glorious faculty of self-help, and yet not lost the glorious natural gift of fellowship, of being helped. Rare union! This man can live self-sufficing—yet lives also in the life of other men; can make men love him, work with him: a born king of men!

This is no man of system, then; he is only a man of instincts and insights. A man nevertheless who will glare fiercely on any object; and see through it, and conquer it: for he has intellect, he has will, force beyond other men. A man not with logic-spectacles; but with an eye! Unhappily without Decalogue, moral Code or Theorem of any fixed sort; yet not without a strong living Soul in him, and Sincerity there: a Reality, not an Artificiality, not a Sham! And so he, having struggled “forty years against despotism,” and “made away with all formulas,” shall now become the spokesman of a Nation bent to do the same. For is it not precisely the struggle of France also to cast off despotism; to make away with her old formulas,—having found them naught, worn out, far from the reality? She will make away with such formulas;—and even go bare, if need be, till she have found new ones.

Forty years of that smouldering, with foul fire-damp and vapour enough, then victory over that;—and like a burning mountain he blazes heaven-high; and, for twenty-three resplendent months, pours out, in flame and molten fire-torrents, all that is in him, the Pharos and Wonder-sign of an amazed Europe;—and then lies hollow, cold forever! Pass on, thou questionable Gabriel Honoré, the greatest of them all: in the whole National Deputies, in the whole Nation, there is none like and none second to thee.

Shall we say, that anxious, slight, ineffectual-looking man, under thirty, in spectacles; his eyes (were the glasses off) troubled, careful; with upturned face, snuffing dimly the uncertain future-time; complexion of a multiplex atrabiliar colour, the final shade of which may be the pale sea-green.[132] That greenish-coloured (verdâtre) individual is an Advocate of Arras; his name is Maximilien Robespierre.

But he begged our famed Necklace-Cardinal, Rohan, the patron, to let him depart thence, and resign in favour of a younger brother.

With a strict painful mind, an understanding small but clear and ready, he grew in favour with official persons, who could foresee in him an excellent man of business, happily quite free from genius.

of business, happily quite free from genius. The Bishop, therefore, taking counsel, appoints him Judge of his diocese; and he faithfully does justice to the people: till behold, one day, a culprit comes whose crime merits hanging; and the strict-minded Max must abdicate, for his conscience will not permit the dooming of any son of Adam to die. A strict-minded, strait-laced man! A man unfit for Revolutions?

His hair is grizzled, though he is still young: convictions, beliefs, placid-unalterable are in that man; not hindmost of them, belief in himself.

There are so many of them young. Till thirty the Spartans did not suffer a man to marry: but how many men here under thirty; coming to produce not one sufficient citizen, but a nation and a world of such! The old to heal up rents; the young to remove rubbish:—which latter, is it not, indeed, the task here?

Singular Guillotin, respectable practitioner: doomed by a satiric destiny to the strangest immortal glory that ever kept obscure mortal from his resting-place, the bosom of oblivion!

This is the product of Guillotin’s endeavours, gained not without meditation and reading; which product popular gratitude or levity christens by a feminine derivative name, as if it were his daughter: La Guillotine! ‘With my machine, Messieurs, I whisk off your head (vous fais sauter la tête) in a twinkling, and you have no pain;’—whereat they all laugh.[135] Unfortunate Doctor! For two-and-twenty years he, unguillotined, shall hear nothing but guillotine, see nothing but guillotine; then dying, shall through long centuries wander, as it were, a disconsolate ghost, on the wrong side of Styx and Lethe; his name like to outlive Cæsar’s.

Poor Bailly, how thy serenely beautiful Philosophising, with its soft moonshiny clearness and thinness, ends in foul thick confusion—of Presidency, Mayorship, diplomatic Officiality, rabid Triviality, and the throat of everlasting Darkness! Far was it to descend from the heavenly Galaxy to the Drapeau Rouge: beside that fatal dung-heap, on that last hell-day, thou must “tremble,” though only with cold, “de froid.”

Speculation is not practice: to be weak is not so miserable; but to be weaker than our task.

Wo the day when they mounted thee, a peaceable pedestrian, on that wild Hippogriff of a Democracy; which, spurning the firm earth, nay lashing at the very stars, no yet known Astolpho could have ridden!

In the Commons Deputies there are Merchants, Artists, Men of Letters; three hundred and seventy-four Lawyers;[136] and at least one Clergyman:

passionless, or with but one passion, that of self-conceit. If indeed that can be called a passion, which, in its independent concentrated greatness, seems to have soared into transcendentalism; and to sit there with a kind of godlike indifference, and look down on passion! He is the man, and wisdom shall die with him.

The victorious cause pleased the gods, the vanquished one pleased Sieyes

this question, put in a voice of thunder: What are you doing in God’s fair Earth and Task-garden; where whosoever is not working is begging or stealing? Wo, wo to themselves and to all, if they can only answer: Collecting tithes, Preserving game!

There are Liancourt, and La Rochefoucault; the liberal Anglomaniac Dukes. There is a filially pious Lally; a couple of liberal Lameths. Above all, there is a Lafayette; whose name shall be Cromwell-Grandison, and fill the world. Many a “formula” has this Lafayette too made away with; yet not all formulas. He sticks by the Washington-formula; and by that he will stick;—and hang by it, as by sure bower-anchor hangs and swings the tight war-ship, which, after all changes of wildest weather and water, is found still hanging. Happy for him; be it glorious or not! Alone of all Frenchmen he has a theory of the world, and right mind to conform thereto; he can become a hero and perfect character, were it but the hero of one idea.

it is Viscomte Mirabeau; named oftener Mirabeau Tonneau (Barrel Mirabeau), on account of his rotundity, and the quantities of strong liquor he contains.

There then walks our French Noblesse. All in the old pomp of chivalry: and yet, alas, how changed from the old position; drifted far down from their native latitude, like Arctic icebergs got into the Equatorial sea, and fast thawing there! Once these Chivalry Duces (Dukes, as they are still named) did actually lead the world,—were it only towards battle-spoil, where lay the world’s best wages then: moreover, being the ablest Leaders going, they had their lion’s share, those Duces; which none could grudge them. But now, when so many Looms, improved Ploughshares, Steam-Engines and Bills of Exchange have been invented; and, for battle-brawling itself, men hire Drill-Sergeants at eighteen-pence a-day,—what mean these goldmantled Chivalry Figures, walking there “in black-velvet cloaks,” in high-plumed “hats of a feudal cut”? Reeds shaken in the wind!

nay thou shalt have a Cardinal’s Hat, and plush and glory; but alas, also, in the longrun—mere oblivion, like the rest of us; and six feet of earth!

He will do and suffer strange things; and will become surely one of the strangest things ever seen, or like to be seen. A man living in falsehood, and on falsehood; yet not what you can call a false man: there is the specialty! It will be an enigma for future ages, one may hope: hitherto such a product of Nature and Art was possible only for this age of ours,—Age of Paper, and of the Burning of Paper.

has not this unfortunate Clergy also drifted in the Time-stream, far from its native latitude? An anomalous mass of men; of whom the whole world has already a dim understanding that it can understand nothing. They were once a Priesthood, interpreters of Wisdom, revealers of the Holy that is in Man: a true Clerus (or Inheritance of God on Earth): but now?—They pass silently, with such Cahiers as they have been able to redact; and none cries, God bless them.

Instead of Vive la Reine, voices insult her with Vive d’Orléans. Of her queenly beauty little remains except its stateliness; not now gracious, but haughty, rigid, silently enduring. With a most mixed feeling, wherein joy has no part, she resigns herself to a day she hoped never to have seen. Poor Marie Antoinette; with thy quick noble instincts; vehement glancings, vision all-too fitful narrow for the work thou hast to do! O there are tears in store for thee; bitterest wailings, soft womanly meltings, though thou hast the heart of an imperial Theresa’s Daughter. Thou doomed one, shut thy eyes on the future!—

And so, in stately Procession, have passed the Elected of France. Some towards honour and quick fire-consummation; most towards dishonour; not a few towards massacre, confusion, emigration, desperation: all towards Eternity!

Probably the strangest Body of Men, if we consider well, that ever met together on our Planet on such an errand.

To the wisest of them, what we must call the wisest, man is properly an Accident under the sky.

Man is without Duty round him; except it be “to make the Constitution.” He is without Heaven above him, or Hell beneath him; he has no God in the world.

What further or better belief can be said to exist in these Twelve Hundred? Belief in high-plumed hats of a feudal cut; in heraldic scutcheons; in the divine right of Kings, in the divine right of Game-destroyers. Belief, or what is still worse, canting half-belief; or worst of all, mere Macchiavellic pretence-of-belief,—in consecrated dough-wafers, and the godhood of a poor old Italian Man! Nevertheless in that immeasurable Confusion and Corruption, which struggles there so blindly to become less confused and corrupt, there is, as we said, this one salient point of a New Life discernible: the deep fixed Determination to have done with Shams.

How has the Heaven’s light, oftentimes in this Earth, to clothe itself in thunder and electric murkiness; and descend as molten lightning, blasting, if purifying! Nay is it not rather the very murkiness, and atmospheric suffocation, that brings the lightning and the light? The new Evangel, as the old had been, was it to be born in the Destruction of a World?

We remark only that, as his Majesty, on finishing the speech, put on his plumed hat, and the Noblesse according to custom imitated him, our Tiers-Etat Deputies did mostly, not without a shade of fierceness, in like manner clap-on, and even crush on their slouched hats; and stand there awaiting the issue.[141] Thick buzz among them, between majority and minority of Couvrezvous, Décrouvrez-vous (Hats off, Hats on)! To which his Majesty puts end, by taking off his own royal hat again.

“France, in this same National Assembly of hers, has got something, nay something great, momentous, indispensable, cannot be doubted; yet still the question were: Specially what?

The States-General, created and conflated by the passionate effort of the whole nation, is there as a thing high and lifted up. Hope, jubilating, cries aloud that it will prove a miraculous Brazen Serpent in the Wilderness; whereon whosoever looks, with faith and obedience, shall be healed of all woes and serpent-bites.

We may answer, it will at least prove a symbolic Banner; round which the exasperating complaining Twenty-Five Millions, otherwise isolated and without power, may rally, and work—what it is in them to work. If battle must be the work, as one cannot help expecting, then shall it be a battle-banner (say, an Italian Gonfalon, in its old Republican Carroccio); and shall tower up, car-borne, shining in the wind: and with iron tongue peal forth many a signal.

For what is Majesty but the Delegate of the Nation; delegated, and bargained with (even rather tightly),—in some very singular posture of affairs, which Jean Jacques has not fixed the date of?

But the Noblesse and Clergy, it would seem, have retired to their two separate Apartments, or Halls; and are there “verifying their powers,” not in a conjoint but in a separate capacity.

Double representation, and all else hitherto gained, were otherwise futile, null. Doubtless, the “powers must be verified;”—doubtless, the Commission, the electoral Documents of your Deputy must be inspected by his brother Deputies, and found valid: it is the preliminary of all.

It must be resisted; wise was that maxim, Resist the beginnings! Nay were resistance unadvisable, even dangerous, yet surely pause is very natural: pause, with Twenty-five Millions behind you, may become resistance enough.—

The inorganic mass of Commons Deputies will restrict itself to a “system of inertia,” and for the present remain inorganic.

For six weeks their history is of the kind named barren; which indeed, as Philosophy knows, is often the fruitfulest of all.

These were their still creation-days; wherein they sat incubating! In fact, what they did was to do nothing, in a judicious manner. Daily the inorganic body reassembles; regrets that they cannot get organisation, “verification of powers in common, and begin regenerating France. Headlong motions may be made, but let such be repressed; inertia alone is at once unpunishable and unconquerable.

Six Hundred inorganic individuals, essential for its regeneration and salvation, sit there, on their elliptic benches, longing passionately towards life; in painful durance; like souls waiting to be born.

At times shall come an inspiration from royal Mirabeau: he is nowise yet recognised as royal; nay he was “groaned at,” when his name was first mentioned: but he is struggling towards recognition

the Commons having called their Eldest to the chair, and furnished him with young stronger-lunged assistants,—can speak articulately; and, in audible lamentable words, declare, as we said, that they are an inorganic body, longing to become organic. Letters arrive; but an inorganic body cannot open letters; they lie on the table unopened.

the poor man looks desolately towards a nameless lot. And this States-General, that could make us an age of gold, is forced to stand motionless; cannot get its powers verified! All industry necessarily languishes, if it be not that of making motions.

In the Palais Royal there has been erected, apparently by subscription, a kind of Wooden Tent (en planches de bois);[144]—most convenient; where select Patriotism can now redact resolutions, deliver harangues, with comfort, let the weather but as it will.

Lively is that Satan-at-Home! On his table, on his chair, in every café, stands a patriotic orator; a crowd round him within; a crowd listening from without, open-mouthed, through open door and window; with “thunders of applause for every sentiment of more than common hardiness.”

Finally, on the 27th day of May, Mirabeau, judging the time now nearly come, proposes that “the inertia cease;” that, leaving the Noblesse to their own stiff ways, the Clergy be summoned, “in the name of the God of Peace,” to join the Commons, and begin.

This Third Estate will get in motion, with the force of all France in it; Clergy-machinery with Noblesse-machinery, which were to serve as beautiful counter-balances and drags, will be shamefully dragged after it,—and take fire along with it.

we meanwhile getting forward Swiss Regiments, and a “hundred pieces of field-artillery.” This is what the Œil-de-Bœuf, for its part, resolves on.

they have now, on this 17th day of June, determined that their name is not Third Estate, but—National Assembly!They, then, are the Nation? Triumvirate of Princes, Queen, refractory Noblesse and Clergy, what, then, are you? A most deep question;—scarcely answerable in living political dialects.

Now surely were the time for a “god from the machine;” there is a nodus worthy of one. The only question is, Which god? Shall it be Mars de Broglie, with his hundred pieces of cannon?—Not yet, answers prudence; so soft, irresolute is King Louis. Let it be Messenger Mercury, our Supreme Usher de Brézé.

Your Third Estate, self-styled “National Assembly,” shall suddenly see itself extruded from its Hall, by carpenters, in this dexterous way; and reduced to do nothing, not even to meet, or articulately lament,—till Majesty, with Séance Royale and new miracles, be ready! In this manner shall De Brézé, as Mercury ex machinâ, intervene;

Before supper, this night, he writes to President Bailly, a new Letter, to be delivered shortly after dawn tomorrow, in the King’s name. Which Letter, however, Bailly in the pride of office, will merely crush together into his pocket, like a bill he does not mean to pay.

It is shut, this Salle; occupied by Gardes Françaises. ‘Where is your Captain?’ The Captain shows his royal order: workmen, he is grieved to say, are all busy setting up the platform for his Majesty’s Séance; most unfortunately, no admission; admission, at furthest, for President and Secretaries to bring away papers, which the joiners might destroy!—President Bailly enters with Secretaries; and returns bearing papers: alas, within doors, instead of patriotic eloquence, there is now no noise but hammering, sawing, and operative screeching and rumbling! A profanation without parallel.

Six hundred right-hands rise with President Bailly’s, to take God above to witness that they will not separate for man below, but will meet in all places, under all circumstances, wheresoever two or three can get together, till they have made the Constitution. Made the Constitution, Friends! That is a long task.

Barndoor poultry fly cackling: but National Deputies turn round, lion-faced; and, with uplifted right-hand, swear an Oath that makes the four corners of France tremble.

President Bailly has covered himself with honour; which shall become rewards. The National Assembly is now doubly and trebly the Nation’s Assembly; not militant, martyred only, but triumphant; insulted, and which could not be insulted. Paris disembogues itself once more, to witness, “with grim looks,” the Séance Royale:[150] which, by a new felicity, is postponed till Tuesday. The Hundred and Forty-nine, and even with Bishops among them, all in processional mass, have had free leisure to march off, and solemnly join the Commons sitting waiting in their Church. The Commons welcomed them with shouts, with embracings, nay with tears;[151] for it is growing a life-and-death matter now.

Which Five-and-Thirty Articles, adds his Majesty again rising, if the Three Orders most unfortunately cannot agree together to effect them, I myself will effect: ‘seul je ferai le bien de mes peuples,’—which being interpreted may signify, You, contentious Deputies of the States-General, have probably not long to be here!

This is the determination of the royal breast: pithy and clear. And herewith King, retinue, Noblesse, majority of Clergy file out, as if the whole matter were satisfactorily completed.

These file out; through grim-silent seas of people. Only the Commons Deputies file not out; but stand there in gloomy silence, uncertain what they shall do. One man of them is certain; one man of them discerns and dares! It is now that King Mirabeau starts to the Tribune, and lifts up his lion-voice. Verily a word in season; for, in such scenes, the moment is the mother of ages! Had not Gabriel Honoré been there,—one can well fancy, how the Commons Deputies, affrighted at the perils which now yawned dim all round them, and waxing ever paler in each other’s paleness, might very naturally, one after one, have glided off; and the whole course of European History have been different!

But he is there. List to the brool of that royal forest-voice; sorrowful, low; fast swelling to a roar! Eyes kindle at the glance of his eye:—National Deputies were missioned by a Nation; they have sworn an Oath; they—but lo! while the lion’s voice roars loudest, what Apparition is this?

Apparition of Mercurius de Brézé, muttering somewhat!—‘Speak out,’ cry several.—‘Messieurs,’ shrills De Brézé, repeating himself, ‘You have heard the King’s orders!’—Mirabeau glares on him with fire-flashing face; shakes the black lion’s mane: ‘Yes, Monsieur, we have heard what the King was advised to say: and you who cannot be the interpreter of his orders to the States-General; you, who have neither place nor right of speech here; you are not the man to remind us of it. Go, Monsieur, tell these who sent you that we are here by the will of the People, and that nothing shall send us hence but the force of bayonets!’

