#my beautiful daughter shes banned in all public spaces

[pressington]

i miss my daughter. i miss her a lot

[keanureevesisbae]

Mister Cavill, your dog is kinda fat - Chapter 2

Summary: Veterinarian Olivia Tran has zero time for bullshit. After becoming a mom at age twenty three, the one thing she wants is a good life for her daughter Vanessa. Her ex didn’t want anything to do with her nor the baby and she decided that man are officially banned out of her life. But then she meets Henry Cavill at her clinic and her ban slowly starts to crumble apart. Henry on the other hand is looking for one thing: a family. And when he meets Olivia Tran, he finds just that.

Henry Cavill x Olivia Tran (ofc)

Warnings: Mentions of vomit and blood.

Wordcount: 4.5k

A/N: Yesterday was like a dream, seeing the sweetest comments flood in. A big thank you to everyone xx If you still want to be on the taglist, it’s never too late, just tell me 🤗

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There is one thing that Henry has always wanted in life and that was getting married and having a family of his own. Growing up with four brothers, he always envisioned himself being surround by a beautiful wife, with lots of kids.

But he has reached the age of thirty seven and though he hasn’t got a lot to worry about—his biological clock isn’t ticking—he thought that by now, he’d at least have a wife and one kid.

Now he only has Kal, his loyal canine that he adores with all his heart. He takes a sip of his beer, as he watches some lame romantic comedy. It’s Friday night and as a single man, he could be on a date of course, but his profession as an actor, makes it even harder to date.

Most women are either in it for the fame and his money.

He witnessed his relationships crumble apart and now he is back being single, sitting on the couch with his dog, staring at a television screen. Last year he was thinking about starting a family, but he pushed it aside, enjoying his life as an actor. The movies he did were going great, but after the latest movie he did…

It was kind of a flop. It didn’t meet up to the expectations of the public and since that moment, he has been living a quite boring life, not thinking about taking any other offers. He wakes up, walks Kal and thinks about ways to meet the love of his life.

Henry isn’t so sure anymore about his acting career.

His mind wanders during the movie. He thinks about a future with a wife and kids. He can already see it happening: he would roll over in bed, wrap his arms around the love of his life, to slowly wake her up, before their kids would rush into the room and jump on their bed. He can imagine his beautiful wife sitting on the kitchen counter, with a few mini versions of them sitting next to her, as he is cooking for the entire family.

Henry rubs his face, fatigue kicking in. He shuts off the television and gives the big bear a kiss on top of his head. ‘You want a little something to eat before you go to bed?’ he asks Kal.

Kal wags his tail as an answer, accompanied with a bark.

Henry can’t help but chuckle.

It can pretty hard training Kal, but with the right amount of snacks, this dog can listen to him. Sometimes he even thinks that Kal can read his mind.

They go to the kitchen and he gives him a little kibble before he sleeps. He opens up the newest Doggy Herb bag and notices a slight change in color, but he shrugs it off. He bought Doggy Herb since the day he got Kal, so maybe there is more meat in this one that in the previous ones. He throws some in a bowl and watches as Kal gulps it all up.

The two of them walk up the stairs when Kal is done eating and he gets himself ready for the night. Henry stares at the sink in the bathroom, noticing the space that is left, because he doesn’t have anyone to share it with.

Before he can feel totally sorry for himself, he spits out the toothpaste and walks to his bedroom. He strips down to his underwear and steps into the bed, Kal joining him on the sheets.

He watches Kal falling asleep almost instantly and hopefully Henry can do the same.

But he can’t.

His mind keeps racing, constantly racing. The terrible reviews of his latest movie, the way how women kept saying how they want to have his kids, but none of them is good enough. He wants to fall in love with someone, someone who understands him, who loves him for who he is. A woman that he has an instant connection with. A woman where he can be himself.

When he does fall asleep, Henry dreams about a faceless woman, who holds onto his hand, as they watch their little kids running around in the yard, Kal barking as he runs in between the giggling kids.

That’s all he wants.

Henry is about to give his faceless wife a kiss, when he wakes up from hurling sounds that definitely aren’t his. He opens his eyes, turns on the light on his nightstand, to see Kal puking out his kibble on the new carpet.