But what does the Œil-de-Bœuf, now when De Brézé shivers back thither? Despatch that same force of bayonets? Not so: the seas of people still hang multitudinous, intent on what is passing; nay rush and roll, loud-billowing, into the Courts of the Château itself; for a report has risen that Necker is to be dismissed. Worst of all, the Gardes Françaises seem indisposed to act: “two Companies of them do not fire when ordered!”[

Instead of soldiers, the Œil-de-Bœuf sends—carpenters, to take down the platform. Ineffectual shift! In few instants, the very carpenters cease wrenching and knocking at their platform; stand on it, hammer in hand, and listen open-mouthed.[157] The Third Estate is decreeing that it is, was, and will be, nothing but a National Assembly; and now, moreover, an inviolable one, all members of it inviolable: “infamous, traitorous, towards the Nation, and guilty of capital crime, is any person, body-corporate, tribunal, court or commission that now or henceforth, during the present session or after it, shall dare to pursue, interrogate, arrest, or cause to be arrested, detain or cause to be detained, any,” &c. &c. “on whose part soever the same be commanded.”[158] Which done, one can wind up with this comfortable reflection from Abbé Sieyes: ‘Messieurs, you are today what you were yesterday.’

Folly is that wisdom which is wise only behindhand.

Few months ago these Thirty-five Concessions had filled France with a rejoicing, which might have lasted for several years. Now it is unavailing, the very mention of it slighted; Majesty’s express orders set at nought.

All France is in a roar; a sea of persons, estimated at “ten thousand,” whirls “all this day in the Palais Royal.”[159] The remaining Clergy, and likewise some Forty-eight Noblesse, D’Orléans among them, have now forthwith gone over to the victorious Commons; by whom, as is natural, they are received “with acclamation.”

The Third Estate triumphs; Versailles Town shouting round it; ten thousand whirling all day in the Palais Royal; and all France standing a-tiptoe, not unlike whirling! Let the Œil-de-Bœuf look to it. As for King Louis, he will swallow his injuries; will temporise, keep silence; will at all costs have present peace. It was Tuesday the 23d of June, when he spoke that peremptory royal mandate; and the week is not done till he has written to the remaining obstinate Noblesse, that they also must oblige him, and give in. D’Espréménil rages his last; Barrel Mirabeau “breaks his sword,” making a vow,—which he might as well have kept. The “Triple Family” is now therefore complete; the third erring brother, the Noblesse, having joined it;—erring but pardonable; soothed, so far as possible, by sweet eloquence from President Bailly.

So triumphs the Third Estate; and States-General are become National Assembly; and all France may sing Te Deum.

By wise inertia, and wise cessation of inertia, great victory has been gained.

It is the last night of June: all night you meet nothing on the streets of Versailles but “men running with torches” with shouts of jubilation. From the 2nd of May when they kissed the hand of Majesty, to this 30th of June when men run with torches, we count seven weeks complete. For seven weeks the National Carroccio has stood far-seen, ringing many a signal; and, so much having now gathered round it, may hope to stand.

Mercury descended in vain; now has the time come for Mars.

But now, above all, while the hungry food-year, which runs from August to August, is getting older; becoming more and more a famine-year?

Frightful enough to look upon; but what to hear of, reverberated through Twenty-five Millions of suspicious minds!

At Marseilles, many weeks ago, the Townsmen have taken arms; for “suppressing of Brigands,” and other purposes: the military commandant may make of it what he will. Elsewhere, everywhere, could not the like be done?

Your National Assembly, stopped short in its Constitutional labours, may fatigue the royal ear with addresses and remonstrances: those cannon of ours stand duly levelled; those troops are here.

The Parisians resist? scornfully cry Messeigneurs. As a meal-mob may! They have sat quiet, these five generations, submitting to all. Their Mercier declared, in these very years, that a Parisian revolt was henceforth “impossible.”[162] Stand by the royal Declaration, of the Twenty-third of June. The Nobles of France, valorous, chivalrous as of old, will rally round us with one heart;—and as for this which you call Third Estate, and which we call canaille of unwashed Sansculottes, of Patelins, Scribblers, factious Spouters,—brave Broglie, “with a whiff of grapeshot (salve de canons),” if need be, will give quick account of it. Thus reason they: on their cloudy Ida; hidden from men,—men also hidden from them.

Good is grapeshot, Messeigneurs, on one condition: that the shooter also were made of metal! But unfortunately he is made of flesh;

your hired shooter has instincts, feelings, even a kind of thought. It is his kindred, bone of his bone, this same canaille that shall be whiffed; he has brothers in it, a father and mother,—

The soldier, who has seen his pay stolen by rapacious Foulons, his blood wasted by Soubises, Pompadours, and the gates of promotion shut inexorably on him if he were not born noble,—is himself not without griefs against you. Your cause is not the soldier’s cause; but, as would seem, your own only, and no other god’s nor man’s.

Neither have the Gardes Françaises, the best regiment of the line, shown any promptitude for street-firing lately. They returned grumbling from Réveillon’s; and have not burnt a single cartridge since; nay, as we saw, not even when bid.

Consigned to their barracks, the Gardes Françaises do but form a “Secret Association,” an Engagement not to act against the National Assembly. Debauched by Valadi the Pythagorean; debauched by money and women! cry Besenval and innumerable others. Debauched by what you will, or in need of no debauching, behold them, long files of them, their consignment broken, arrive, headed by their Sergeants, on the 26th day of June, at the Palais Royal! Welcomed with vivats, with presents, and a pledge of patriot liquor; embracing and embraced; declaring in words that the cause of France is their cause! Next day and the following days the like. What is singular too, except this patriot humour, and breaking of their consignment, they behave otherwise with “the most rigorous accuracy.”

Why new military force was not called out? New military force was called out. New military force did arrive, full gallop, with drawn sabre: but the people gently “laid hold of their bridles;” the dragoons sheathed their swords; lifted their caps by way of salute, and sat like mere statues of dragoons,—except indeed that a drop of liquor being brought them, they “drank to the King and Nation with the greatest cordiality.”

And now, ask in return, why Messeigneurs and Broglie the great god of war, on seeing these things, did not pause, and take some other course, any other course?

Pride, which goes before a fall; wrath, if not reasonable, yet pardonable, most natural, had hardened their hearts and heated their heads; so, with imbecility and violence (ill-matched pair), they rush to seek their hour.

The twelfth July morning is Sunday; the streets are all placarded with an enormous-sized De par le Roi, “inviting peaceable citizens to remain within doors,” to feel no alarm, to gather in no crowd.

Besenval is with them. Swiss Guards of his are already in the Champs Elysées, with four pieces of artillery.

Have the destroyers descended on us, then? From the Bridge of Sèvres to utmost Vincennes, from Saint-Denis to the Champ-de-Mars, we are begirt! Alarm, of the vague unknown, is in every heart. The Palais Royal has become a place of awestruck interjections, silent shakings of the head:

Are these troops verily come out “against Brigands”? Where are the Brigands? What mystery is in the wind?—Hark! a human voice reporting articulately the Job’s-news: Necker, People’s Minister, Saviour of France, is dismissed. Impossible; incredible! Treasonous to the public peace! Such a voice ought to be choked in the water-works;[171]—had not the news-bringer quickly fled

We have a new Ministry: Broglie the War-god; Aristocrat Bréteuil; Foulon who said the people might eat grass!

Rumour, therefore, shall arise; in the Palais Royal, and in broad France. Paleness sits on every face; confused tremor and fremescence; waxing into thunder-peals, of Fury stirred on by Fear.

But see Camille Desmoulins, from the Café de Foy, rushing out, sibylline in face; his hair streaming, in each hand a pistol! He springs to a table: the Police satellites are eyeing him; alive they shall not take him, not they alive him alive. This time he speaks without stammering:—Friends, shall we die like hunted hares? Like sheep hounded into their pinfold; bleating for mercy, where is no mercy, but only a whetted knife? The hour is come; the supreme hour of Frenchman and Man; when Oppressors are to try conclusions with Oppressed; and the word is, swift Death, or Deliverance forever. Let such hour be well-come! Us, meseems, one cry only befits: To Arms! Let universal Paris, universal France, as with the throat of the whirlwind, sound only: To arms!—‘To arms!’ yell responsive the innumerable voices: like one great voice, as of a Demon yelling from the air: for all faces wax fire-eyed, all hearts burn up into madness. In such, or fitter words,[172] does Camille evoke the Elemental Powers, in this great moment.—Friends, continues Camille, some rallying sign! Cockades; green ones;—the colour of hope!—As with the flight of locusts, these green tree leaves; green ribands from the neighbouring shops; all green things are snatched, and made cockades of. Camille descends from his table, “stifled with embraces, wetted with tears;” has a bit of green riband handed him; sticks it in his hat.

France, so long shaken and wind-parched, is probably at the right inflammable point.—

In this manner march they, a mixed, continually increasing multitude; armed with axes, staves and miscellanea; grim, many-sounding, through the streets. Be all Theatres shut; let all dancing, on planked floor, or on the natural greensward, cease! Instead of a Christian Sabbath, and feast of guinguette tabernacles, it shall be a Sorcerer’s Sabbath; and Paris, gone rabid, dance,—with the Fiend for piper!

Victorious Lambesc, in this his second or Tuileries charge, succeeds but in overturning (call it not slashing, for he struck with the flat of his sword) one man, a poor old schoolmaster, most pacifically tottering there; and is driven out, by barricade of chairs, by flights of “bottles and glasses,” by execrations in bass voice and treble. Most delicate is the mob-queller’s vocation; wherein Too-much may be as bad as Not-enough.

Counsel dwells not under the plumed hat.

The Six-and-twenty Town-Councillors, with their long gowns, have ducked under (into the raging chaos);—shall never emerge more. Besenval is painfully wriggling himself out, to the Champ-de-Mars; he must sit there “in the cruelest uncertainty:” courier after courier may dash off for Versailles; but will bring back no answer, can hardly bring himself back. For the roads are all blocked with batteries and pickets, with floods of carriages arrested for examination: such was Broglie’s one sole order; the Œil-de-Bœuf, hearing in the distance such mad din, which sounded almost like invasion, will before all things keep its own head whole. A new Ministry, with, as it were, but one foot in the stirrup, cannot take leaps. Mad Paris is abandoned altogether to itself.

Use and wont will now no longer direct any man; each man, with what of originality he has, must begin thinking; or following those that think. Seven hundred thousand individuals, on the sudden, find all their old paths, old ways of acting and deciding, vanish from under their feet. And so there go they, with clangour and terror, they know not as yet whether running, swimming or flying,—headlong into the New Era.

The working man has become a fighting man; has one want only: that of arms. The industry of all crafts has paused;—except it be the smith’s, fiercely hammering pikes;

“on les pendit, they hanged them.”[175] Brief is the word; not without significance, be it true or untrue!

Our Parisian Militia,—which some think it were better to name National Guard,—is prospering as heart could wish. It promised to be forty-eight thousand; but will in few hours double and quadruple that number: invincible, if we had only arms!

O poor mortals, how ye make this Earth bitter for each other; this fearful and wonderful Life fearful and horrible; and Satan has his place in all hearts! Such agonies and ragings and wailings ye have, and have had, in all times:—to be buried all, in so deep silence; and the salt sea is not swoln with your tears.

Great meanwhile is the moment, when tidings of Freedom reach us; when the long-enthralled soul, from amid its chains and squalid stagnancy, arises, were it still only in blindness and bewilderment, and swears by Him that made it, that it will be free! Free? Understand that well, it is the deep commandment, dimmer or clearer, of our whole being, to be free. Freedom is the one purport, wisely aimed at, or unwisely, of all man’s struggles, toilings and sufferings, in this Earth. Yes, supreme is such a moment (if thou have known it): first vision as of a flame-girt Sinai, in this our waste Pilgrimage,—which thenceforth wants not its pillar of cloud by day, and pillar of fire by night! Something it is even,—nay, something considerable, when the chains have grown corrosive, poisonous, to be free “from oppression by our fellow-man.” Forward, ye maddened sons of France; be it towards this destiny or towards that! Around you is but starvation, falsehood, corruption and the clam of death. Where ye are is no abiding.

Commandant Besenval, in the Champ-de-Mars, has worn out these sorrowful hours Insurrection all round; his men melting away! From Versailles, to the most pressing messages, comes no answer; or once only some vague word of answer which is worse than none. A Council of Officers can decide merely that there is no decision: Colonels inform him, “weeping,” that they do not think their men will fight.

war-god Broglie sits yonder, inaccessible in his Olympus; does not descend terror-clad, does not produce his whiff of grapeshot; sends no orders.

Truly, in the Château of Versailles all seems mystery: in the Town of Versailles, were we there, all is rumour, alarm and indignation.

It has sent solemn Deputation over to the Château, with entreaty to have these troops withdrawn. In vain: his Majesty, with a singular composure, invites us to be busy rather with our own duty, making the Constitution!

with an eye too probably to the Salle des Menus,—were it not for the “grim-looking countenances” that crowd all avenues there.[177] Be firm, ye National Senators; the cynosure of a firm, grim-looking people!

He is the Brother of that Pompignan who meditated lamentably on the Book of Lamentations:

Saves-voux pourquoi Jérémie

Se lamentait toute sa vie?

C’est qu’il prévoyait

Que Pompignan le traduirait!

If ordered to fire, they would, he imagines, turn their cannon against himself.

Unfortunate old military gentlemen, it is your hour, not of glory! Old Marquis de Launay too, of the Bastille, has pulled up his drawbridges long since, “and retired into his interior;” with sentries walking on his battlements, under the midnight sky, aloft over the glare of illuminated Paris;—whom a National Patrol, passing that way, takes the liberty of firing at; “seven shots towards twelve at night,” which do not take effect.[178] This was the 13th day of July, 1789; a worse day, many said, than the last 13th was, when only hail fell out of Heaven, not madness rose out of Tophet, ruining worse than crops!

hot old Marquis Mirabeau lies stricken down, at Argenteuil,—not within sound of these alarm-guns; for heproperly is not there, and only the body of him now lies, deaf and cold forever.

Upwards from the Esplanade, horizontally from all neighbouring roofs and windows, flashes one irregular deluge of musketry,—without effect. The Invalides lie flat, firing comparatively at their ease from behind stone; hardly through portholes, shew the tip of a nose. We fall, shot; and make no impression!

Let conflagration rage; of whatsoever is combustible! Guard-rooms are burnt, Invalides mess-rooms. A distracted “Peruke-maker with two fiery torches” is for burning “the saltpetres of the Arsenal;”—had not a woman run screaming; had not a Patriot, with some tincture of Natural Philosophy, instantly struck the wind out of him (butt of musket on pit of stomach), overturned barrels, and stayed the devouring element. A young beautiful lady, seized escaping in these Outer Courts, and thought falsely to be de Launay’s daughter, shall be burnt in de Launay’s sight; she lies swooned on a paillasse: but again a Patriot, it is brave Aubin Bonnemere the old soldier, dashes in, and rescues her. Straw is burnt; three cartloads of it, hauled thither, go up in white smoke: almost to the choking of Patriotism itself; so that Elie had, with singed brows, to drag back one cart; and Reole the “gigantic haberdasher” another. Smoke as of Tophet; confusion as of Babel; noise as of the Crack of Doom!

Blood flows, the aliment of new madness.

The Firemen are here, squirting with their fire-pumps on the Invalides’ cannon, to wet the touchholes; they unfortunately cannot squirt so high; but produce only clouds of spray. Individuals of classical knowledge propose catapults. Santerre, the sonorous Brewer of the Suburb Saint-Antoine, advises rather that the place be fired, by a “mixture of phosphorous and oil-of-turpentine spouted up through forcing pumps:” O Spinola-Santerre, hast thou the mixture ready? Every man his own engineer!

Hast thou considered how each man’s heart is so tremulously responsive to the hearts of all men; hast thou noted how omnipotent is the very sound of many men? How their shriek of indignation palsies the strong soul; their howl of contumely withers with unfelt pangs? The Ritter Gluck confessed that the ground-tone of the noblest passage, in one of his noblest Operas, was the voice of the Populace he had heard at Vienna, crying to their Kaiser: Bread! Bread! Great is the combined voice of men; the utterance of their instincts, which are truer than their thoughts: it is the greatest a man encounters, among the sounds and shadows, which make up this World of Time. He who can resist that, has his footing some where beyond Time. De Launay could not do it.

As we said, it was a living deluge, plunging headlong; had not the Gardes Françaises, in their cool military way, “wheeled round with arms levelled,” it would have plunged suicidally, by the hundred or the thousand, into the Bastille-ditch.

Alas, already one poor Invalide has his right hand slashed off him; his maimed body dragged to the Place de Grève, and hanged there. This same right hand, it is said, turned back de Launay from the Powder-Magazine, and saved Paris.

And so it goes plunging through court and corridor; billowing uncontrollable, firing from windows—on itself: in hot frenzy of triumph, of grief and vengeance for its slain.

Through roarings and cursings; through hustlings, clutchings, and at last through strokes! Your escort is hustled aside, felled down; Hulin sinks exhausted on a heap of stones. Miserable de Launay! He shall never enter the Hotel de Ville: only his “bloody hair-queue, held up in a bloody hand;” that shall enter, for a sign. The bleeding trunk lies on the steps there; the head is off through the streets; ghastly, aloft on a pike.

Rigorous de Launay has died; crying out, ‘O friends, kill me fast!’

Your Place de Grève is become a Throat of the Tiger; full of mere fierce bellowings, and thirst of blood. One other officer is massacred; one other Invalide is hanged on the Lamp-iron: with difficulty, with generous perseverance, the Gardes Françaises will save the rest. Provost Flesselles stricken long since with the paleness of death, must descend from his seat, “to be judged at the Palais Royal:”—alas, to be shot dead, by an unknown hand, at the turning of the first street!—

O evening sun of July, how, at this hour, thy beams fall slant on reapers amid peaceful woody fields; on old women spinning in cottages; on ships far out in the silent main;

It was the Titans warring with Olympus; and they scarcely crediting it, have conquered: prodigy of prodigies; delirious,—as it could not but be. Denunciation, vengeance; blaze of triumph on a dark ground of terror: all outward, all inward things fallen into one general wreck of madness!

Electoral Committee? Had it a thousand throats of brass, it would not suffice.

Last night, a Patriot, in liquor, insisted on sitting to smoke on the edge of one of the Powder-barrels; there smoked he, independent of the world,—till the Abbé “purchased his pipe for three francs,” and pitched it far.

Elie, in the grand Hall, Electoral Committee looking on, sits “with drawn sword bent in three places;” with battered helm, for he was of the Queen’s Regiment, Cavalry; with torn regimentals, face singed and soiled; comparable, some think, to “an antique warrior;”—judging the people; forming a list of Bastille Heroes. O Friends, stain not with blood the greenest laurels ever gained in this world: such is the burden of Elie’s song; could it but be listened to. Courage, Elie! Courage, ye Municipal Electors! A declining sun; the need of victuals, and of telling news, will bring assuagement, dispersion: all earthly things must end.

Along the streets of Paris circulate Seven Bastille Prisoners, borne shoulder-high: seven Heads on pikes;

See also the Garde Françaises, in their steadfast military way, marching home to their barracks, with the Invalides and Swiss kindly enclosed in hollow square.

and now they have participated; and will participate. Not Gardes Françaises henceforth, but Centre Grenadiers of the National Guard: men of iron discipline and humour,—not without a kind of thought in them!

His Majesty, kept in happy ignorance, perhaps dreams of double-barrels and the Woods of Meudon. Late at night, the Duke de Liancourt, having official right of entrance, gains access to the Royal Apartments; unfolds, with earnest clearness, in his constitutional way, the Job’s-news. ‘Mais,’ said poor Louis, ‘c’est une révolte, Why, that is a revolt!’—‘Sire,’ answered Liancourt, ‘It is not a revolt, it is a revolution.’

when lo, his Majesty himself attended only by his two Brothers, step in; quite in the paternal manner; announces that the troops, and all causes of offence, are gone, and henceforth there shall be nothing but trust, reconcilement, good-will; whereof he “permits and even requests,” a National Assembly to assure Paris in his name! Acclamation, as of men suddenly delivered from death, gives answer. The whole Assembly spontaneously rises to escort his Majesty back; “interlacing their arms to keep off the excessive pressure from him;” for all Versailles is crowding and shouting.

As for old Foulon, one learns that he is dead; at least a “sumptuous funeral” is going on; the undertakers honouring him, if no other will.

that in Henri Quatre’s case, the King had to make conquest of his People, but in this happier case, the People makes conquest of its King (a conquis son Roi). The King, so happily conquered, drives forward, slowly, through a steel people, all silent, or shouting only Vive la Nation;

[Louis] knows not what to think of it, or say of it; learns that he is “Restorer of French Liberty,”—as a Statue of him, to be raised on the site of the Bastille, shall testify to all men.

It was Sunday when the red-hot balls hung over us, in mid air: it is now but Friday, and “the Revolution is sanctioned.” An August National Assembly shall make the Constitution;

Already in most Towns, Electoral Committees were met; to regret Necker, in harangue and resolution. In many a Town, as Rennes, Caen, Lyons, an ebullient people was already regretting him in brickbats and musketry. But now, at every Town’s-end in France, there do arrive, in these days of terror,—“men,” as men will arrive; nay, “men on horseback,” since Rumour oftenest travels riding. These men declare, with alarmed countenance, The BRIGANDS to be coming, to be just at hand; and do then—ride on, about their further business, be what it might! Whereupon the whole population of such Town, defensively flies to arms. Petition is soon thereafter forwarded to National Assembly; in such peril and terror of peril, leave to organise yourself cannot be withheld: the armed population becomes everywhere an enrolled National Guard. Thus rides Rumour, careering along all radii, from Paris outwards, to such purpose: in few days, some say in not many hours, all France to the utmost borders bristles with bayonets. Singular, but undeniable,—miraculous or not!—But thus may any chemical liquid; though cooled to the freezing-point, or far lower, still continue liquid; and then, on the slightest stroke or shake, it at once rushes wholly into ice. Thus has France, for long months and even years, been chemically dealt with; brought below zero; and now, shaken by the Fall of a Bastille, it instantaneously congeals: into one crystallised mass, of sharp-cutting steel! Guai a chi la tocca; ’Ware who touches it!

Some living domestic or dependant, for none loves Foulon, has betrayed him to the Village. Merciless boors of Vitry unearth him; pounce on him, like hell-hounds: Westward, old Infamy; to Paris, to be judged at the Hôtel-de-Ville! His old head, which seventy-four years have bleached, is bare; they have tied an emblematic bundle of grass on his back; a garland of nettles and thistles is round his neck: in this manner; led with ropes; goaded on with curses and menaces, must he, with his old limbs, sprawl forward; the pitiablest, most unpitied of all old men.

Foulon must not only be judged righteously; but judged there where he stands, without any delay. Appoint seven judges, ye Municipals, or seventy-and-seven; name them yourselves, or we will name them: but judge him![193] Electoral rhetoric, eloquence of Mayor Bailly, is wasted explaining the beauty of the Law’s delay. Delay, and still delay! Behold, O Mayor of the People, the morning has worn itself into noon; and he is still unjudged!—Lafayette, pressingly sent for, arrives; gives voice: This Foulon, a known man, is guilty almost beyond doubt; but may he not have accomplices? Ought not the truth to be cunningly pumped out of him,—in the Abbaye Prison? It is a new light! Sansculottism claps hands;—at which hand-clapping, Foulon (in his fainness, as his Destiny would have it) also claps. ‘See! they understand one another!’ cries dark Sansculottism, blazing into fury of suspicion.—‘Friends,’ said “a person in good clothes,” stepping forward, ‘what is the use of judging this man? Has he not been judged these thirty years?’ With wild yells, Sansculottism clutches him, in its hundred hands: he is whirled across the Place de Grève, to the “Lanterne,” Lamp-iron which there is at the corner of the Rue de la Vannerie; pleading bitterly for life,—to the deaf winds. Only with the third rope (for two ropes broke, and the quavering voice still pleaded), can he be so much as got hanged! His Body is dragged through the streets; his Head goes aloft on a pike, the mouth filled with grass: amid sounds as of Tophet, from a grass-eating people.

Surely if Revenge is a “kind of Justice,” it is a “wild” kind!

Nevertheless, be the man’s conscience what it may, his nerves are of iron. At the Hôtel-de-Ville, he will answer nothing. He says, he obeyed superior order; they have his papers; they may judge and determine: as for himself, not having closed an eye these two nights, he demands, before all things, to have sleep. Leaden sleep, thou miserable Berthier! Guards rise with him, in motion towards the Abbaye. At the very door of the Hôtel-de-Ville, they are clutched; flung asunder, as by a vortex of mad arms; Berthier whirls towards the Lanterne. He snatches a musket; fells and strikes, defending himself like a mad lion; is borne down, trampled, hanged, mangled: his Head too, and even his Heart, flies over the City on a pike.

Horrible, in Lands that had known equal justice! Not so unnatural in Lands that had never known it.

The halcyon weather returns, though of a grayer complexion; of a character more and more evidently notsupernatural.

Thus, in any case, with what rubs soever, shall the Bastille be abolished from our Earth; and with it, Feudalism, Despotism; and, one hopes, Scoundrelism generally, and all hard usage of man by his brother man. Alas, the Scoundrelism and hard usage are not so easy of abolition!

Vanished is the Bastille, what we call vanished: the body, or sandstones, of it hanging, in benign metamorphosis, for centuries to come, over the Seine waters, as Pont Louis Seize;[197] the soul of it living, perhaps still longer, in the memories of men.

‘And yet think, Messieurs,’ as the Petitioner justly urged, ‘you who were our saviours, did yourselves need saviours,’—the brave Bastillers, namely; workmen of Paris; many of them in straightened pecuniary circumstances! [198] Subscriptions are opened; Lists are formed, more accurate than Elie’s; harangues are delivered. A Body of Bastille Heroes, tolerably complete, did get together;—comparable to the Argonauts; hoping to endure like them. But in little more than a year, the whirlpool of things threw them asunder again, and they sank.

So many highest superlatives achieved by man are followed by new higher; and dwindle into comparatives and positives!

The Siege of the Bastille, weighed with which, in the Historical balance, most other sieges, including that of Troy Town, are gossamer, cost, as we find, in killed and mortally wounded, on the part of the Besiegers, some Eighty-three persons: on the part of the Besieged, after all that straw-burning, fire-pumping, and deluge of musketry, One poor solitary invalid, shot stone-dead (roide-mort) on the battlements;[199]

The Bastille Fortress, like the City of Jericho, was overturned by miraculous sound.

All things are in revolution; in change from moment to moment, which becomes sensible from epoch to epoch: in this Time-World of ours there is properly nothing else but revolution and mutation, and even nothing else conceivable. Revolution, you answer, means speedier change. Whereupon one has still to ask: How speedy? At what degree of speed; in what particular points of this variable course, which varies in velocity, but can never stop till Time itself stops, does revolution begin and end; cease to be ordinary mutation, and again become such? It is a thing that will depend on definition more or less arbitrary.

Seeing which course of things, Messeigneurs of the Court Triumvirate, Messieurs of the dead-born Broglie-Ministry, and others such, consider that their part also is clear: to mount and ride. Off, ye too-loyal Broglies, Polignacs, and Princes of the Blood; off while it is yet time! Did not the Palais-Royal in its late nocturnal “violent motions,” set a specific price (place of payment not mentioned) on each of your heads?

This is what they call the First Emigration; determined on, as appears, in full Court-conclave; his Majesty assisting; prompt he, for his share of it, to follow any counsel whatsoever. “Three Sons of France, and four Princes of the blood of Saint Louis,” says Weber, “could not more effectually humble the Burghers of Paris than by appearing to withdraw in fear of their life.” Alas, the Burghers of Paris bear it with unexpected Stoicism!

The Emigration is not gone many miles, Prince Condé hardly across the Oise, when his Majesty, according to arrangement, for the Emigration also thought it might do good,—undertakes a rather daring enterprise: that of visiting Paris in person.

The King, so happily conquered, drives forward, slowly, through a steel people, all silent, or shouting only Vive la Nation; is harangued at the Townhall, by Moreau of the three-thousand orders, by King’s Procureur M. Ethys de Corny, by Lally Tollendal, and others; knows not what to think of it, or say of it; learns that he is “Restorer of French Liberty,”—as a Statue of him, to be raised on the site of the Bastille, shall testify to all men. Finally, he is shewn at the Balcony, with a Tricolor cockade in his hat; is greeted now, with vehement acclamation, from Square and Street, from all windows and roofs:—and so drives home again amid glad mingled and, as it were, intermarried shouts, of Vive le Roi and Vive la Nation; wearied but safe.

Surely a great Phenomenon: nay it is a transcendental one, overstepping all rules and experience; the crowning Phenomenon of our Modern Time. For here again, most unexpectedly, comes antique Fanaticism in new and newest vesture; miraculous, as all Fanaticism is. Call it the Fanaticism of “making away with formulas, de humer les formules.” The world of formulas, the formed regulated world, which all habitable world is,—must needs hate such Fanaticism like death; and be at deadly variance with it. The world of formulas must conquer it; or failing that, must die execrating it, anathematising it;—can nevertheless in nowise prevent its being and its having been. The Anathemas are there, and the miraculous Thing is there.

When the age of Miracles lay faded into the distance as an incredible tradition, and even the age of Conventionalities was now old; and Man’s Existence had for long generations rested on mere formulas which were grown hollow by course of time; and it seemed as if no Reality any longer existed but only Phantasms of realities, and God’s Universe were the work of the Tailor and Upholsterer mainly, and men were buckram masks that went about becking and grimacing there,—on a sudden, the Earth yawns asunder, and amid Tartarean smoke, and glare of fierce brightness, rises SANSCULOTTISM, many-headed, fire-breathing, and asks: What think ye of me?

The age of Miracles has come back! “Behold the World-Phoenix, in fire-consummation and fire-creation; wide are her fanning wings; loud is her death-melody, of battle-thunders and falling towns; skyward lashes the funeral flame, enveloping all things: it is the Death-Birth of a World!”

Whereby, however, as we often say, shall one unspeakable blessing seem attainable. This, namely: that Man and his Life rest no more on hollowness and a Lie, but on solidity and some kind of Truth. Welcome, the beggarliest truth, so it be one, in exchange for the royallest sham! Truth of any kind breeds ever new and better truth; thus hard granite rock will crumble down into soil, under the blessed skyey influences; and cover itself with verdure, with fruitage and umbrage. But as for Falsehood, which in like contrary manner, grows ever falser,—what can it, or what should it do but decease, being ripe; decompose itself, gently or even violently, and return to the Father of it,—too probably in flames of fire?

Sansculottism will burn much; but what is incombustible it will not burn. Fear not Sansculottism; recognise it for what it is, the portentous, inevitable end of much, the miraculous beginning of much.

and the wrath of men is made to praise Him.—But to gauge and measure this immeasurable Thing, and what is called account for it, and reduce it to a dead logic-formula, attempt not!

How the Twenty-five Millions of such, in their perplexed combination, acting and counter-acting may give birth to events; which event successively is the cardinal one; and from what point of vision it may best be surveyed

A Constitution can be built, Constitutions enough à la Sieyes: but the frightful difficulty is that of getting men to come and live in them!

Nay, strictly considered, is it not still true that without some such celestial sanction, given visibly in thunder or invisibly otherwise, no Constitution can in the long run be worth much more than the waste-paper it is written on? The Constitution, the set of Laws, or prescribed Habits of Acting, that men will live under, is the one which images their Convictions,—their Faith as to this wondrous Universe, and what rights, duties, capabilities they have there; which stands sanctioned therefore, by Necessity itself, if not by a seen Deity, then by an unseen one. Other laws, whereof there are always enough ready-made, are usurpations; which men do not obey, but rebel against, and abolish, by their earliest convenience.

Who is it that especially for rebellers and abolishers, can make a Constitution? He that can image forth the general Belief when there is one; that can impart one when, as here, there is none. A most rare man; ever as of old a god-missioned man!

Or is it the nature of National Assemblies generally to do, with endless labour and clangour, Nothing? Are Representative Governments mostly at bottom Tyrannies too! Shall we say, the Tyrants, the ambitious contentious Persons, from all corners of the country do, in this manner, get gathered into one place; and there, with motion and counter-motion, with jargon and hubbub, cancel one another, like the fabulous Kilkenny Cats; and produce, for net-result, zero;—the country meanwhile governing or guiding itself, by such wisdom, recognised or for most part unrecognised, as may exist in individual heads here and there?—Nay, even that were a great improvement: for, of old, with their Guelf Factions and Ghibelline Factions, with their Red Roses and White Roses, they were wont to cancel the whole country as well.

One thing an elected Assembly of Twelve Hundred is fit for: Destroying. Which indeed is but a more decided exercise of its natural talent for Doing Nothing. Do nothing, only keep agitating, debating; and things will destroy themselves.

It is the cynosure of revolutionary France, this National Assembly. All work of Government has fallen into its hands, or under its control; all men look to it for guidance. In the middle of that huge Revolt of Twenty-five millions, it hovers always aloft as Carroccio or Battle-Standard, impelling and impelled, in the most confused way; if it cannot give much guidance, it will still seem to give some.

With endless debating, we get the Rights of Man written down and promulgated: true paper basis of all paper Constitutions. Neglecting, cry the opponents, to declare the Duties of Man! Forgetting, answer we, to ascertain the Mights of Man;—one of the fatalest omissions!—Nay, sometimes, as on the Fourth of August, our National Assembly, fired suddenly by an almost preternatural enthusiasm, will get through whole masses of work in one night.

Such night, unforeseen but for ever memorable, was this of the Fourth of August 1789. Miraculous, or semi-miraculous, some seem to think it. A new Night of Pentecost, shall we say, shaped according to the new Time, and new Church of Jean Jacques Rousseau? It had its causes; also its effects.

For the present, if we glance into that Assembly Hall of theirs, it will be found, as is natural, “most irregular.” As many as “a hundred members are on their feet at once;” no rule in making motions, or only commencements of a rule; Spectators’ Gallery allowed to applaud, and even to hiss;[200] President, appointed once a fortnight, raising many times no serene head above the waves.

There likewise sits seagreen Robespierre; throwing in his light weight, with decision, not yet with effect. A thin lean Puritan and Precisian; he would make away with formulas; yet lives, moves, and has his being, wholly in formulas, of another sort. “Peuple,” such according to Robespierre ought to be the Royal method of promulgating laws, “Peuple, this is the Law I have framed for thee; dost thou accept it?”—answered from Right Side, from Centre and Left, by inextinguishable laughter.[203] Yet men of insight discern that the Seagreen may by chance go far: ‘this man,’ observes Mirabeau, ‘will do somewhat; he believes every word he says.’

As we often say, he has an eye, he is a reality; while others are formulas and eye-glasses. In the Transient he will detect the Perennial, find some firm footing even among Paper-vortexes. His fame is gone forth to all lands; it gladdened the heart of the crabbed old Friend of Men himself before he died. The very Postilions of inns have heard of Mirabeau

Twelve Hundred brother men are there, in the centre of Twenty-five Millions; fighting so fiercely with Fate and with one another; struggling their lives out, as most sons of Adam do, for that which profiteth not.

But figure Twelve Hundred pamphleteers; droning forth perpetual pamphlets: and no man to gag them! Neither, as in the American Congress, do the arrangements seem perfect. A Senator has not his own Desk and Newspaper here; of Tobacco (much less of Pipes) there is not the slightest provision. Conversation itself must be transacted in a low tone, with continual interruption: only “pencil Notes” circulate freely; “in incredible numbers to the foot of the very tribune.”[206]—Such work is it, regenerating a Nation; perfecting one’s Theory of Irregular Verbs!

Of the King’s Court, for the present, there is almost nothing whatever to be said. Silent, deserted are these halls; Royalty languishes forsaken of its war-god and all its hopes, till once the Œil-de-Bœuf rally again. The sceptre is departed from King Louis; is gone over to the Salles des Menus, to the Paris Townhall, or one knows not whither.

Poor King; for French Kings also are men!

The Queen sits weeping in her inner apartments, surrounded by weak women: she is “at the height of unpopularity;” universally regarded as the evil genius of France. Her friends and familiar counsellors have all fled; and fled, surely, on the foolishest errand.

That France should see her Nobles resist the Irresistible, Inevitable, with the face of angry men, was unhappy, not unexpected: but with the face and sense of pettish children? This was her peculiarity. They understood nothing; would understand nothing.

Volition, determination is not in this man: only innocence, indolence; dependence on all persons but himself, on all circumstances but the circumstances he were lord of. So troublous internally is our Versailles and its work.