Great, exactly what he needs. This is why he can’t have new stuff.

Henry gets out of bed and sits next to his dog. ‘Bud, you okay?’ he asks, but Kal’s legs give out and he collapses to the floor. His eyes are still open, but he whimpers and his breathing isn’t going as steady as it normally is.

‘No, no, no, Kal,’ Henry says, panic dripping through every word he speaks. He tries to find his phone as quickly as possible and Googles ‘Animal Clinics London’. He calls three different clinics, but none are picking up, not even the one that he usually goes to. He sees one that is an hour away, but in all honesty, Henry would arrange a private jet to fly them off to a vet that did pick up the fucking phone and he didn’t even care if he had to travel to another continent.

The phone rings twice, before he hears: ‘Animal Clinic Westside, doctor Olivia Tran, how may I help you?’

The woman sounds friendly, that’s a good start. ‘Hello, I’m terribly sorry for calling at this hour, but my dog is vomiting and I see some blood in it. He collapsed and is breathing really heavily and I don’t know what to do.’

‘Sir, it’s okay,’ she says. ‘Did your dog eat anything out of the ordinary today?’

He doesn’t even know for sure. ‘Not that I know of.’

‘You think it’s possible for you to come to the clinic? I’d like to see the dog.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Henry says.

‘I hope it’s not too much to ask, but could you take some of the vomit with you? Especially the part with some blood. I’d like to check it.’

Doctor Olivia Tran could’ve asked him to bring three human kidneys and he’d bring it, anything for his Kal. ‘I’ll bring it with me, of course.’

‘What kind of breed is your dog, sir?’

‘An American Akita. His name is Kal.’ Henry strokes the fur of Kal, blinking away the tears.

‘I’ll be at the clinic in about forty minutes, mister…’

Henry picks up on what she’s trying to do. ‘Cavill and I can be at the clinic in about an hour.’

They hang up shortly afterwards and Kal lets out a soft whimper. ‘Hang in there, bud,’ he tells the dog. ‘You can’t die on me. You really can’t.’

≫≫≪≪

With a weak Kal in his arms, Henry rushes into the clinic, only to discover that doctor Tran is already waiting for him. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he certainly wasn’t expecting her. He is mesmerized by her dark brown eyes, her perfect lips and her hair that’s in a messy bun, a few strands framing her face.

This woman is beyond beautiful. He can’t believe that someone like her is even real. The way she tilts her head, while she scans him shamelessly from top to bottom, makes him feel all sorts of things.

He concludes he has been single for too long.

‘Mister Cavill?’ she asks, causing him to snap back into reality.

‘Yes,’ he hastily says. ‘That’s me.’

‘Follow me.’ She walks in front of him, into the first examination room. Her fingers tap on the table and he gently places his dog on the hard surface. She strokes the fur on top of Kal’s head. ‘Let’s see what’s with you,’ she says, putting on some gloves. ‘You brought the samples?’

‘Yes, yes, I did,’ he says, clearing his throat. He shouldn’t be mesmerized by the vet in front of him, but he can’t stop staring at her. He hands her the bag and she sets it aside, while she opens Kal’s eyes, looking into them.

Before he can say something else, he hears small footsteps echo into the room. ‘Can I watch?’

Henry looks up, to see a small girl standing in the doorway. This must be the daughter of doctor Tran, because that girl is the spitting image of the woman standing in front of him. The doctor does look young though, almost too young to have a daughter who is at least five years old.

He needs to shake the thought of the doctor off of him, he tells himself. She has a daughter, so there is a plausible chance she’s taken.

Doctor Tran doesn’t look up from her clipboard, while she’s scribbling something down. ‘If mister Cavill doesn’t mind.’

The young girl looks up at him, two hopeful eyes meeting his. ‘No, of course not,’ he says, his heart melting at the sight of the hopeful look in her eyes.

The little girl walks over to the examination table, dragging a stool with her. She stands next to Henry and even when she’s standing on it, she can barely peek over the edge of the table. ‘Mommy,’ she asks, confirming that the little girl is indeed doctor Tran her daughter, ‘should I introduce myself?’

The doctor nods, while she checks the vomit, scrunching her nose. ‘That’s the polite thing to do, sweetheart.’

The girl holds out a tiny hand and says: ‘My name is Vanessa Tran.’

‘Hi Vanessa,’ Henry says in a soft voice, before holding onto her hand, that nearly disappears in his. ‘My name is Henry Cavill and this is Kal.’

Doctor Tran looks up from the bag of vomit. ‘Henry Cavill?’ she asks. ‘Isn’t there an actor whose name is Henry Cavill?’

‘Yeah, there is.’ Henry chuckles, feeling a bit awkward, but also amused that she doesn’t recognize him. It’s nice to be unrecognizable, even if it’s for a short amount of time. ‘That actor would be me.’

Her eyes widen. ‘Oh,’ she says, but she can’t seem to find the right words to say.

‘Mommy, is this man famous?’ Vanessa asks, while not breaking eye contact with Henry. The little girl blinks her eyes, almost in disbelieve that someone famous is standing next to her.

Doctor Tran pulls herself together. ‘Yes, sweetheart, he plays in some movies. He even played Superman.’

Vanessa widens her eyes as well and yet again she looks just like her mother. ‘Wow, Superman is here.’ She starts to giggle, a sound that Henry already adores. ‘So, if you are Superman, you are really strong.’

‘He is,’ doctor Tran says, placing the vomit samples aside. ‘He carried his dog inside.’ Henry can’t help but beam with pride as he takes in the compliment from the doctor.

‘Wow,’ Vanessa says again. She holds out her arms and asks him if he can lift her up. Henry looks over at the doctor, who smiles and simply nods, a non verbal sign of consent.

Henry lifts the little girl up in his arms and she wraps an arm around his neck.

‘I can’t wait to tell miss Sue that I met Superman.’

He can’t help but laugh, the little girl and her comments already making him feel less scared about what can happen to Kal. ‘Doctor Tran,’ he finally says, ‘is everything okay with Kal?’

‘What kind of kibble do you give him?’ she asks, while she is checking his heartbeat.

‘Doggy Herb,’ he answers, while Vanessa is tugging his curls, pulling on one strand until it’s straight, before letting it go and watching it curl together again. ‘Why?’

She looks up. ‘Well, then the news hasn’t reached you yet. We’ve had multiple cases of dogs who started to vomit after they ate the Doggy Herb kibble, some of them included blood. The manufacturer changed something in the ingredients and now lots of dogs have severe reactions to it.’

This woman demands all of his attention, without even trying. She is absolutely breathtaking and if she wasn’t talking about his sick dog, nor had a daughter, he’d ask her out.

‘Oh.’ Henry feels guilty. ‘I thought there was something different about it. I opened a new bag today.’

‘How much did you gave him?’

‘A little bit, at around eleven,’ he answers.

She smiles and without her telling him something, he already feels more at ease. ‘Then you have nothing to worry about. I’m going to put an IV on him, so he can rehydrate a bit. After that I’m going to give him some medicine and I’ll give you something to give him at home. In about three hours, you can take him home with you again.’

‘Really?’

She nods. ‘Really, sir. If you could place him on the floor? That would be easier for Kal and me.’

‘I’m sorry, miss Vanessa,’ he says, before he gently places the girl back on her feet. He shouldn’t feel this desperate need to impress the doctor. However, he can’t help but flex his muscles a little bit, as he carries the dog to the corner of the examination room.

‘Wow, mommy, he is really strong,’ Vanessa says.

‘No wonder he was Superman,’ doctor Tran says. She looks through some drawers and says: ‘I figure you want to wait here.’

‘I do, I do,’ he says.

‘If you want, you can grab something to drink around the corner. Maybe a coffee will help you stay awake.’

Does he look that miserable? Does he look that tired?

‘I can tell you how the machine works,’ Vanessa says. ‘I know how it works.’

‘That would be nice,’ he admits. Vanessa takes ahold of his hand and tugs him with her. He follows the little girl and he sees himself in the reflection of a mirror that’s right next to the coffee machine.

He does look miserable. His eyes are still red from the bit of crying he did when he drove to the clinic and the bed hair looks like multiple crows have been nesting there.

‘My mommy is going to make Kal better,’ Vanessa says, before grabbing a paper cup. ‘You don’t have to worry.’