So many millions of persons, all gyved, and nigh strangled, with formulas; whose Life nevertheless, at least the digestion and hunger of it, was real enough! Heaven has at length sent an abundant harvest; but what profits it the poor man, when Earth with her formulas interposes? Industry, in these times of Insurrection, must needs lie dormant; capital, as usual, not circulating, but stagnating timorously in nooks. The poor man is short of work, is therefore short of money; nay even had he money, bread is not to be bought for it. Were it plotting of Aristocrats, plotting of d’Orléans; were it Brigands, preternatural terror, and the clang of Phoebus Apollo’s silver bow,—enough, the markets are scarce of grain, plentiful only in tumult. Farmers seem lazy to thresh;—being either “bribed;” or needing no bribe, with prices ever rising, with perhaps rent itself no longer so pressing. Neither, what is singular, do municipal enactments, “That along with so many measures of wheat you shall sell so many of rye,” and other the like, much mend the matter. Dragoons with drawn swords stand ranked among the corn-sacks, often more dragoons than sacks.[211] Meal-mobs abound; growing into mobs of a still darker quality.

Starvation has been known among the French Commonalty before this; known and familiar. Did we not see them, in the year 1775, presenting, in sallow faces, in wretchedness and raggedness, their Petition of Grievances; and, for answer, getting a brand-new Gallows forty feet high? Hunger and Darkness, through long years! For look back on that earlier Paris Riot, when a Great Personage, worn out by debauchery, was believed to be in want of Blood-baths; and Mothers, in worn raiment, yet with living hearts under it, “filled the public places” with their wild Rachel-cries,—stilled also by the Gallows. Twenty years ago, the Friend of Men (preaching to the deaf) described the Limousin Peasants as wearing a pain-stricken (souffre-douleur) look, a look past complaint, “as if the oppression of the great were like the hail and the thunder, a thing irremediable, the ordinance of Nature.”[212] And now, if in some great hour, the shock of a falling Bastille should awaken you; and it were found to be the ordinance of Art merely; and remediable, reversible!

Or has the Reader forgotten that “flood of savages,” which, in sight of the same Friend of Men, descended from the mountains at Mont d’Or? Lank-haired haggard faces; shapes rawboned, in high sabots; in woollen jupes, with leather girdles studded with copper-nails! They rocked from foot to foot, and beat time with their elbows too, as the quarrel and battle which was not long in beginning went on; shouting fiercely; the lank faces distorted into the similitude of a cruel laugh. For they were darkened and hardened: long had they been the prey of excise-men and tax-men; of “clerks with the cold spurt of their pen.” It was the fixed prophecy of our old Marquis, which no man would listen to, that “such Government by Blind-man’s-buff, stumbling along too far, would end by the General Overturn, the Culbute Générale!”

No man would listen, each went his thoughtless way;—and Time and Destiny also travelled on. The Government by Blind-man’s-buff, stumbling along, has reached the precipice inevitable for it. Dull Drudgery, driven on, by clerks with the cold dastard spurt of their pen, has been driven—into a Communion of Drudges! For now, moreover, there have come the strangest confused tidings; by Paris Journals with their paper wings; or still more portentous, where no Journals are,[213] by rumour and conjecture: Oppression not inevitable; a Bastille prostrate, and the Constitution fast getting ready! Which Constitution, if it be something and not nothing, what can it be but bread to eat?

The harvest is reaped and garnered; yet still we have no bread. Urged by despair and by hope, what can Drudgery do, but rise, as predicted, and produce the General Overturn?

Fancy, then, some Five full-grown Millions of such gaunt figures, with their haggard faces (figures hâves); in woollen jupes, with copper-studded leather girths, and high sabots,—starting up to ask, as in forest-roarings, their washed Upper-Classes, after long unreviewed centuries, virtually this question: How have ye treated us; how have ye taught us, fed us, and led us, while we toiled for you? The answer can be read in flames, over the nightly summer sky. This is the feeding and leading we have had of you: EMPTINESS,—of pocket, of stomach, of head, and of heart. Behold there is nothing in us; nothing but what Nature gives her wild children of the desert: Ferocity and Appetite; Strength grounded on Hunger. Did ye mark among your Rights of Man, that man was not to die of starvation, while there was bread reaped by him? It is among the Mights of Man.

Where this will end? In the Abyss, one may prophecy; whither all Delusions are, at all moments, travelling; where this Delusion has now arrived. For if there be a Faith, from of old, it is this, as we often repeat, that no Lie can live for ever. The very Truth has to change its vesture, from time to time; and be born again. But all Lies have sentence of death written down against them, and Heaven’s Chancery itself; and, slowly or fast, advance incessantly towards their hour.

To some it is a matter of wonder that the Seigneurs did not do something to help themselves; say, combine, and arm: for there were a “hundred and fifty thousand of them,” all violent enough. Unhappily, a hundred and fifty thousand, scattered over wide Provinces, divided by mutual ill-will, cannot combine. The highest Seigneurs, as we have seen, had already emigrated,—with a view of putting France to the blush. Neither are arms now the peculiar property of Seigneurs; but of every mortal who has ten shillings, wherewith to buy a secondhand firelock.

The Seigneurs did what they could; enrolled in National Guards; fled, with shrieks, complaining to Heaven and Earth. One Seigneur, famed Memmay of Quincey, near Vesoul, invited all the rustics of his neighbourhood to a banquet; blew up his Château and them with gunpowder; and instantaneously vanished, no man yet knows whither.[218] Some half dozen years after, he came back; and demonstrated that it was by accident.

Unhappy country! How is the fair gold-and-green of the ripe bright Year defaced with horrid blackness: black ashes of Châteaus, black bodies of gibetted Men! Industry has ceased in it; not sounds of the hammer and saw, but of the tocsin and alarm-drum. The sceptre has departed, whither one knows not;—breaking itself in pieces: here impotent, there tyrannous. National Guards are unskilful, and of doubtful purpose; Soldiers are inclined to mutiny: there is danger that they two may quarrel, danger that they may agree. Strasburg has seen riots: a Townhall torn to shreds, its archives scattered white on the winds; drunk soldiers embracing drunk citizens for three days, and Mayor Dietrich and Marshal Rochambeau reduced nigh to desperation.

But consider, while work itself is so scarce, how a man must not only realise money; but stand waiting (if his wife is too weak to wait and struggle) for half days in the Tail, till he get it changed for dear bad bread!

The Mayor of Saint-Denis, so black was his bread, has, by a dyspeptic populace, been hanged on the Lanterne there. National Guards protect the Paris Corn-Market: first ten suffice; then six hundred.[225] Busy are ye, Bailly, Brissot de Warville, Condorcet, and ye others!

The old Bastille Electors, after some ten days of psalmodying over their glorious victory, began to hear it asked, in a splenetic tone, Who put you there?

Unhappy friends of Freedom; consolidating a Revolution! They must sit at work there, their pavilion spread on very Chaos; between two hostile worlds, the Upper Court-world, the Nether Sansculottic one; and, beaten on by both, toil painfully, perilously,—doing, in sad literal earnest, “the impossible.”

Pamphleteering opens its abysmal throat wider and wider: never to close more. Our Philosophes, indeed, rather withdraw; after the manner of Marmontel, “retiring in disgust the first day.”

Camille Desmoulins has appointed himself Procureur-Général de la Lanterne, Attorney-General of the Lamp-iron; and pleads, not with atrocity, under an atrocious title; editing weekly his brilliant Revolutions of Paris and Brabant. Brilliant, we say: for if, in that thick murk of Journalism, with its dull blustering, with its fixed or loose fury, any ray of genius greet thee, be sure it is Camille’s. The thing that Camille teaches he, with his light finger, adorns: brightness plays, gentle, unexpected, amid horrible confusions; often is the word of Camille worth reading, when no other’s is. Questionable Camille, how thou glitterest with a fallen, rebellious, yet still semi-celestial light; as is the star-light on the brow of Lucifer! Son of the Morning, into what times and what lands, art thou fallen!

Unhappy mortals: such tugging and lugging, and throttling of one another, to divide, in some not intolerable way, the joint Felicity of man in this Earth; when the whole lot to be divided is such a “feast of shells!”—Diligent are the Three Hundred; none equals Scipio Americanus in dealing with mobs. But surely all these things bode ill for the consolidating of a Revolution.

No, Friends, this Revolution is not of the consolidating kind. Do not fires, fevers, sown seeds, chemical mixtures, men, events; all embodiments of Force that work in this miraculous Complex of Forces, named Universe,—go on growing, through their natural phases and developments, each according to its kind; reach their height, reach their visible decline; finally sink under, vanishing, and what we call die? They all grow; there is nothing but what grows, and shoots forth into its special expansion,—once give it leave to spring.

Observe too that each grows with a rapidity proportioned, in general, to the madness and unhealthiness there is in it: slow regular growth, though this also ends in death, is what we name health and sanity.

Seventy-two Châteaus have flamed aloft in the Maconnais and Beaujolais alone: this seems the centre of the conflagration; but it has spread over Dauphiné, Alsace, the Lyonnais; the whole South-East is in a blaze. All over the North, from Rouen to Metz, disorder is abroad: smugglers of salt go openly in armed bands: the barriers of towns are burnt; toll-gatherers, tax-gatherers, official persons put to flight. “It was thought,” says Young, “the people, from hunger, would revolt;” and we see they have done it.

Many things too, especially all diseased things, grow by shoots and fits.

Barriers and Customhouses burnt; the Tax-gatherer hunted, not hunting; his Majesty’s Exchequer all but empty. The remedy is a Loan of thirty millions; then, on still more enticing terms, a Loan of eighty millions: neither of which Loans, unhappily, will the Stockjobbers venture to lend. The Stockjobber has no country, except his own black pool of Agio.

And yet, in those days, for men that have a country, what a glow of patriotism burns in many a heart; penetrating inwards to the very purse! So early as the 7th of August, a Don Patriotique, “a Patriotic Gift of jewels to a considerable extent,” has been solemnly made by certain Parisian women; and solemnly accepted, with honourable mention. Whom forthwith all the world takes to imitating and emulating. Patriotic Gifts, always with some heroic eloquence, which the President must answer and the Assembly listen to, flow in from far and near: in such number that the honourable mention can only be performed in “lists published at stated epochs.” Each gives what he can: the very cordwainers have behaved munificently; one landed proprietor gives a forest; fashionable society gives its shoebuckles, takes cheerfully to shoe-ties. Unfortunate females give what they “have amassed in loving.”[227] The smell of all cash, as Vespasian thought, is good.

Beautiful, and yet inadequate!

They flung themselves before him; conjuring him with tears in their eyes not to suffer the Veto Absolu. They were in a frenzy: ‘Monsieur le Comte, you are the people’s father; you must save us; you must defend us against those villains who are bringing back Despotism. If the King get this Veto, what is the use of National Assembly? We are slaves, all is done.’”[228] Friends, if the sky fall, there will be catching of larks! Mirabeau, adds Dumont, was eminent on such occasions: he answered vaguely, with a Patrician imperturbability, and bound himself to nothing.

To the Parisian common man, meanwhile, one thing remains inconceivable: that now when the Bastille is down, and French Liberty restored, grain should continue so dear. Our Rights of Man are voted, Feudalism and all Tyranny abolished; yet behold we stand in queue! Is it Aristocrat forestallers; a Court still bent on intrigues? Something is rotten, somewhere.

O much-suffering People, our glorious Revolution is evaporating in tricolor ceremonies, and complimentary harangues! Of which latter, as Loustalot acridly calculates, “upwards of two thousand have been delivered within the last month, at the Townhall alone.”[229] And our mouths, unfilled with bread, are to be shut, under penalties?

Hunger whets everything, especially Suspicion and Indignation. Realities themselves, in this Paris, have grown unreal: preternatural. Phantasms once more stalk through the brain of hungry France. O ye laggards and dastards, cry shrill voices from the Queues, if ye had the hearts of men, ye would take your pikes and secondhand firelocks, and look into it; not leave your wives and daughters to be starved, murdered, and worse!—Peace, women! The heart of man is bitter and heavy; Patriotism, driven out by Patrollotism, knows not what to resolve on.

Dinners are defined as “the ultimate act of communion;” men that can have communion in nothing else, can sympathetically eat together, can still rise into some glow of brotherhood over food and wine.

Suppose the customary loyal toasts drunk; the King’s health, the Queen’s with deafening vivats;—that of the Nation “omitted,” or even “rejected.” Suppose champagne flowing; with pot-valorous speech, with instrumental music; empty feathered heads growing ever the noisier, in their own emptiness, in each other’s noise! Her Majesty, who looks unusually sad tonight (his Majesty sitting dulled with the day’s hunting), is told that the sight of it would cheer her. Behold! She enters there, issuing from her State-rooms, like the Moon from the clouds, this fairest unhappy Queen of Hearts; royal Husband by her side, young Dauphin in her arms! She descends from the Boxes, amid splendour and acclaim; walks queen-like, round the Tables; gracefully escorted, gracefully nodding; her looks full of sorrow, yet of gratitude and daring, with the hope of France on her mother-bosom! And now, the band striking up, O Richard, O mon Roi, l’univers t’abandonne (O Richard, O my King, and world is all forsaking thee)—could man do other than rise to height of pity, of loyal valour?

A natural Repast, in ordinary times, a harmless one: now fatal, as that of Thyestes; as that of Job’s Sons, when a strong wind smote the four corners of their banquet-house! Poor ill-advised Marie-Antoinette; with a woman’s vehemence, not with a sovereign’s foresight! It was so natural, yet so unwise.

Captains of horse and foot go swashing with “enormous white cockades;” nay one Versailles National Captain had mounted the like, so witching were the words and glances; and laid aside his tricolor! Well may Major Lecointre shake his head with a look of severity; and speak audible resentful words. But now a swashbuckler, with enormous white cockade, overhearing the Major, invites him insolently, once and then again elsewhere, to recant; and failing that, to duel. Which latter feat Major Lecointre declares that he will not perform, not at least by any known laws of fence; that he nevertheless will, according to mere law of Nature, by dirk and blade, “exterminate” any “vile gladiator,” who may insult him or the Nation;—whereupon (for the Major is actually drawing his implement) “they are parted,” and no weasands slit.[231]

But fancy what effect this Thyestes Repast and trampling on the National Cockade, must have had in the Salle des Menus; in the famishing Bakers’-queues at Paris! Nay such Thyestes Repasts, it would seem, continue. Flandre has given its Counter-Dinner to the Swiss and Hundred Swiss; then on Saturday there has been another.

Yes, here with us is famine; but yonder at Versailles is food; enough and to spare! Patriotism stands in queue, shivering hungerstruck, insulted by Patrollotism; while bloodyminded Aristocrats, heated with excess of high living, trample on the National Cockade. Can the atrocity be true? Nay, look: green uniforms faced with red; black cockades,—the colour of Night! Are we to have military onfall; and death also by starvation? For behold the Corbeil Cornboat, which used to come twice a-day, with its Plaster-of-Paris meal, now comes only once.

Truly, it is time for the black cockades at least, to vanish. Them Patrollotism itself will not protect. Nay, sharp-tempered “M. Tassin,” at the Tuileries parade on Sunday morning, forgets all National military rule; starts from the ranks, wrenches down one black cockade which is swashing ominous there; and tramples it fiercely into the soil of France. Patrollotism itself is not without suppressed fury.

Sullen is the male heart, repressed by Patrollotism; vehement is the female, irrepressible. The public-speaking woman at the Palais Royal was not the only speaking one:—Men know not what the pantry is, when it grows empty, only house-mothers know. O women, wives of men that will only calculate and not act! Patrollotism is strong; but Death, by starvation and military onfall, is stronger. Patrollotism represses male Patriotism: but female Patriotism? Will Guards named National thrust their bayonets into the bosoms of women? Such thought, or rather such dim unshaped raw-material of a thought, ferments universally under the female night-cap; and, by earliest daybreak, on slight hint, will explode.

If Voltaire once, in splenetic humour, asked his countrymen: ‘But you, Gualches, what have you invented?’ they can now answer: The Art of Insurrection. It was an art needed in these last singular times: an art, for which the French nature, so full of vehemence, so free from depth, was perhaps of all others the fittest.

Let the Reader confess too that, taking one thing with another, perhaps few terrestrial Appearances are better worth considering than mobs. Your mob is a genuine outburst of Nature; issuing from, or communicating with, the deepest deep of Nature. When so much goes grinning and grimacing as a lifeless Formality, and under the stiff buckram no heart can be felt beating, here once more, if nowhere else, is a Sincerity and Reality. Shudder at it; or even shriek over it, if thou must; nevertheless consider it. Such a Complex of human Forces and Individualities hurled forth, in their transcendental mood, to act and react, on circumstances and on one another; to work out what it is in them to work. The thing they will do is known to no man; least of all to themselves. It is the inflammablest immeasurable Fire-work, generating, consuming itself. With what phases, to what extent, with what results it will burn off, Philosophy and Perspicacity conjecture in vain.

“Man,” as has been written, “is for ever interesting to man; nay properly there is nothing else interesting.” In which light also, may we not discern why most Battles have become so wearisome? Battles, in these ages, are transacted by mechanism; with the slightest possible developement of human individuality or spontaneity: men now even die, and kill one another, in an artificial manner. Battles ever since Homer’s time, when they were Fighting Mobs, have mostly ceased to be worth looking at, worth reading of, or remembering. How many wearisome bloody Battles does History strive to represent; or even, in a husky way, to sing:—and she would omit or carelessly slur-over this one Insurrection of Women?

In squalid garret, on Monday morning, Maternity awakes, to hear children weeping for bread. Maternity must forth to the streets, to the herb-markets and Bakers’—queues; meets there with hunger-stricken Maternity, sympathetic, exasperative. O we unhappy women! But, instead of Bakers’-queues, why not to Aristocrats’ palaces, the root of the matter? Allons! Let us assemble. To the Hôtel-de-Ville; to Versailles; to the Lanterne!

All women gather and go; crowds storm all stairs, force out all women: the female Insurrectionary Force, according to Camille, resembles the English Naval one; there is a universal “Press of women.”