‘I wasn’t worried,’ he tells the young girl, but the second it leaves his lips, he realized he only said that to impress the doctor. God, he is lying to a little girl, just to impress her mother, who isn’t even in the same room. For all he knows, the woman is married and the girl’s dad is at home.

But, come to think of it, why would she take her daughter to work then?

Vanessa starts to frown and she takes a step to the side, so she’s standing in the doorway. ‘Mommy, can I tell Superman he is lying and that you’re not supposed to lie?’

He can hear doctor Tran laughing. ‘You can tell Superman that, sweetheart.’

Henry feels a little finger poking his thigh. ‘Superman, you are lying and you’re not supposed to lie. My mommy says that you should tell the truth, especially about your feelings.’

He is genuinely impressed. This young girl is really in touch with her own feelings and can verbalize it. That’s extraordinary for someone her age, he thinks to himself. Doctor Tran is doing a good job with raising her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says to Vanessa. ‘I’ll try to be better.’

‘You should, you are Superman after all.’

He has a paper cup filled with coffee and they accompany Kal and the doctor again. She hands Vanessa a juice box and says she needs to fill in some paperwork, but that the two of them can keep Kal company.

Vanessa and Henry stare at Kal, while Vanessa is slowly stroking his fur. It’s obvious that she’s growing more and more tired with every passing second, but she is desperately trying to stay awake. It’s really endearing, if Henry’s being honest and really not helping with his own baby fever.

‘My mommy is also a superhero,’ Vanessa says. ‘Not like Superman of course, but she always saves animals.’

‘Well,’ Henry says, unintentionally loud enough for doctor Tran to hear it, ‘your mom is an even better hero than Superman.’

That confuses her, because she frowns. ‘Why?’

‘Because I play Superman. It’s pretending. Your mom is not pretending.’

He watches Vanessa nod, as she is taking in what he just said. ‘Yeah, you are right. My mommy is a better hero.’ She sighs deeply. ‘Mister Henry, do you have kids?’

God, the girl is barely five or six years old, but she surely knows how to wrench his heart. ‘I don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Why not what?’

She rolls her eyes annoyed, probably thinking he is a slow one for not understanding. ‘Why don’t you have kids?’

He clears his throat. ‘I don’t have a wife,’ he says. ‘And you need two people for that.’

Her mouth falls open. ‘Well, my mommy doesn’t have a husband. I’ve always wanted a daddy,’ she admits with bitter sweet honesty. ‘But my real daddy didn’t want me.’

‘Enough, Vanessa,’ he hears doctor Tran say in a stern voice from the other room.

‘But mommy…’

‘No, enough. Don’t talk about that with strangers.’

‘But this man is not a stranger mom. He is Superman, he can help us.’

Doctor Tran walks into the room, an annoyed look on her face. She doesn’t say anything, just stares at her daughter, raising an eyebrow in the process.

Vanessa pouts. ‘Sorry.’

The doctor leaves the room again and Henry asks Vanessa about school, hoping the kid doesn’t start about her estranged father again, though he wants to know more about that and it is a convenience: doctor Tran is single from what she just told him.

He finds out that she is six and can already read what’s on the posters in the examination room. Even though this kid isn’t his own, he can’t help but feel proud, when she recites the entire alphabet and shows him that she can count to a hundred.

But all while she’s doing that, fatigue is catching up with her and eventually she falls asleep against his arm. He carefully lifts her up, hoping that he doesn’t wake her up and walks to the room where doctor Tran is currently doing some paperwork.

‘Oh, she’s asleep,’ she says when she notices Henry standing in the doorway.

‘Yeah, she was pretty tired.’

She smiles, before holding out her arms. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she says, as she holds her daughter close to her body. She leaves the room and probably will tuck her daughter in somewhere. He sits next to his dog, looks at him, looking less and less fatigued and more like his own happy go lucky self.

‘Kal is looking better,’ she says, while she crouches down next to the dog. Kal stares at her, almost with heart eyes. ‘I recommend you switch to something like Purina One, or something like that,’ she tells him. ‘Doesn’t matter, everything but Doggy Herb.’

‘Is it deadly?’ he asks. ‘The other kibble.’