Fly back, thou shifty Maillard; seek the Bastille Company; and O return fast with it; above all, with thy own shifty head! For, behold, the Judiths can find no Mayor or Municipal; scarcely, in the topmost belfry, can they find poor Abbé Lefevre the Powder-distributor. Him, for want of a better, they suspend there; in the pale morning light; over the top of all Paris, which swims in one’s failing eyes:—a horrible end? Nay, the rope broke, as French ropes often did; or else an Amazon cut it.

And now doors fly under hatchets; the Judiths have broken the Armoury; have seized guns and cannons, three money-bags, paper-heaps; torches flare: in few minutes, our brave Hôtel-de-Ville which dates from the Fourth Henry, will, with all that it holds, be in flames!

[ikonislife]

The Same.

-Junhoe x Reader

-When Junhoe agrees to babysit his niece, he would never in a million years expect the little tyke to turn his life upside down in the most unexpected way possible.

-Fluff

-I notice there isn’t too many writing of iKon maknae line out. I really wanna change that because all 7 of them are so awesome. I don’t wanna get stuck on just doubleB, which I do notice most of my writing is for them. I hope to put out more of the other boys.

“Hello” 

“H-Hello?” The shaky voice spewing out from the speaker of your phone had your entire apartment halts in movement. It can’t be... Couldn’t be...

“Y/n?” Then it speaks up again, clearer this time, not a trace of hesitation in the way it so velvety wrapping your name in its soft tone. It was as though God had temporarily pressed pause on the movie that is your life. The TV was still blaring but falling on your deaf ears. The air sullen, sinking fast as cold wind rushing in from the seemingly warm spring day outside. Everything took on such a solemn note, almost peaceful. Your dog, Mattias, had stopped squirming around on the carpet, instead laying there with his legs up in the air gazing at you with inquisitive eyes. He must’ve heard it too.

“Jun..Junhoe?” You’re scare to speak up, to confirm that it is what you and your handsome boy, who was now moving on to licking his paws on the floor, heard.

“Yea, it’s me.” There it was again. Your brain still couldn’t register the familiar sound as anything but hallucination. It can’t be. You distinctively heard that annoying ringtone that you for the millionth time made a mental note to change but probably won’t.

“Uhm... Did you- I mean, hi.” Stuttering like a fool, you shut your eyes and grit your teeth in embarrassment even though he wasn’t there to see. The poor couch that had once hosted the owner of that voice during his many lazy day during his game session nearly break from you throwing your whole weight onto it out of utter mortification.

“Hi... I-I. I’m so sorry, Y/n. You know I wouldn’t call unless it was really dire.”

“It’s alright. What’s wrong?” 

It was so strange to hear him speak with no hidden sadness, not even a trace of bitterness lace in the soothing voice. For so long you had longed for him to sound out your name in the amicableness from before. Not the before of the weeks leading up to the painful break up. The before of playfully throwing veggies at each other while dinner bubbles away on the hot stove. Back when you cracking up in ribs splitting laughter whenever he does something completely stupid during your annual Y/n + Junhoe grand adventure. In those days where you could confidently claim you had him begging for in between lustful moans of the night. In the days where you were still his girlfriend. 

“I’m really panicking right now. Hani, my niece, I’m suppose to babysit her today and... God, Y/n. I don’t know what to do. I tried everything. I even freaking threaten to take her home if she don’t stop. I don’t know what else to do- I. Why did you made it look so easy when you babysat her. What do I do?” His voice wavers worse than a baby tree in a category 1 hurricane. He rans without even breathing and judging his heavy breaths, he must be really desperate.

“Slow down, Junhoe. Breathe. Listen to me. Breathe! It won’t do neither of you good if you pass out. Now, slowly, tell me what happened.” A few long breath could be heard huffing into the receiver end of his phone before a long sigh follows up with dead silent. You lean back in your chair, discomfort forcing its way out from how strange this all feel. 6 months, 6 months of nothing since the break up. He didn’t even grace you with the tiniest bit of salvation for your  aching heart even after you saw him arm in arm with the gorgeous cheery brunette that practically bounce her way down the busy street. 

“It started out so nice. We went to the park, we played, we watched movies. Then all of the sudden she won’t eat, she won’t play, she won’t listen to me. She just sat there and sulk. Then she threw a fit and spilled her lunch all over herself. I got irritated and she cry and now I wanna cry to and now she’s- She’s mad at me and I’m mad at her now too... and then...” The passion in his words dies out leaving you on the edge of your seat, anticipation coursing through your mind with all the worst scenarios. Above it all, why did he just call his girl. Why you.

“And then?” You whisper gently, careful not to shook anymore stress on the man that must be tearing his hair out by now.

“And then she, uh, she asked for you. She told me that it was all my fault you never come around anymore. You would know what she wants and all I do is just mess everything up. She’s crying so much that I don’t know what to do anymore, Y/n.”  The softness in his voice falters with the last syllable of your name. The before of sadness feigning its joyful counterpart of the break up week suddenly flood your mind with its present.

“I’m so sorry, Junhoe. I tried to explain to her that I had to leave...” You had always felt guilty for leaving everything in this wonderful part of your life you shared with him. Most of all, you felt the guilt of ruining the ultimate trust he gave you when he introduced his wonderful family to you.

“It’s not your fault. Kids, they just don’t understand breakups you know.” You cringe at the way the cursed word rolled off his tongue. Breakups. It’s such an ugly word to be tainting such a beautiful man with a kind heart and loving soul.

“Yea... I’m still sorry... for everything.”

“Thank you”

You both stay silent for how long, you didn’t really know. No doubts the rush of reminiscing, of running through all the wonderful memories you both made together also affected him because you could’ve sworn you heard that infectious chuckle of his. Somehow, somehow that made you smile even under all the tear you were shedding. 

“Did you want me to calm her down?” Deciding the silent was deafening enough, you speak up to clear the air. “Junnie? you there?” 

“uh, uhm, yea.” He cleared his throat, not a question in your mind that he caught himself on the endearing nickname you had always used. You on the other hand, hadn’t even caught it yourself. “Can I bring her over to your place? You still live in the same place right?”

“Yea, of course. You sure you don’t want me to come over there instead, easier?” You muse over his strange request seeing how it was much easier for one adult to make a trip rather than a 5 years old and a man child.

“I- I’m moving. Most my stuffs is already packed up so I figured it’d be easier over at a place with real household items.”

“Oh, I see. Why didn’t you just call your sister? Or your mom?”

“They’ve been so stress so I agree to help out... I don’t wanna be useless. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Just come over, you know your way. See you soon.”

“See you!”

30 minutes. 30 minutes it took you to realize what you had just agreed to. 30 minutes to realize the man you’re still hopelessly in love with that was no longer hopelessly in love with you was driving over with his 5 years old niece. 30 freaking minutes to realize you look like shit and your apartment even worse. 

“Shit. Why did I do this to myself” was the last thing you could utter before huffing away to a hot shower and a quick 10 minutes hair make up session. Praise the lord for the walk in closet because your mess of a room had just cleaned itself in the 2 revolution the long hand of the clock took. You had just thrown all the windows open when that familiar ding dong yanks your attention toward that white door. Your heart drums with all its might knowing just who stands just beyond that piece of wood. Nerve wrecks every cell in your body as you reach out to the cold piece of metal keeping you away from him. 

“Hey! Oh my God, Hani! Come here you little monkey!” 

“Auntie!!! YAY!” 

No sooner than the door slam into the wall with all the might a 5 years old could exerts, she was already in your arm clinging on like the monkey she is. 

“You’re so heavy now. I don’t think I can carry you anymore... Oh no, I’m gonna drop you!”

Loud shrieks tearing through the house luring a very exciting doggie charging toward the familiar laugh of the five years old. They were best buddies, inseparable since Hani was barely walking and Mattias was barely learning how to properly use his tiny puppy paws.

“MATTY!” She yelps for you to let go before the two of them dance happily in circle, whizzing away to your bedroom. Silent sinking over the warming apartment once again as you eye an awkward Junhoe standing there juggling with what you presume is Hani’s luggages. 

“Hey you!” You headed for a hug before crash and burn into that invisible wall of boundaries. Were your hugs still welcome? Would it makes him feel odd being pull into the arms of his ex?

“Hey. Sorry for barging in. I, you know I wouldn’t bother you unless I really needed to.” Tottering over, you couldn’t help but wince at the way his eyes tracing out the metal edges of your lock box, for certain recalling the many times exhilaration ran through his fingers as he type in the code to your place.

“Yea, it’s no problem. I miss her. Come on in...”

He shuffles in, shucking off his shoes and placing them where he had always for the past 3 years you had occupied this quaint apartment. You remember the day when you both finished putting the place together. He had so specifically left an empty spot just on the bottom shelf of your shoe rack. You tilted your head in confusion, wondering what his reasoning was. To which he simply said “What? I gotta leave my shoes somewhere...”. Needless to say it jolted his heart to see the spot remains empty. Staring about now, he’s drinking in as much of this familiar yet strange space that was once 2nd home.

“The lock... It’s the same code. I saw you staring.”

“Oh” A nervous chuckles adores you with its crisp sound. “I see.” 

“How’ve you been? how’s the girlfriend?” Bitter is all you can taste saying that word.

“I’m good. No girlfriend... You?” Bitter is all he could taste thinking about another man touching you.

“I’m okay... No boys, just Mattias over there. I saw you with that girl...” You feel disgusted with yourself for even prying so hard but you needed to know. You just want to feel that security of having him to yourself.

“Oh, just a friend. We were actually lost, the whole group got separated and yea, we didn’t wanna lose each other too. She’s not from around here and getting lost would be a big problem.” Your heart grin from hearing the perfectly logical explanation of why she was clinging onto him so tightly.

“Ah, I see.” he sways around a bit, awkwardly smiling at you.

“Should I give the little one a shower? You said she spilled lunch all over herself...” This was strange. Way to strange for your liking. There stand the man you had seen countless time trekking across this place butt naked with a bottle of water in his hand. Yet here he was, acting like he just entered a stranger’s home. It hurts.

“Yes, thank you. You know I was never good with this... you did most of it. I don’t know what I was thinking accepting to babysit.” Your voice cut his trance short as his soul nearly leaving his body. Holding out the two backpacks full of stuff, he smile awkwardly, not really sure where the lines were being drawn.

“It’s no problem. Just, you know where everything is... I’ll be back.”

He watches as you disappear into that room, that sacred place of love, of lust, and of the life he misses so dearly. He’s scare, terrify in fact to peer through the door once again fearing he might find things he wouldn’t like. Things that remind him you’ve moved on. So he settles on the couch, listening to the loud giggles emanating from the bathroom. The golden rays dance on his skin just the same as it had many afternoons before watching you cook from this very couch. As if sensing his memory lane, Mattias had taken upon himself to crawl right next to his other master that he loves so much but haven’t seen in a long time. If he could speak, you were sure the pup would throw an even bigger fit than Hani.

“Auntie can we go get ice cream later?” The little tyke hopping excitingly in one place, sprinkling little droplets of water all over your floor.

“Yes, if you eat lunch and take a nap and listen to your uncle.” Wrapping her in a big towel, you dried her off before pulling on the small PJ with bunnies print you had gotten for her birthday not too long ago.

“Okay. I feel bad for making uncle sad. I didn’t mean to cry but I miss you. Uncle wouldn’t let me call you so I cried.” Her eyes reddening from the overrunning guilt. You couldn’t help but feel your heart cracking a bit further knowing this was half your fault. You knew you had to cut off all contact for Junhoe’s sake, for your sake. Never once during the breakup did you both consider the collateral damage and casualties you’d both leave in the wake of the separation. 

“It’s okay. He thought I was busy so he said that. Next time, how about I call you first??” You coo, pulling the sadden girl into your arms.

“Yea! I miss Matty too.” 

“We can take him to the doggie park later too. If your uncle says okay.” You force a smile for the kid but deep down, this was all too close to heart for your own comfort.

“Auntie... I know you and uncle doesn’t love each other anymore. It’s okay if you don’t want to see me. I just miss you, he misses you too. We just wanna see you. I know it makes you sad to see uncle. He’s very sad too. I saw him crying when he saw me looking at your pictures on the computer.” You were in the process of getting lunch ready but now, now you found yourself standing there like a statue being rain on. You hadn’t cry about Junhoe in so long. You thought you couldn’t anymore but little Hani’s honest words... They cut deep. So instead, you drop to your knee and let the little one hold you close, petting your hair as you shed your tear.

“Hani, I love you uncle very much. I miss him too. It’s just sometimes, sometimes adults have to do things they don’t like for the people they love. Sometimes we have to say goodbye but that doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna see you. I wanna see you everyday. Matty wanna see you everyday. Next time just tell your uncle to call me, okay?” You smile to calm the little one down.

“You swear?”

“Pinky swear. Now let’s get you lunch and nap.”

Hand in hand, you both turn to walk toward the bedroom door when you could’ve sworn you just miss the blur of the tousle of black hair rushing away from the door. Pushing it to your weary mind playing trick, you both skip happily to lunch time. 

Your kitchen hadn’t had this much laughter since, well since before the breakup. Lunch came and go in a flash and you were now tucking the little one tightly under your blanket. She smile cheekily before planting a big kiss on your cheeks, whispering sleepily to not tell her uncle. 

Sauntering back to the living room now, you wonder where the dog and his master had gone in the 2 hours it took for Hani to finally tuckered out. You let our eyes wander not even a minute when they land upon the sweet sight of Junhoe’s large body cuddling up a sprawl out Mattias. The dog had him whipped since the first day you both adopted him from the rescue. Always napping together, could never got himself to put the four legged son in time out. Junhoe tightly shut eyes wincing a bit when Mattias stretches himself, kicking and whining in his dream. This is the sight you had always come to associate this place with, your life with. Who would’ve thought in such a short time, you’d lose all the hope and dream of a fun filled future with the sleepy man before you. Settling down just beside the boys on the floor, you reach out to scratch Mattias’s belly before hovering above Junhoe’s dark locks. He loves getting a good scalp massage to fall asleep to and you honestly love giving him one. You stare for a moment before the sinful lull of selfishness taken over. Dropping your fingers onto his fringe, you sweep the soft strands out of his forehead, lingering on his soft skin, basking in the cologne that still remains the same after 6 years of being together.

You could feel his eyes stirring a bit, life returning to his sleepy gaze as you shoot away toward the kitchen.

“Hey, where’s Hani?”

Damn that husky voice. Junhoe possesses the voice of angels, so delightful and sweet. When he sings, you could feel your heart skip several beats from how beautiful he is. But then there was the gruff in his voice when he just waking up, so low and so rough that it got you lost in him.

“She’s sleeping, probably 10 minutes now. You want lunch? I can reheat some stuff for you...” You avert your gaze, hand wiping the same spot for the 5th time in the past few minutes.

“I’m okay.” You could see him glancing around, taking note of the changes with a few nods of his head. “Everything is pretty much the same here...”

“Not everything. Lots of things changed.” You rush out the answer, hoping he hadn’t heard it.

“Yea it is. You extensive mug collection is still on the cabinet that’s way too high for you to reach. The bowls and plates still in the left bottom cabinet. You even organize your fridge in the same way. Matty’s bed is still in the corner next to the sliding door. I haven’t seen your room yet but I’m sure it’s the same.” He lists with a slight chuckle with all the intention in the world to lighten to mood.

“I moved the utensil drawer. It’s above the bowls and plates now. Made more sense that way. You grab your utensils then you grab your food holders. I don’t leave my water in the fridge door anymore, I got a big water cooler now. Easier that way.” You were feeling your tear creeping up on you, wiping that spot for the 10th time. “I can’t cook dinner for two anymore. It took me 3 months to even remember not to buy two serving of everything. Veggies don’t fly in the kitchen anymore, they’re just boring old veggies that lay around where you put them down. I don’t come home to your voice singing out my name anymore. I can’t jump into your arm. I can’t kiss you. I can’t cuddle you on rainy day. You don’t make me tea anymore. They’re all still there you know. You never took your tea collection when you left. I-I can’t go to bed expecting the sheet and cover already warmed up. I don’t have to complain about you leaving your products all over the bathroom sink. I guess that’s one good thing. I can’t take care of you when you’re sick and gross and icky. I don’t travel anymore. I don’t go get a salt and butter donut then a coffee every Sunday morning anymore. I’m not yours... And I can’t call you mine... So please tell me, Junnie, in what world is everything “the same””. 

You spin around briskly, throwing the towel onto the floor throwing your hands up in an air quotation mark in snide. You can’t bother hiding the tear anymore. All your emotion of 6 months of constant suppressing exploded. He stood there wide eyes but already lunging forward to pull you into his chest. 

“Damn it, Junhoe. Why did we even break up in the first place?” You sob into his chest feeling the knots in your hair loosen with each pass of his fingers. You feel all the frustration of going against the grain of life seeping out.

“Because we weren’t going anywhere... remember? We got stuck in this routine life that was just stomping in one place. I was struggling to move up in the world and you, you weren’t getting any warmer with the idea of settling down and getting marry. But I have a feeling you’re not asking for the reason...” He coos so tenderly the painful reminder of why you were sleeping alone every night.

“No... Why did it all seemed so complicated back then...Why did we agree to this shitty lonely life.” Your arms tighten around his body, squeezing out all the darkness as he chuckles.

“Because we were dumb and young.”

“We’re still the same age now as when we parted you freak!” He laughs at the seemingly ease you could crack a comeback even when you’re ugly crying.

“Fine. Because we’re a bit wiser now than we were before. We’ve been together for so long and I think we just needed a reminder of what it feels like to be on our own. Honestly, I hated every single second of the past 6 months. I knew it was mutual and I have no right but God, I got so angry when I saw your Instagram that you were getting tea with that guy from your work. Tea is my thing. You were only suppose to drink the one I pick. Then I laughed because there I was, getting angry over tea. But you know what? I realized i miss you so damn much.”

You nearly choke on that sentence. You wanted so badly to come home to that sentence but you couldn’t bring yourself to ask for it. Not when you both decided to part way. His lips find themselves resting on your damp cheek as he whispers “i miss you” over and over until you dug your face so far into the crook of his neck the kisses couldn’t reach you anymore.

“I knew I said we always do the same thing and it got so abhorrently boring but I miss it. I would sell my soul to have those “boring” date back. I knew it was just a fluke this morning when you called me Junnie over the phone but it had my heart doing flips and my stomach sick with butterflies. Then earlier when you told Hani you miss me, I’m surprise I had enough self control not to kiss your lips off then and there.” 