She shakes her head. ‘Well, no, wait, that’s a lie. If you give him lots of it, it can be fatal.’

‘I feel so stupid.’

The doctor looks at him. ‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘From the looks of it, you are a great owner.’ She checks the bag with fluids and says: ‘I want him on the scale for a second.’ She removes the IV from him, but from the looks of it, Kal is too tired to move.

‘Why on the scale?’

‘To determine how much of the medicine he needs,’ she tells him. ‘We don’t want to OD him, do we?’

It’s almost a cruel joke, but he can’t help but laugh. This woman is quite something and he is seriously intrigued.

Henry is yet again going out of his way to impress the beautiful doctor, but her facial expressions don’t give away much. She turns on the scale and writes down what she sees. ‘You can place him there,’ she says, pointing near the entrance. ‘Maybe the view will help him a bit. He should get moving in about half an hour.’ He places his furry companion near the door and Kal can move his head up, staring to the silent outside world, all still too deep asleep. When he looks at the doctor again, she taps the screen of the scale. ‘Now I know how much you both weigh, but I need Kal’s weight.’

Why is he feeling insecure? She’ll probably know that his weight is mostly muscle, that is shows his hard work. He steps on the scale and watches her scribble something on the paper. When Henry steps off, he notices her frown. ‘What?’ he asks.

‘This only confirms what I thought.’

‘What?’ he asks again.

‘Mister Cavill, your dog is kinda fat.’

She could’ve slapped in across his cheek and he wouldn’t be as surprised as he is now. Kal is fat? ‘Excuse me,’ he says in a defensive tone, crossing his arms in front of his buffed out chest. ‘My dog isn’t fat.’

Doctor Tran doesn’t seem impressed by his facade at all. ‘He is,’ she tells him. ‘An average American Akita weights between the forty and sixty kilos. Your dog weighs seventy kilos, while he should be between the fifty and sixty kilos.’

‘It’s muscle.’ Geez, he never thought he could get this defensive.

The doctor tries to hide a smile and her overall amusement, but she is failing miserably. ‘It’s fat, I already felt that back in the examination room.’

‘But how is he too fat?’

She shrugs. ‘You feed him too much, I guess. I’m not there with you when you feed him.’

‘I give him the prescribed amount of kibble.’ And a bit more, but his dog can’t possible get fat from that, right?

‘Do you train Kal?’

He nods. ‘I do.’

‘And do you give him snacks?’

He searches though his pocket and finds a chunk that he usually gives Kal during training.

‘How many do you give him?’ she asks, studying the snack as she takes it from him.

‘About twelve of those during a training session and I do those about two or three times.’

’No wonder he is fat.’

Does the doctor need to be this crude? His dog nearly died, could she show him some compassion?

‘Mister Cavill, this is the size of a pound,’ she tells him. She breaks it into four smaller bits and adds: ‘Dogs don’t care about the size of their snack. Instead giving him one of those, giving him a fourth, isn’t something he’ll notice.’

Henry sighs deeply, embarrassed of his defensiveness. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘For getting defensive?’ she guesses. ‘Oh no, it’s totally understandable. Someone is saying something about someone you care about. But, sir, it’s my job to make sure Kal is the healthiest he can be. Just give him seventy five percent of what you would normally give him, give him tons of walks and don’t give him the entire snack, just a quarter will do.’

He nods, taking the tips in. ‘Thank you, doctor Tran.’

≫≫≪≪

Kal is finally feeling better and Vanessa has woken up again. She is hanging around Kal’s neck, giving him tons of kisses. Kal doesn’t seem to mind, because he continues to lick Vanessa’s face when he gets the chance. Henry knew that his loyal dog was good with children, but this is on another level.

‘I’m sorry that I called,’ he says to doctor Tran, who is leaning against the counter, her white coat hanging open, revealing a thick looking sweater.

‘Why? Your dog was sick and you called a vet. It’s okay, I knew what I was doing when I sighed up for the job.’ She looks at her daughter and adds: ‘Besides, I think I have a very tired, but very happy six year old for the weekend. She got to pet a lovely dog and met Superman. Honestly, I should thank you for calling our clinic.’