You sob out a laugh from the sweet words of your sassy man and he returns the same. You both stood there for so long just looking at the familiarities of each other and how they’re all suddenly seems to be glowing with all the lights of the stars above. His hands move to cup your cheeks gingerly to which you respond with the flutter shut of your eyes. Then you feel the intense heat of summer spreading from his soft lips. It breaches the barrier with the thrust of his tongue greeting yours. It burns down your throat as he moans into you, satisfies with your welcoming touches. Searing down your chest, your heart works itself into a stupor, drugging all your veins with love as you clutch onto the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. Finally your spent lungs gave out from the intensity of its all with a heavy pant.

“Please tell me we’ll get back together after this because if not, this would all be soooo embarrassing. Also, I’d really like it if you help me move. It’s been hell doing it myself.” He retorts, eyes gloss over with every drip of love he could offer despite the cheeky remarks.

“Yes, weirdo. I mean, who’s gonna fill that empty spot on my shoe rack. I guess I should also pay you back for moving me into this place.” a soft thud of your fist playfully tickles his chest as a much crisper laugh tears through your apartment. You didn’t wanna leave his arms and it seems he has no problem with it. You stay there in the kitchen that held so much memory and surely host of new ones. Your arms tight around him as you rest on his strong stature. He presses kisses here and there, relaying how much he needs you close. Once the tiredness settled into your legs, you drag him over to the couch surprising a still sleeping Mattias awake. He gladly gives up part of the couch for you to fall onto with Junhoe flushing tight against your back.

“You know earlier, when you were struggling with 2 backpacks and a fussy Hani, you really looked like a real dad. Kinda cute.” 

“Yea? Does it uh, does it makes you feel a certain way...?” He winks teasingly, words playful as he presses a kiss onto your lips.

“I don’t know. Should I be? Why don’t you enlighten me.” You refuse to relent to his mischievous words.

“If I look like a dad and you think it’s cute... Doesn’t it incite a motherly feeling in you? I mean, you look like a fearless mom that could handle a zombie apocalypse earlier laying down the law with Hani. I’m not saying you have to feel motherly any time soon... Just you know, eventually.” Hope glints gleefully in his eyes as he not so inconspicuously letting his finger rubs your own very specific one.

“Koo Junhoe, isn’t there something you need to ask me first before I should be feeling motherly?” You retort, flicking his forehead, watching him wincing in pain.

“Let me worry about that part, okay babe? I promise you, I’ll be here for the rest of your life. I will never, ever leave again.” Clutching onto your hands tightly, he let his heart speaks knowing he’s in a good place from here on out.

“I love you, Junnie.”

“I love you, baby.”

You both remain silent, basking in the peacefulness of a revived love. You spend your time staring at him, letting your fingers relearn all the dips and curve of Junhoe. He did the same, index running along your nose ridge, brushing your hair out of your face, poking your cheeks. Nothing but small giggles and kisses could be heard for the next hour until the gentle voice of a very sleepy Hani burst your bubble.

“Does this mean I get to sleep over whenever I want to again?”

Junhoe breaks into a laugh as you motion for the little one to come over. She jumps right in and wiggles herself neatly in the crack between yours and his body. She calls for Mattias as the happy pup wagging his tail your way, settling just beneath your feet continuing to snooze away. Her eyes close once again as you press a soft kiss on her hair, Junhoe doing the same.  He whispers to a giddy Hani before beaming brightly at you.

“Yes, kid. It does.” 

[hayurika]

The Charming Empire Afterthoughts.

Our heroine, Amane Kosaka, was living a simple yet happy life in the countryside until one day she was suddenly taken away to live in the empire, summoned by her brother Soshi Amazaki — the current ruler. Though she was unaware of the underlying circumstances, she finds herself brought to this lively and palpable central city.

Living in the immaculate royal palace, our heroine comes to learn that the empire might not be as joyful as it seems.  Her brother is no longer the gentle man she once knew… A corrupt organization secretly runs things behind the scenes…

The heroine’s fate guides her down the path of love.

I finished The Charming Empire some time ago and decided to write my overall thoughts of the game. This will mainly be centered on the the main character, story lines, and the the main story of The Charming Empire.

** Please note that this isn’t a spoiler free reflection.

I finished The Charming Empire some time ago and decided to write my overall thoughts of the game. This will mainly be centered on the the main character, story lines, and the the main story of The Charming Empire.

** Please note that this isn’t a spoiler free reflection.

Both April and May of this year have been quite fruitful for otome games since so many came out and The Charming Empire was one of them! Amane tries to find her place as she is pushed back into the royal spotlight when her brother picks her up from the countryside after years apart. She tries to learn etiquette and dancing, but with the country suffering — Amane has to figure out where she is going to be at the end of all this and who will help her along the way.

A Country Bumpkin Princess: Amane Kosaka

Amane is pushed out of her countryside home by her older brother (but not really her brother since the whole story behind it is rather confusing) without much of an explanation and she continues to follow whatever is told of her for the majority of the story. As a princess, she is pampered but she is effectively a prisoner of Soshi as she is forced to stay in he room all day in order to be taught etiquette lessons for her upcoming debut. She is very considerate and is shown to worry about the people after certain events happen, but she can’t do anything about the issue. Amane tries her hardest to please everyone, but it just doesn’t work for her as Soshi rarely talks to her and the servants are just doing their job. It is not surprising that she clings to the first person that shows her attention in each route and she is rather single-minded in seeing them and or when something catches her attention.

At the same time, there are moments when she seems resentful of the whole situation that she has been placed in, but she doesn’t really do anything to fight it. It isn’t until someone else presents her an alternative that she begins to think about changing her current situation. She might be a bit hesitant, but she is stubborn enough to go through with anything in most routes. However, there are certain routes where Amane does take initiative and ends up finding something worth fighting for.

A Captive Price: Kei Yoshimine

Kei starts off as Amane’s dance instructor, though he isn’t too happy with teaching her in the beginning. He is very harsh with her and she later realizes the reason why — Soshi had declared war on Kei’s country of Yato and he has been a prisoner of war within the castle walls since then. However, as they spend more time together, Kei might realize that their situations are similar as he becomes nicer to her, but is still distant about certain things. They teach each other different things and it seems like they are slowly falling in love, but then the long awaited debut happens where they learn one thing — Soshi is planning on marrying Amane to some foreign prince. Thus, the gears begins to work as Kei starts to becomes distant again, though with an objective in mind — revolution. Kei helps those trying to take down Soshi and fights the emperor in order to take Amane with him. However, if he fails, they might never see each other again.

Amane and Kei have a lot of cute scenes together and it is nice to see him develop out of his initial anger towards her.  It is also interesting to see what Soshi’s crimes are outside of his own country, though the story gets a little complicated to follow at times. It is also nice to see Kei push forward with trying to help with his country again, though it all seemed part of Soshi’s plan in the long run. The route is short and sweet with both of them overcoming Soshi in order to be together, though the bad ending is depressing since they fail and it is unknown whether they will ever see each other again.

The Rebellious Bodyguard: Koichiro Sera

Sera is Amane’s serious bodyguard that has been watching over her since they picked her up from the countryside. He is very hard to read and often times doesn’t talk, which makes Amane worry about what he things of her. Like Kei, Sera doesn’t really seem to enjoy interacting with Amane in the beginning, but after spending time with her he tries to do little things that make her happy such as showing her around town or reading books together. Yet, as they spend more time together, Amane realizes that Sera is dedicated and passionate about certain things, such as his country and its people which leads him to talking to Amane about her becoming Empress since she wouldn’t have to be her brother’s pawn anymore and she is the true blood heir. It takes her some time to make her decision, but she decides to move forward with Sera’s plan, though her new position and being able to save Soshi might cause some irreversible damage to their budding relationship.

Like Kei, Sera is a very kind character but he shows it in different ways, such as showing Amane around town and listening to her when none else will. It might be that he has a certain perspective of her due to being Soshi’s sibling, but that slowly changes and he wants her to be part of rebellion and take her proper place back. This is the main point of contention between the two of them, as Amane thinks for awhile about this, as Sera silently pushes her to make a certain choice. Yet, they are cute together during certain scenes and Sera is always aware of what Amane might need, though he shows his concern in indirect ways. However, because of his reserved nature and being clearly aware of who Amane is now makes him reconsider confessing his own emotions, wjich causes her to take action and confess her own feelings. Yet, his personal feeling and how the revolution ended for Soshi are reasons why Sera decides to disappear during the bad ending, though she isn’t one to give up so easily.

A Flirtatious Cafe Owner: Toki Tanba

Toki Tanba is the easygoing but rather flirtatious cafe owner that Amane meets when she decides to make a break from the castle. He is always there to help Amane with an easygoing smile and a calming word or two. However, while he does worry about her, he seems to often wonder where she is from. In this route, Amane takes some initiative and decides to find her way out of the castle and into the city. While, she ends up getting lost for a moment, she also ends up meeting Tanba who leads her to his cafe where she starts helping out. As they become friendly with each other, it still seems both of them are hiding things from each other, this becomes more evident as the townspeople begin to suffer underneath Soshi’s rule. A lot of things are discovered and Tanba ends up getting mad at Amane for awhile, as she tries her hardest to help though she is powerless compared to Soshi. As Tanba’s plan moves forward to overthrow Soshi, Amane tries her best to help the rebellion, though the aftermath might drive them apart.

Unlike the last two routes, Tanba is really nice to Amane from the beginning and that seems to confuse her at first, especially since some people call him a “womanizer”. It would have been nice to see more of the rebellion and their actions, but it makes sense since Amane isn’t there to help until the end, though there are instances where Tanba makes references to it here and there early on. They have a lot of nice moments together, especially during the festival and Tanba seems to care a lot about Amane but seems to be unable to declare his true emotions until the end. Though, it is a little sad that he gets mad at her for things are out of her control. However, the bad ending was kind of depressing, especially since she turned on Soshi in order for Tanba and his men to gain access to the castle and he pushes her away for her own safety when it comes to how the townspeople think of her, though it is nice to see that they are working hard together in order to make the country stable again in the happy ending.

A Caring Right Hand Man: Kagemitsu Togawa

Kagemitsu is the current right-hand man of Soshi and a childhood friend of Amane’s, though she doesn’t remember him that well. After a rather sordid interaction with her tutor, Kagemitsu decides to personally teach her the ways of etiquette and dance. He is very kind and patient with her and it shows with how quickly she picks things up, though there are certain things –like Soshi’s change and the current suffering of the people– that he doesn’t talk about with her. As Amane becomes more aware of what is going on, she seeks Kagemitsu out and begins to learn how he is part of the rebellion. However, they are each devoted to Soshi in their own ways and try their hardest for him to see reason, though he seems to have his own plans in mind. The real question is if Kagemitsu and Amane will be allowed to stay together once they have been found by those that want Kagemitsu’s help to rebuild the country yet are still weary of Amane.

Kagemitsu seems to be the most patient out of all the bachelors with Amane, he seems to be understanding of her current situation and tries his best to accommodate to that. However, while they are declared “childhood friends”, the subject isn’t touch upon a lot since Amane doesn’t clearly remember Kagemitsu and he decides not to say anything as a result, making any previous relationship void and leaving a big hole within the story line. It is interesting to see how they both care about Soshi in different way (and he does as well) but it isn’t strong enough to keep their friendship together. Due to all this, it seems like Kagemitsu is more of big brother during his own route. Yet, Kagemitsu tries his hardest to keep them together after the rebellion wins over and it is nice to see them continue Soshi’s wishes, though sad that Kagemitsu has to push her way in order to keep her safe in the bad ending.

A Two-faced Leader: Soshi Amazaki

Soshi is Amane’s adopted older brother and current Emperor, though the circumstances of how he got there are shady at best. With little to no contact in many years, Soshi just decides to pick up Amane from the countryside and bring her back to the capital. Amane tries her best to reestablish their old relationship, but Soshi is cold and hard to read as he keeps her at arms length and locked within her room in order to get ready for her debut. Regardless of the resentment that she might have towards Soshi, she tries to remember the type of person that he used to be and tries to appeal to that for a time. However, Amane also begins to question how exactly Soshi got into power and why he has been doing such awful things. As she closer to uncovering the truth, she comes to see that Soshi’s has his own plans in motion, though at the sacrifice of his own person for the greater good. Yet, as Amane comes to terms with her true feelings towards Soshi, will they both survive the upcoming upheaval?

For being the route that is supposed to explain a lot of the story’s background, it leaves the player a bit confused. While, they are assured that Amane and Soshi aren’t blood-related, how he got in to power (especially surrounding the “ministers”) and his current plans to stop them are left vague and confusing. Amane trying to better get to know Soshi is understandable, but the sudden change in her personality due to a letter is rather baffling and hard to follow until it is ignored since she is “in love” now. It is great to see them come together and try to better the country, but the process of how they get there is kind of murky, especially since they have stiff interactions with each other until they declare their feelings. They do have some cute moments together, but there is still a lot of unsolved issues. However, Soshi is a man that keeps his word and is very protective of Amane, as shown in both the good and bad endings, even if it cost him his life.

Final Thoughts

Th game has some great CGs and a wonderful voice cast that does well in portraying all the characters, but the story just falls really short of its full potential. The music also tends to lop a lot, which can make it quite annoying rather quickly. The explanations are really confusing at times, especially when it comes to Soshi’s explanation to what happened to the former Emperor and what he has been doing since he ascended to the throne. The regular citizens are said to be suffering, but this isn’t really shown outside of the fire hitting the town square and people’s personal explanations. It might be easy to explain that Amane’s position doesn’t allow her to see all that, but as she gets closer to the rebels it would have been nice to see her become more aware of her people’s suffering, especially when she could possibly take over after Soshi. There are a lot of themes that could have been placed to make the routes mote dynamic, but this and the lack of a proper background story makes the all political process within the game rather anticlimactic and a drag.

However, the game is really short and it doesn’t take long to complete, though there isn’t really a story — there are cute interactions and they sort of form into a romance. However, it is kind of weird since these guys are the only real interactions Amane has to the outside world since Soshi keeps her locked in her room most of the time, which makes the romance rather questionable. Amane’s personality might also bother some players since she is usually told what to do and follows any suggestion given to her without any real explanation as to why. Aside from that, there is bit of confusion in the translations since “Soshi” keeps appearing spelled in different ways, which was a bit confusing and hard to get used to.

If you want a game with some cute moments and nice seiyuu cast to past the time, this is the game for you but don’t expect to get much more out of it.

[valiavovatera1320]

Vladimir Mayakovsky – A Cloud in Trousers (English)

Prologue

Your thought, Fantasizing on a sodden brain, Like a bloated lackey on a greasy couch sprawling, — With my heart’s bloody tatters, I’ll mock it again. Until I’m contempt, I’ll be ruthless and galling.

There’s no grandfatherly fondness in me, There are no gray hairs in my soul! Shaking the world with my voice and grinning, I pass you by, — handsome, Twentytwoyearold.

Gentle souls! You play your love on the violin. The crude ones play it on the drums violently. But can you turn yourselves inside out, like me And become just two lips entirely?

Come and learn– You, decorous bureaucrats of angelic leagues! Step out of those cambric drawing-rooms

And you, who can leaf your lips Like a cook turns the pages of her recipe books.

If you wish– I’ll rage on raw meat like a vandal Or change into hues that the sunrise arouses, If you wish– I can be irreproachably gentle, Not a man — but a cloud in trousers.

I refuse to believe in Nice blossoming! I will glorify you regardless, — Men, crumpled like bed-sheets in hospitals, And women, battered like overused proverbs.

Part I

You think I’m delirious with malaria?

This happened. In Odessa, this happened.

“I’ll come at four,” promised Maria.

Eight… Nine… Ten.

Soon after, The evening, Frowning, And Decemberish,

Left the windows And vanished in dire darkness.

Behind me, I hear the neighing and laughter Of candelabras.

You wouldn’t recognize me if you knew me prior: A bulk of sinews Moaning, Fidgeting. What can such a clod desire? But a clod desires many things.

Because for oneself it doesn’t matter Whether you’re cast of copper Or whether the heart is cold metal. At night, you want to wrap your clamor In something feminine, Gentle.

And thus, Enormous, I hunch in the frame, And with my forehead, I melt the window glass. Will this love be tremendous or lame? Will it sustain or pass? A big one wouldn’t fit a body like this: It must be a little love, — a baby, sort of, It shies away when the cars honk and hiss, But adores the bells on the horse-tram. I come face to face With the rippling rain, Yet once more, And wait Splashed by the city surf’s thundering roar.

Running amok with a knife outside, The night caught up to him And stabbed him, Unseen.

The stroke of midnight Fell like a head from a guillotine.

The silver raindrops on the windowpane Were piling a grimace And yelling. It was as if the gargoyles of Notre Dame Started yelping.

Damn you! Haven’t you had enough yet? Cries will soon cut my throat all around.

I heard: Softly, Like a patient out of his bed, A nerve leapt Down. At first, He barely moved. Then, apprehensive And distinct, He started prancing. And now, he and another two, Darted about, step-dancing.

On the ground floor, the plaster was falling fast.

Nerves, Big ones Little ones,– Various! — Galloped madly Until, at last, Their legs wouldn’t carry them.

The night oozed through the room and sank. Stuck in slime, the eye couldn’t slither out of it. Suddenly the doors started to bang As if the hotel’s teeth were chattering.

You entered, Abrupt like “Take it!”, Mauling suede gloves, you tarried, And said: “You know,– I’m soon getting married.”

Get married then. It’s all right, I can handle it. You see — I’m calm, of course! Like the pulse Of a corpse.

Remember? You used to say: “Jack London, Money, Love and ardor,”– I saw one thing only: You were La Gioconda, Which had to be stolen!

And someone stole you.

Again in love, I shall start gambling, With fire illuminating the arch of my eyebrows. And why not? Sometimes, the homeless ramblers Will seek to find shelter in a burnt down house!

You’re mocking me? “You’ve fewer emeralds of madness than a beggar kopecks, there’s no disproving this!” But remember Pompeii came to end thus When somebody teased Vesuvius!