Henry lets his gaze drop on the petite doctor that is standing next to her. He doesn’t believe in love at first sight, but he certainly does believe in attraction at first sight. It has been a long time since Henry met a woman like doctor Olivia Tran. She blatantly told him his dog was fat and told her daughter that she could say to “Superman” that he was lying. She is definitely something else and he hates it that he has to leave now.

‘Well, thank you,’ he says, ‘for helping out Kal. I don’t know what I would’ve done if he didn’t make it.’ He holds out his hand and the doctor leaves him hanging for a good second, before she places her slender hand in his, adding: ‘It’s my job, mister Cavill.’

‘Henry, please, call me Henry.’

She nods. ‘Okay, Henry, I’ll see you in a few weeks, for his yearly shots he needs to have according to his passport and we have to check if you are a strict enough owner, because this little fatty needs to lose some weight.’ She lets go of his hand, before scratching the Akita behind his ears.

‘Mommy, can we have a dog?’

‘No, angel, we can’t,’ she says. ‘So give Kal one last kiss and say goodbye to Henry, okay?’

Vanessa does what her mother tells her to do, because she gives Kal a kiss on his nose and walks over to Henry, who crouches down, so he is about the same height as the little girl. ‘It was very nice to meet you, Vanessa,’ Henry says.

She wraps her arms around his broad shoulders. ‘It was nice to meet you too, mister Henry,’ she whispers, still a bit groggy. She lets go of him and walks to her mom, holding onto her hand tightly.

‘Thank you, again.’

‘Of course,’ doctor Tran smiles. ‘And I’ll see you in a few weeks.’

He steps out of the clinic with Kal and sighs deeply. This was quite something, he thinks to himself. As he walks towards his car, he looks over his shoulder, only to see Vanessa being picked up by her mother, balancing on her hip. The two of them wave to him and he smiles, holding out his hand and waving back.

When he gets into his car, Kal sitting next to him, he lets out a groan. He shouldn’t have a crush on this vet, he really shouldn’t.

But Henry keeps thinking about how doctor Tran stared at him, how Vanessa hugged him and how his dog seemed to be at ease with them, loving the doctor from the looks of it and adoring the attention Vanessa gave him.

He forces himself to stop thinking about this, because for all he knows, this is the last time he would see either of them. He doesn’t even know if his favorite veterinarian will be helping him when he gets back in a few weeks for Kal’s shots. ‘Forget about it, Henry,’ he tells himself sternly. ‘You’re not a teenager anymore, with a crush on someone he can’t date anyway.’

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[jettison-my-gift]

It looks like the UK Government wants to put restrictions on gender-neutral loos (at least i think that what this page is saying, it’s written in a very inaccessible way) please if you have a moment read the page and send an email to the link at the bottom telling them why it’s BS. Gender-neutral loos are so important for trans people we need more of them, not for them to be banned or whatever the government is planning I’ve put a copy of the Email I sent below the cut if you need any ideas for talking points (don’t copy my email directly tho because it’ll get marked as spam and they won’t read it) thank you so much for taking the time to help if you can, or just sharing helps too. thanks :) 

To whom it may concern,

This webpage sounds an awful lot like the government wants to put a ban on gender neutral loos. If that is the case then you'll be damaging more people then you'll be helping. The page reads "In recent years, there has been a trend towards the removal of well-established male-only/female-only spaces when premises are built or refurbished, and they have often been replaced with gender-neutral toilets. This places women at a significant disadvantage." I fail to see how this is the case. Gender neutral toilets tend to be individual cubicles with stronger walls and locks than most gendered loos, the idea that women won't have access to facilities for their "particular health and sanitary needs" is ridiculous, as of course gender-neutral loos would contain these facilities. Women wouldn't be less safe in gender-neutral loos, as already stated, these loos are strong individual cubicles, and let's be honest if a man was despicable enough to want to harass women in loos there is literally nothing stopping him for just entering the "women's loos." People building these toilets should obviously take into consideration things like queue length and would thus plan accordingly and instal the needed number of cubicles. The queues for "Women's loos" can already be so unbelievably long that making toilets gender-neutral would probably actually help this as more cubicles would exist. 

It's incredibly important to acknowledge why such facilities are so necessary. Single fathers with young daughters often struggle to find places to use the loo, of course a man can't enter the women's loos to keep his daughter safe while she uses the toilet, it is also understandable why he might not want to take her into the men's loos. After that what choices are they left with? gender-neutral loos would be the easiest solution to this problem. Of course this is just an example but the same line of thinking can be applied to other scenarios. There are many reasons why people of different genders may need to enter the toilet together but don't want to use up the disabled loo (eg different gender young friends who are scared to get separated, a women looking after a physically sound but mentally unwell man, or a man looking after a physically sound but mentally unwell woman, a family with many kids of different ages and genders who doesn't want to split up in a place they aren't familiar with, the list goes on)

Of course we are yet to even mention the elephant in the room and the reason I fear these suggestions have been put forward in the first place: Transgender people. Did you know that trans people have a higher rate of urinary tract infections and kidney issues then the general public? mostly because they find themselves scared to use public loos, so instead "hold it" causing real physical harm to their bodies. Trans people are often faced with a difficult decision when it comes to using the loo, either use the correct loo, the one that matches their gender, or use the wrong loo that matches the gender they were assigned at birth. Both these options can be scary and dangerous for the individual involved. Imagine, if you will, a trans woman, she is a woman and as such should be comfortable to use the ladies' loos. However if she doesn't look 100% like society expects cis-women to look then the other women in the toilets may call her out, verbally abuse her, or even just give her awkward looks, all of which aren't fun when you just what to use the loo. But if she chooses to use the men's loos instead, looking and dressing like the woman she is.. well you can imagine how that could potentially be worse. Trans men could have similar issues, using the men's loos would be ideal since they are men, but if the other men misread the man in question as a woman then he could experience some unpleasantries, likewise he can't really use the women's loos as we've already established: men just walking into the women's toilets is.. frowned upon, to say the least. All of this applies to any individual who doesn't fit society's expectation of what a person of a specific gender should look like. I've even had some butch lesbians tell me that they are sometimes scared to use the women's loos because people occasionally mistake them for men. And it's important to remember that not everyone can fit into the category of either "man" or "woman." Non-binary and Intersex people exist and finding toilets to use can be even more stressful to them. I myself am non-binary, and people read me as both a man and a woman, I can have one person call me "sir," only for another person to call me "ma'am" not 20 minutes later. I'm scared to use the women's loos in case the women in there read me as a man and feel uncomfortable, but likewise I'm scared to use the men's just in case I'm read as a woman! finding a gender-neutral toilet is a real life-line to me. Sometimes if I see a gender-neutral loo I'll use it even if I don't need to, because I don't know if and when I'll find another one. For all trans and gender-nonconforming individuals, gender-neutral toilets are so incredibly needed, we even have apps where we can tell each other where the nearest gender-neutral loo is, because sometimes for trans people the choice is: pee in a gender-neutral toilet, or don't pee at all (and then maybe get a urinary tract infection)

I hope this all counts as "evidence" as to why cis-people and trans-people alike are benefited by gender-neutral toilets, and I sincerely pled that you not only don't ban gender-neutral loos but instal more of them. 

also: "signage should be clear, and should not seek to avoid the use of gender-specific language unnecessarily as this causes public confusion."  Is a very concerning statement, it sounds like people are making efforts to include transgender people in their signage and you want them to stop. Acknowledging and including trans and non-binary folks is undeniably a good thing. Does it cause public confusion? or does it just force people to think about how gender might not be as black and white as they've been led to believe? Making people recognise gender diversity is a beautiful positive movement, and I see no reason why it should be stopped.    

[lavenderbones22]

Angel-  Ben Hardy

Summary: His girl is one of the hottest model's in the world and she's about to walk the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. Incredibly aroused, Ben must wait until the show's over before he can see her and show her how he truly feels.

Requested: 'yeaa i think tumblr did eat my request >;( i sent u a few days ago about a ben hardy smut ; his girlfriend is a Victoria Secret model and he's at a show & ya noe'

Word Count: 3548

A/N So sorry about the absence guys, hope this makes up for it! 

------------

I finally felt like I was being recognised for all of my hard work over so many years. My career had indeed reached it pinnacle; this was it, my defining moment.