Hey! Gentlemen! You care for Sacrilege, Crime And war. But have you seen The frightening terror Of my face When It’s Perfectly calm?

And I feel- “I” Is too small to fit me. Someone inside me is getting smothered.

Hello! Who’s speaking? Mother? Mother! Your son has a wonderful sickness! Mother! His heart has been set alight! Tell Lydia and Olga, his sisters, That there’s simply no where to hide. Every word, Whether funny or crude, That he spews from his scorching mouth, Jumps like a naked prostitute From a burning brothel.

People sniff– Something’s burned down. They call the firemen. In glittering helmets, They carelessly start intruding. Hey, tell the firemen: No boots allowed! With a sizzling heart one has to be prudent. I’ll do it! I’ll pump my watery eyes into containers. Just let me push off my ribs and I’ll start. I’ll leap out! I’ll leap out! You can’t restrain me! They’ve collapsed. You can’t leap out of the heart!

From the cracks of the lips, A cindering kiss springs, Running away from the smoldering face.

Mother! I can’t sing. In the heart’s chapel, the choir was set ablaze!

The figurines of words and numbers From the skull, Like kids from a burning building, scurry. Thus fear, Reaching up to the sky, called And raised Lusitania’s fiery arms with worry.

A hundred-eyed blaze looked into the peace Of apartments, where the people perspired. With a final outcry, Will you moan, at least, To report to the centuries that I’m on fire?

Part II

Glorify me! The great ones are no match for me! Upon everything that’s been done I stamp the word “naught.”

As of now, I have no desire to read. Novels? So what!

This is how books are made, I used to think: — Along comes a poet, And opens his lips with ease. Inspired, the fool simply begins to sing — Oh please! It turns out: Before they can sing with elation, On their calloused feet they tramp for some time, While the brainless fishes of imagination Are splashing and wallowing in the heart’s slime. And while, hissing with rhymes, they boil All the loves and the nightingales in a broth-like liquid, The tongueless street merely squirms and coils — It has nothing to yell or even speak with.

In our pride, we work all day with goodwill And the city towers of Babel are again restored. But God Grinds These cites into empty fields, Stirring the word.

In silence, the street dragged on the ordeal. A scream stood erect on the gullet’s road. While fat taxies and cabs were bristling still, Wedged in the throat. As if from consumption, The trodden chest gasped for air.

The city, with gloom, blocked the road rather fast.

And when — Nevertheless! — The street coughed up the strain onto the square And pushed the portico off its throat, at last, It seemed as if, Accompanied by the choirs of an archangel’s chorus, Recently robbed, God would show us His heat!

But the street squatted down and yelled out coarsely: “Let’s go eat!”

The Krupps and the Krupplets gather around To paint menacing brows on the city, While in the gorge Corpses of words are scatted about,– Two live and thrive,– “Swine” And another one,– I believe “borsch”.

And poets, soaking in sobs and complaining, Run from the street, resentful and sour: “With those two words there’s no way to portray now A beautiful lady, Or love Or a dew-covered flower.”

And after the poets, Thousands of others stampeded: Students, Prostitutes, Salesmen.

Gentlemen, Stop! You are not the needy; So how dare you to beg them, gentlemen!

Covering yards with each stride, We are healthy and ardent! Don’t listen to them, but thrash them instead! Them, Who are stuck like a free add-on To each king-size bed!

Are we to ask them humbly: “Help us, please!” Imploring them for hymns And oratorios? We are the creators with the burning hymns To the hum of the mills and laboratories.

Why should I care about Faust? In a fairy display of the fireworks’ loot, He’s gliding with Mephistopheles on the parquet of galaxies! I know– A nail in my boot Is more frightening than Goethe’s fantasies!

I am The most golden-mouthed, With every word I am giving The body a name-day, And the soul a rebirth, I assure you: The minutest speck of the living Is worth more than all that I’ll ever do on this earth!

Listen! The present-day Zarathustra, Wet with sweat, Is dashing around you and preaching here. We, With faces crumpled like a bed spread, With lips sagging like a chandelier, We, The Leprous City detainees, Where, from filth and gold, lepers’ sores were raised, We are purer than the Venetian azure seas, Washed by the sunshine’s balmy rays.

I spit on the fact That Homer and Ovid didn’t create Soot-covered with pox, Men like us all, But at the same time, I know That the sun would fade If it looked at the golden fields of our souls.

Muscles are surer than prayers to us! We won’t pray for aid any more! We– Each one of us– Holds in his grasp The driving reins of the world!

This led to Golgotha in the auditoriums Of Petrograd, Moscow, Kiev, Odessa, And there wasn’t one of you Who wasn’t imploring thus: “Crucify him!” Teach him a lesson!” But to me,– People, Even those of you who were mean,– To me, you are dear and I love you with passion.

Haven’t you seen A dog licking the hand that it’s being thrashed by?

I am laughed at By the present-day tribe. They’ve made A scabrous joke out of me. But I can see crossing the mountains of time, Him, whom the others can’t see.

Where men’s sight falls short, Wearing the revolutions’ thorny crown, Leading at the head of the hungry horde, The year 1916 is coming around.

Among you, his precursor, Wherever there’s pain, I’ll be near. I have nailed myself to the cross there, On every single drop of a tear. There’s nothing left to pardon now! In souls that bred pity, I burnt out the fields. That is much harder than Taking a thousand thousands of Bastilles.

And when His advent announcing, Joyful and proud, You’ll step up to greet the savior– I will drag My soul outside, And trample it Until it spreads out! And give it to you, red in blood, as a flag.

Part III

Ah, how and wherefrom Did it come to this That the dirty fists of madness Against the luminous joy were raised in the air?

She came,– The thought of a madhouse And curtained my head with despair.

And As in the Dreadnought’s downfall With chocking spasms The men jumped into the hatch, before the ship died, The crazed Burlyuk crawled on, passing Through the screaming gaps of his eye. Almost bloodying his eyelids, He emerged on his knees, Stood up and walked And in the passionate mood, With tenderness, unexpected from one so obese, He simply said: “Good!”

It’s good when from scrutiny a yellow sweater Hides the soul! It’s good when On the gibbet, in the face of terror, You shout: “Drink Cocoa — Van Houten!”

This moment, Like a Bengal light, Crackling from the blast, I wouldn’t exchange for anything, Not for any money.

Clouded by cigar smoke, And stretching like a liquor glass, One could make out the drunken face of Severyanin.

How dare you call yourself a poet And gray, like a quail, twitter away your soul! When With brass knuckles This very moment You have to split the world’s skull!

You, With one thought alone in your head, “Am I dancing with style?” Look how happy I am Instead, I,– A pimp and a fraud all the while.

From all of you, Who soaked in love for plain fun, Who spilled Tears into centuries while you cried, I’ll walk away And place the monocle of the sun Into my gaping, wide-open eye.

I’ll wear colorful clothes, the most outlandish And roam the earth To please and scorch the public, And in front of me, On a metal leash, Napoleon will run like a little puppy.

Like a woman, quivering, the earth will lie down, Wanting to give in, she will slowly slump. Things will come alive And from all around, Their lips will lisp: “Yum-yum-yum-yum-yum!”

Suddenly, The clouds And other stuff in the air Stirred in some astonishing commotion, As if the workers in white, up there, Declared a strike, all bitter and emotional.

The savage thunder peeked out of the cloud, irate. Snorting from huge nostrils, it howled And for a moment, the face of the sky bent out of shape, Resembling the iron Bismarck’s scowl.

And someone, Entangled in the clouds’ maze, To the café, stretched out his hand now: Both, tender somehow, And with a womanly face, And at once, like a firing cannon.

You think That’s the sun above the attics Gently stretching to caress the cheeks of the café? No, advancing again to slaughter the radicals It’s General Galliffet!

Take your hands out of your pockets, wanderers – Pick up a bomb, a knife or a stone And if one happens to be armless, Let him come to fight with his forehead alone!

Go on, starving, Servile And abused ones, In this flea-swarming filth, do not rot!

Go on! We’ll turn Mondays and Tuesdays Into holidays, painting them with blood! Remind the earth whom it tried to debase! With your knives be rough! The earth Has grown fat like the mistress’ face, Whom Rothschild had over-loved!

May the flags flutter in the line of fire As they do on holidays, with a flare! Hey, street-lamps, raise the traders up higher, Let their carcasses hang in the air.

I cursed, Stabbed And hit in the face, Crawled after somebody, Biting into their ribs.

In the sky, red like La Marseillaise, The sunset gasped with its shuddering lips.

It’s insanity!

Not a thing will remain from the war.

The night will come, Bite into you And swallow you stale.

Look– Is the sky playing Judas once more, With a handful of stars that were soaked in betrayal?

The night, Like Mamai, feasted with delight, Crushing the city with its bottom’s heft. Our eyes won’t be able break through this night, As black as Azef!

Slumped in the corner of the saloon, I sit, Spilling wine on my soul and the floor, And I see: In the corner, round eyes are lit And with them, Madonna bites the heart’s core.

Why bestow such radiance on this drunken mass? What do they have to offer? You see – once again, They prefer Barabbas Over the Man of Golgotha?

Maybe, deliberately, In the human mash, not once Do I wear a fresh-looking face. I am, Perhaps, The handsomest of your sons In the whole human race.

Give them, The ones molded with delight, A quick death already, So that their children may grow up right; Boys — into fathers Girls — into pregnant ladies.

Like the wise men, let the new born babes Grow gray with insight and thought And they’ll come To baptize the infants with names Of the poems I wrote.

I praise the machine and the industrial Britain. In some ordinary, common gospel, It may perhaps, be written That I’m the thirteenth apostle.

And when my voice rumbles bawdily, Every evening, For hours and hours, awaiting my call, Jesus, Himself, may be sniffling The forget-me-nots of my soul.

Part IV

Maria! Maria! Let me in, Maria! Don’t leave me out on the street! You can’t? My cheeks cave in, But you wait ruthlessly. Soon, sampled by everyone, Stale and pallid, I’ll come out And mumble toothlessly That today I’m “Remarkably candid.”

Maria, You see– My shoulders are drooping again.

In the streets, the men Prick the fat in their four-story craws. They show their eyes, Worn out in the forty years of despair, and restless- They snicker because In my teeth, Again, I hold the hardened crust of last night’s caresses.

The rain wept over the sidewalks, — That puddle-imprisoned fraudster. The corpse of the street, clobbered by cobbles, soaked in its cries. But the gray lashes– Yes! — The eyelashes of icicles became frosted With tears from the eyes– Yes! — From the drainpipes’ overcast eyes.

Every pedestrian was licked by the rain’s snout: Athletes glistened in the carriages on the street. People burst Overstuffed, And their fat oozed out. Like a muddy river, it streamed on the ground, Together with juices from A cud of old meat.

Maria! How can I fit a tender word into bulging ears? A bird Sings for alms With a hungry voice Rather well, But I am a man, Maria, Coughed up by the ailing night into Presnya’s filthy palms.

Maria, do you want me? Maria, take me in, please. With shivering fingers I’ll squeeze the iron throat of the bell!

Maria!

The pastures of streets turn wild and loud! They’re squeezing my neck and I’m almost collapsing.

Open!

I’m hurt!

Look – my eyes are pricked out By the common womanly hatpins!

You’ve opened the door.

My child! Oh, don’t be alarmed! You see these women, Hanging on my neck like mountains, — Through life, I drag with me A million of massive, enormous, pure loves And a million millions of filthy, disgusting lovelets. Don’t be afraid If betraying the vow Of honesty, Seeing a thousand pretty faces, I’ll throw myself at them, — “Those, who love Mayakovsky!”- Please, understand that that is the dynasty Of the queens, who have mounted the heart of a madman.

Maria, closer!

Whether naked and shameless, Or shivering in dismay, Yield the wonder of your lips, so gentle: My heart and I have never lived until May, But in my past, A hundreds of Aprils assembled.

Maria! A poet sings praises to Tiana all day, But I– I’m made of flesh, I’m a man, — I ask for your body, Like the Christians pray: “Give us this day Our daily bread.”

Maria, give it to me!

Maria! I fear to forget your name As a poet fears to forget under pressure A word He conceived in a restless night, Equal to God in effect.

Your body I shall continue to love and treasure As a soldier Amputated by war, Alone And unwanted, Cherishes his remaining leg.

Maria, — You won’t have me? You won’t!

Ha!

Then gloomy and dismal, Once more, I shall carry My tear-stained heart Forward, Like a dog, Limping, Carries the paw That the speeding train had ran over.

With the blood from the heart I cheer the road that I roam, Flowers cling to my jacket, making it dusty, The sun will dance a thousand times round the earth, Like Salome Danced around the head of the Baptist.

And when my years, at their very end, Will finish their dance and wrinkle, A million bloodstains will spread The path to my Father’s kingdom.

I’ll climb out Filthy (sleeping in gullies all night), And into his ears, I’ll whisper While I stand At his side:

“Mister God, listen! Isn’t it tedious To dip your generous eyes into clouds Every day, every evening? Let’s, instead, Start a festive merry-go-round On the tree of knowledge of good and evil! Omnipresent, you’ll be all around us! From the wine, all the fun will ensue And Apostle Peter, who’s always been frowning, Will perform the fast-paced dance — ki-ka-pu. We’ll bring all the Eves back into Eden: Order me And I’ll go– From the boulevards, I’ll pick up all the pretty girls needed And bring them to you!

Should I?

No?

You’re shaking your curly head coarsely? You’re knitting your brows like you’re rough? Do you think That this Winged one, close by, Knows the meaning of love?

I too am an angel; used to be one before– With a sugar lamb’s eye, I stared at your faces, But I don’t want to give presents to mares anymore, — All the torture of Sevres that’s been made into vases. Almighty, You created two hands, And with care, Made a head, and went down the list, — But why did you make it So that it pained When one had to kiss, kiss, kiss?!

I thought that you were the Great God, Almighty But you’re a miniature idol, — a dunce in a suit, Bending over, I’m already reaching For the knife that I’m hiding At the top of my boot.

You, swindlers with wings, Huddle in fright! Ruffle your shuddering feathers, rascals! You, reeking of incense, I’ll open you wide, From here all the way to Alaska.

Let me go!

You can’t stop me! Whether I’m right or wrong Makes no difference, I will not be calmer. Look, — The stars were beheaded all night long And the sky is again bloody with slaughter.

Hey you, Heaven! Take your hat off, When you see me near!

Silence.

The universe sleeps. Placing its paw Under the black, star-infested ear.

[1914]

[mastcomm]

A Dancing Spirit Makes ‘Little Women’ Wild at Heart

Even before the dancing starts, there’s something about the way she runs.

Near the beginning of “Little Women,” Saoirse Ronan takes off. Cutting her way through a soberly dressed crowd, she flies across the pavement — blond waves bouncing — her face lit from within by a private smile. Her flapping coat makes it look as though she’s soaring on wings. She’s both of the earth and air; grounded yet light.

The reason Greta Gerwig’s “Little Women” is so fresh and so piercingly alive? Its dancing spirit, in which even a run is a choreographic act.

In this adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s novel about four sisters growing up in New England during and after the Civil War, Ronan, as the willful Jo, has physical prowess: She’s sharp, she’s spontaneous and she’s more than a little bit wild.

As the close-knit March sisters — Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy — glide and tumble their way through the story, Gerwig orchestrates a kind of choreography that is as much physical as verbal. The actors have a way of bursting through space — and piling on one another, both in love and in anger — so that you’re able to feel their three-dimensional fullness. What Gerwig cultivates visually is choreographic pandemonium: restless, energetic and a hair shy of full-blown chaos.

And she makes spaces for actual dances — short, though never slight, gems — that were created by the contemporary choreographer Monica Bill Barnes. Flannery Gregg, a member of her company, is the associate choreographer.

Whether obvious or not, dance and its inherent musicality provide subtext for everything in “Little Women” — even the approach to dialogue. In an episode of IndieWire’s Filmmaker Toolkit podcast, Gerwig spoke about how she used slash marks to indicate when the next character would enter with a line so she could create the right speed and cadence. She described it as a technique for the actors to master. “It’s like being a dancer,” she said. “You find the freedom in the structure.”

It’s the same with a film that dances: Gerwig’s clear cinematic frame allows her to take risks with her approach to movement and to show something of a character’s inner world. When we first see Laurie, played by Timothée Chalamet, he is captured in a slow-motion walk that makes it seem as if he were drifting over water.

Chalamet’s Laurie, especially in the film’s first half, is something of a sprite; is it strange to say that his portrayal is in line with the hypnotizing spirit of the New York City Ballet dancer Allegra Kent? He has a loose silkiness, which makes his control — evident in his ability to balance and turn — so bewitching, especially the way it contrasts with Ronan’s rough-and-tumble fearlessness. Her physicality is straightforward in its strength; his is imbued with mystery.

Those qualities meet when, during a party, the pair sneak onto a porch for a private dance, an electrifying duet, choreographed by Barnes. As they dash from one window to the next — inside, proper dancing is happening — they unite in forceful muscularity, jumping and stomping with the rage and exuberance of teenagers on the cusp of adulthood.

Their duet is set to Dvorak in the film. But there’s a reason the actors appear to be so playfully modern: All of the dances were made using contemporary music. The porch dance was actually created to James Brown’s “Give It Up or Turnit a Loose” (from the live recording of “Revolution of the Mind”). The sparkling look of the dance isn’t just about the feverish way they execute the steps, but it’s also about the musicality: We may not hear James Brown, but his timeless groove haunts this dance like a ghost.

In an interview, Barnes said Gerwig told her she wanted viewers to leave the movie feeling as if they had just heard David Bowie. (In the film, “Frances Ha,” Gerwig plays the heroine, a dancer; in one scene, she runs — just as exuberantly as Ronan does in “Little Women”— through the streets of Manhattan, leaping and spinning to Bowie’s “Modern Love.”) For Barnes that meant the film “has this contemporary feeling,” she said, “even though nothing indicates that in the costume or the music.”

That contemporary feeling is a triple threat: a weaving of physicality, the cadence of voices and even of fabric. The costumes, with their layered effect, seem to reference dance rehearsal clothes, from scarves draped loosely around necks to wrapped sweaters and chunky socks that have the look of leg warmers.

And Bowie’s music is there, if under the surface; “Let’s Dance” and “The Man Who Sold the World” were used when making the sequences featuring Meg at the debutante ball. But Barnes’s overall approach was to try to find “a way to make the story seem not so distant,” she said. “I wanted to find the right music to shape the energy of the scenes and of the dancing.”

A beer hall is the site of another electric dance, this one pairing Ronan and Louis Garrel as Friedrich Bhaer, the professor Jo meets while living in New York. Here, Barnes plays with the lively galop step; to choreograph it, she matched the movement to Aretha Franklin’s “Think.” The result is a thrilling, spiraling dance that spins the couple until you feel their inhibitions melting.

Barnes is adept at stripping away artifice and creating a safe and unpretentious space for non-dancers to move, as she did with her company’s collaboration with Ira Glass (“Three Acts, Two Dances, One Radio Host”) and in “The Museum Workout,” which led spectators on a physical tour of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. You were sweating by the end.

Her experiments and the sense of community that she creates are palpable in moments of “Little Women” — namely that swirling beer hall dance, in which Ronan and Garrel are united by the joyful, intoxicating force of a turn. And then, just as quickly, it’s over. Dances bubble up and disappear in the movie, leaving behind glowing fragments of sensation.

Throughout, Gerwig celebrates her characters both in action and in stillness. In the final moment, Jo watches as her book is meticulously being made — with glue and a needle and thread — at the printer.

Here, as Jo chooses writing over marriage, Ronan performs the last dance. Holding the book, a satisfying shade of red, she squeezes her fingers around its cover with as much raw emotion as she poured into those ferocious, pounding jumps on the porch. It’s the simplest of motions, barely perceptible, but it synthesizes her pride and her grit. No touch is little in “Little Women,” where choreography is its sweeping force and where every movement counts.

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[smnews]

The tiny five-year-olds, dressed in pink tutus and bright, sequined shirts, were angelic as they sang in perfect chorus at the end of a half hour performance at the Changgwang kindergarten in downtown Pyongyang. Singing in harmony and clapping in unison, the smiling infants performed their catchy melody: “Our father is General Kim Il Sung…our home is our party…We envy nothing in the world.” Visitors to the modern and well-equipped boarding school leave with an image of idyllic childhood after seeing pupils light up at the chance to show the few foreigners allowed to enter the country their high-tech game machines, sports classes, ballet performances, and immaculate artwork. But the demonstrations also offer an insight into one of the more chilling aspects of North Korean life: a conditioning from infancy to express fawning devotion to the ruling Kim family. Three generations of the dynasty, from current leader Kim Jong-un, to his father Kim Jong-il, and war hero grandfather, Kim Il Sung, are venerated as deities and their personality cults permeate daily life with a suffocating effect. Kim Jong-il greets residents at one of Pyonyang's subway entrances Credit: Eddie Mulholland But while the two elder Kims are omnipresent - their portraits adorning the walls of every household, factory, school, even metro carriages - the young, current leader has so far resisted self-aggrandising monuments. However, in a move seen as an attempt to cement the 35-year-old as life-long ruler and to head off any possible leadership challenge, he is rapidly creating his own generational chapter of family mythology through tales of his own benevolence, superhuman talents and exemplary feats. According to some of the most outlandish claims, he learned to drive at age three and became a competitive sailor at nine. Last year, state-run media reported his ability to change the weather as he ascended the country’s sacred Mount Paektu through snow in black, leather shoes. Wedding groups gather at the Korean Revolution Museum to lay flowers at the statues of Kim Il-Sung and Kim Jong-Il Credit: Eddie Mulholland In drip feed of carefully controlled state-published images of the leader, Kim is frequently photographed imparting his wisdom to officials scribbling in notebooks or to emotionally-overcome workers. On visits around Pyongyang last week the Telegraph learned of his “expert instructions” on the design of the natural history museum and on how to improve football boots. At the maternity hospital, Mun Chang-un, a guide, attributed the introduction of the epidural injection to the leader’s sage advice.   Portraits of North Korea's former leaders even make their way into the subway carriages Credit: Eddie Mulholland The sculpting of future generations to ensure their unwavering faith in the wisdom of the country’s past and current “great leaders” is a top priority for the regime to keep its grip on power.  In Changgwang, some 800 children living apart from their working parents, sing of their wish for Kim Jong-un to visit. In a history class, one boy sprang from his seat. “I will uphold highly the great, respected Kim Jong-un,” he said to joyful clapping from his classmates.  At the school’s entrance, a floor to ceiling painting in soft pastels of Kim Il Sung surrounded by children, some sitting on his lap, frames him as a modern-day Jesus.   “Let the little children come to me..the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these,” says Jesus in the Gospel of St Matthew.  “Young people are the successors to the revolution, a shock brigade in building a thriving nation and masters who will shoulder the future of Kim Il Sung’s nation,” states the red book of Kim Jong Un Aphorisms, volume 1, page 52.  North Korea claims to be a non-religious state, but it has simply replaced religion with Kim family worship.  Citizens bow deeply to imposing wax sculptures of “Eternal President” Kim Il Sung, while the party faithful proudly wear a red lapel pin depicting him and his son. The absence of Kim Jong-un billboards and portraits is noticeable and unexplained, although he is still officially idolised.  Kim Jong-il and Kim Il-sung look down upon the population across the capital Credit: Eddie Mulholland He could be taking things slowly while moulding his own cult-like image around that of his grandfather, the most popular of the Kims, suggested Robert Kelly, a political science professor at South Korea’s Busan university. “He is famously styling himself after Kim Il Sung, with the hair and the weight.” He added: “It seems like the propaganda apparatus didn’t really miss a beat. Kim Jong-un has been given all the relevant titles, he’s been given the same majesty and superstitious exaggeration.” Objects Kim once touched are revered – a hospital bed he sat on, a chair he used when addressing textile workers, now encased in a plastic box. Every factory has its own story of his concern to improve workers’ lives.  At the model Jangchon vegetable farm on the city’s periphery, deputy manager Kim Yong-ho, 53, spoke of his joy when the “great Marshall” visited. “I felt really proud to have met such a great man as the leader of our country! He is like the sun to us,” he said.   Such is the depth of mass indoctrination that even the most innocuous everyday occurrences prompt spontaneous gratitude to the leader.  Student Kim Song-gwang won an orange balloon after kissing a dolphin during a Sunday afternoon performance at the aquarium. “I am really impressed by the love and care of our great Marshall Kim Jong-un that we are enjoying ourselves in this wonderful location,” he said, when asked about the event.  Portraits sit above the sofa at the home of Kim Chun-Son. All portraits must be sanctioned by the state before being hung  Credit: Eddie Mulholland But unlike his father and grandfather, Kim faces the challenge of keeping his people isolated from the global internet age to sustain his legendary status.  As a result, the flow of outside information is still deeply curtailed. Most citizens may only access the state intranet and its heavily censored content, while calls or emails to foreigners must be officially registered.  Foreign news is highly restricted. One educated Pyongyang resident recounted the details of the June Singapore summit between Kim and Donald Trump, the US president, but had not heard of the Thai cave rescue which gripped the world for two weeks. Pornography and Bibles are considered to be “evil methods of infiltration”, used to “destabilise society.” Individualism is discouraged, dissent is punished. In one of the more bizarre restrictions, men and women may not dye their hair, and should choose from approved styles, including the “butterfly”, “seagull” and “coiled bundle.” Korea experts question how long Kim can maintain such draconian control? Although popular for improving the economy and securing the North’s nuclear weapons, Kim still faced future challenges to his power, said Andrei Lankov, a professor at Seoul’s Kookmin university.  “In order to keep the country stable they have to keep it isolated. If they open it, it will be suicidal for the elite and even for many common people because if you have revolution in North Korea it’s going to be very messy and bloody,” he said.  Visitors to the Changgwang Kindergarten are presented with an idyllic image of childhood in North Korea Credit: Eddie Mulholland “Basically, you cannot maintain such a level of ideological mobilisation forever. Information is getting in. Kim Jong-un is now taking it very seriously, he is doing what he can to prevent people from learning too much about the outside world. But he cannot fully stop it.” In a sign that the secluded society is slowly opening up, Oh Song Chong, 25, the soldier who was shot while made a daring defection across the border last year, told Japan’s Sankei Shimbun paper this week that “probably 80% of my generation is indifferent and has no loyalty,” to Kim.  “I actually think that most North Koreans think the ideology is kind of bunk,” said Robert Kelly. “My sense is that it serves two purposes. Firstly, it’s a mobilisation tool and the second is that without the Kim cult then North Korea just becomes a poorer version of South Korea.” For now, the regime’s imperative remains shaping the minds of schoolchildren.  At the Mangyongdae schoolchildren’s palace, a surreal after-school club that hosts regular performances for tourists, students sang and executed flawless dance routines in praise of the nation’s achievements.  Ri Jin-hyang, a 12-year-old guide, wearing the red scarf of the Children’s Union, a political organisation linked to the ruling Workers’ Party, was unsure what to reply when asked what she knew about the UK.  But her response on America was immediate and scripted to perfection. “The US is the country that invaded us,” she said.

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[alaruine]

Someday I will disappear ..  and my character remain Happiness and hope are intertwined words, hope gives us a sense of happiness and always motivates us to be optimistic and to give and that there is plenty of time to do something or to achieve a dream and hope remains to forget the pain. Talk about happiness and hope Happiness does not inhabit the faces painted on the fate of the paintings of the great sorrows. In love and happiness no middle areas either stay or withdraw. We no longer ask for bread, no roof, no cover, and we will be satisfied with a little air, Excellency. Happiness is to perform your duty, and the harder the duty, the greater the happiness. Happiness has one form, and unhappiness comes in all shapes and sizes. Sacrifice is the gem of virility that creates happiness among humans. Do not look for the love of warriors by your unity, but about love for itself, it is like happiness intended for itself. Happiness is not waiting, it is clinging to gums and has a taste (effort and perseverance). Happiness sometimes, and perhaps always, does not require much, only some love, generosity, and a little freedom. The difference in happiness that is given to humans in nature is not in quantity. How man wants a lasting happiness and his own life will not last. Happiness is the strange feeling that comes to us when life's circumstances make us sad. Do not be afraid of your worries and concerns, the subject of talk ... because you create a barrier between you and happiness. Only your parents who help you with their thinking and their words bring happiness. We are happy when we do a great job and our hearts are full of satisfaction with what we have achieved. I should not trust in your heart, happiness and sorrow, and everything comes with joyful joy. Happiness does not import .. but from within us breed. Happiness lies in not recognizing the gravity of what we are. The history of cities, like the lives of human beings, alternates with non-stop moments of happiness and pain. The comfort that brings happiness is the comfort of the heart and soul .. The rest of the body only lead to death. The whole world is a false dream: love, money, health, happiness and glory. Happiness does not bring money. Suddenly ... the universe remains a question without a response sheet, trying to cheat from those who preceded you .. lost happiness. Pain does not deprive us of happiness, but it only shows us its value. Look for happiness every moment, if you do not find it outside you make it inside you, and look for science and not the truth. I love you, O happiness, Distorting your joys, Blessed in my heart, Who is ignorant of the coyness of jealousy alone, Death makes my jealousy alone. Few are those who can give happiness to others. Less are those who spread it to the masses. Happiness is not limited to material well-being. Happiness is above all sharing: sharing delights and bitterness. Happiness is freedom. It is greater than being associated with a restriction. It is known that the things that give us the greatest amount of happiness are the same that drives us to die. A person can fake the face of happiness but he can never fake the moments of sadness. It does not matter if you do not have any remaining happiness to give it to me, you still have your regret. We have inventively invented happiness. Happiness is a ball that we kick with our feet when we approach it and follow it when it moves away from us. Believe me: The pleasure of error in your free choice, outweighs the rightness of what was chosen for you. A great leader who saved his country is just as happy as a girl dancing her first dance. What is happiness ... are short moments where the boredom stops temporarily and the vacuum is relatively closed. Happiness moves towards you as soon as you start pumping happiness towards others. A moment of intense or fragile happiness can only be achieved through the details we find in our midst. Your life is made up of your thoughts. The happiness, the hatred, the worry, or the sincerity of a person stems from himself alone. The Quran taught us that looking forward to grace and happiness in both lives is one of the greatest male of God. The happiness is to drink a cup of tea .. with a friend .. in a moment of satisfaction. I hate to promote the happiness of the Achilles while people live their poverty bitterly. Sadness is a necessary element to be human, but happiness is an exceptional thing, its presence or lack does not affect our humanity. Worship is voluntary obedience, blended with a heartfelt love, based on a certainty knowledge, conducive to eternal happiness. Happiness crown on the heads of singles can only see married. What happiest one is when no one is deposed, and no one is waiting. The honorable man lives from his honor and virtue in happiness, as in kings in their palaces. I do not see the thrill of living except next to it, and I see the light of happiness only at the dawn of her smile. The most serious thing, my friend is simplifying matters and summarizing life in the point and happiness in Matlab. Happiness stems from within the human and not from outside .... Not the difference of our souls is the difference of happiness and misery, but different positions. What a person learns in ten days of pain is more than what he learns in ten years of happiness. Zug days of false happiness April lame begins with separation and ends with separation. We walked away as if parting pulled the rug of happiness from under our feet. I saw how a man dreams of happiness as misery awaits his vigilance, mocking his own fate with his cruel hands. Everyone is happy, but like the moon behind the winter clouds. Happiness does not come without cost, and without a heavy price as well. Despite the misery of our neighborhood, it is not free of things you can if you wish to bring happiness in the hearts tired. Who can prove that happiness was a reality, not a dream or a illusion? The nobility to live as we should without hope. We see the light of our candles, and it is .. its water .. burning, I am afraid of the little hope that .. die .. and suffocate. Hope is the revolution, the twitter of the free bird. Patience remains our medicine all .. And will remain love and hope our crutch. Only hope torments her .. Only hope that if she died, her other senses. The truth is hopeless, the truth is despair, like the dazzling light that blindens the light and illuminates the way. It is impossible to protect your children from the frustration or disappointment that they will encounter in their lives. Those who lost hope died twice. Whoever is gripping the pain of his life loses the hope of losing hope Matt Matters. H The extent of God on our illusions .. It does not deprive us the rest of hope, and the rest of the consolation .. But the mirage .. The best of the mirage is not that it tells us hope .. In the space of hope and space for life. The unhappiness that opens your eyes in the morning, you wake up from your sleep and there is no hope associated with the birth of the new day. Your products should not be offered to remain in the hope that customers will see them accidentally. No ... hope ... no way ... and stick to it. Life is the moment of joy, joy, hope and laughter, and inventory of sadness is nothing worth. If you were a frustrated pessimist, you would not sell others hope. Pink dreams would soon wither if they did not see hope in reality. Do not close your eyes so as not to lose hope and kill the butterflies. Hope and ideological will are not enough to make history. I was hoping .. I was dreaming .. But hope was not achieved and remained in mind just a dream of dreams. I have the hope that we are fighting to create a new order, not to maintain a system that we all know has collapsed and collapsed. Hope in my inner life is still alive. Death itself stands helpless in the hope of meeting. If our strength does not falter ... If that hope we live by is not impossible reality. The disappointments are more than the pain between us and between us is indelible and not restored. If man can not feel hope and be free of lust to become a generous king. I fear that the brother of your absence, so I lost my only part of hope, or my share of a little grace. The winds of despair have an untenable force, and the mountains of hope have unmatched strength. There is no difference between pain and hope except that the non-advanced in the first and delayed in the second. Let us take the impossible out of our dictionary and strengthen hope in our hearts to replace the pain that is being lost. Dream of sleep .. the memory of an event did not happen a dream of vigilance .. Hope an event may not happen. If I did not rise, if I did not rise up, if he did not rise, he would lift up the torch of hope in these darkness. Whoever said that despair and hope are against. We must always lower our expectations so as not to disappoint ... Catherine. How disappointing, it is by the same hope that great hope generates great disappointment. The fate of Jerusalem gives Muslims greater confidence and hope that the right will prevail over falsehood and tyranny. For the pain that does not die and the hope that is born from the womb of pain I live in pain with hope. The more painful the pain, the less hope I hope to know the answer .. See the pain of the dead death as it hurts us. No matter how long the dream is in my eyes and my long-term, I still hinted at the old ashes of hope. In the hustle of ugliness we may forget the beautiful things and in the whirlpools of frustration we may abandon hope. My right to exercise despair is at least your right to make hope, all his bliss, and I have found in my despair my happiness. We never live .... we are always hoping to live Voltaire. Hope sleeps like a bear between our ribs waiting for the spring to rise. Living with tragedy means that it is the only way to live life, without hope. How long will that lover be suspended between hope and hope. The people do not meet in a hall of halls, hope is in the street. In the dark of the race I was loved and the others thought of my cry for victory and they lost hope in first place. Lying kills everything and patience, hope and even joy. Great hope always comes true; when principals cling to the truth, patience and struggle. Is it a last-ditch attempt to make hope, even if it seems naïve? Forgetting to train imagination to respect reality by transcendence and to keep self-hope incomplete from tomorrow. My hope comes and goes .. but I will not deposit it. Do what the prisoners do What the unemployed do: We raise hope. Hope is the height of despair ... my friend is a bit surprised ... he is very upset ... the hope itself is painful when no one else remains. Work and hope are two ride departed to God. I stood on the corner of sadness waiting for hope, and looked from afar, but hope comes with patience and good faith in God. Recognizing the truth is the hope of reforming the course. The people of hope are not satisfied with disappointment. Hope in my life like energy is inexhaustible and not created but turns from one form to another; because trust in God does not stop. I can not swallow the longing, the nostalgia and the words, and I will scatter them here in the hope that you will receive you one day. Poor with the laughter of the cuddly duck and the sweet spirit of her knife from the knife and the warmth of his heart and hope. Read more on the theme of the web: Life Quotes #Life #Quotes #Top #Famous #Best #Time #Collection #Love #Positive #Cute #Beauty #Quotes #Art #Romance #Amazing #Flowers #Winter #painteditmyself #Landscape #relationships #coloringbook #Naturephotography #Life #painting #Sunset #wedding #Quote Famous Quotes The Best Quotes of All Time Famous Quotes Inspirational Quotes Motivational and Inspirational Quotes Collection Love Quotes

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