My diet though leading up to the big day was extremely restrictive. I certainly wasn't a stranger to intense diet and workout regimes but this was unlike anything I had done before.

I could take the food restrictions and the workouts three times a day but the restriction I and not to mention my boyfriend Ben, struggled with the most was the ban on sex a week prior to the show. I had no idea why it was, apparently it was something that had been set in place since the very first Victoria's Secret show ,so unwilling to create a stir, I nodded and accepted what had to be done.

Of course, breaking the news to Ben was another story as our sex life was above average I guess you could say. We had sex pretty much every day, sometimes more if we were feeling particularly frisky.

Needless to say, when one of us was away working things were pretty tough.

"You're joking!" His brows were raised so high on his forehead that I thought they were about to be launched into space.

I bit my lip nervously, shaking my head. "'fraid not," I responded.

"W-what!?" He tried to spit his words out. "W-why?"

I shrugged my shoulders, tying my hair into a bun on the top of my head. "It's just what they said." I informed him. "I didn't want to question it."

"I can't believe you didn't!"

"Ben I wasn't going to jeopardise anything just to ask why I can't have sex with my boyfriend for a week," I crossed my arms defensively over my chest, shifting my weight onto one hip. "This is my dream come true."

Ben sighed, feeling bad for catechising me. "Baby," his voice cooed, stepping closer and pulling me into him. "I didn't mean it like that."

I looked up at him and into his bright, green eyes. "Believe me when I say it's going to be as difficult for me as it is for you," I said quietly with a smirk.

"That's where you're wrong my love. I have to watch you strut around on that runway half naked," he kissed underneath my jawline, down along my neck. "I'm going to be hard the whole time," his words were muffled against the heat of my skin. "I just know it."

***

BEN'S POV

Today was the big day.

I didn't get to see my girl for long before the show. She was up at 5am. I was barely awake as she pecked me on the cheek and said she'd see me later on. I think there were soft calls of 'I love you' but whose to know.

I couldn't wait to see her. I'd gone for an all black suit with a sheer black shirt underneath that was her favourite. I couldn't wait for her to rip it all off of me later on.

Arriving at the venue, I was stopped a few times for quick interviews as well as chat's with friends of hers. We'd been together for three and a half years so I was definitely used to all of the attention she received but sometimes, and I knew that tonight was certainly going to be one, I struggled with it all; especially when it came from the men.

I never really considered myself a jealous guy. I wasn't quick to anger nor did I ever have a lack of trust in the partner's I'd chosen. But when you're faced with a situation where your girlfriend is the object of many men around the world's wildest fantasies; it makes you feel some kind of way. I'd come across posts online, heard people talking in public unaware of who I was and even had men say to my face how much they'd love to spend a night with my girl.

So no, I wasn't jealous. I just didn't put up with having my girlfriend spoken and written about like she was some sort of public possession.

Sat in the audience next to her mum and sister, I was beyond excited for the show to start. Not having to wait long, the lights went out and The Weeknd came out to open the show.

She was the fourth girl out and the breath got knocked out of my body the minute my eyes landed on her. She wore a black lacy thong that laced all the way up to her belly button, her D cup breasts looking phenomenal in a match lacy, black bra. A sparkled long sleeved top that cut off just above her breasts covered her; I'd never been so horny in my twenty eight years of existence.

"Fuck," I breathed out. Her mum, who I was sat next to, looked over at me smiley widely-proud.

"She's beautiful," she sighed happily as she grabbed my hand in hers. "You must be so proud of your girl!" Her eyes that were identical to her daughters looked at me, tears were brimming in them.

"I really am. You must be so proud of your girl too!" I said back to her, squeezing her hand in support. I got along with her family extremely well, they treated me like the son they never had.

"Like you wouldn't believe Ben!" She said before she got up on her feet, cheering out her girls name. I laughed, clapping and using my fingers to whistle loudly as she strutted to the end of the runway, smiled widely whilst doing a cute little pose and turned around walking back. On her way back The Weeknd held his hand out to her which she took and did a little twirl under. Fuck, she was adorable. I loved her more than anything, I was so fucking proud of my angel.

Once the show was over, we had to attend the after party. I knew she had to get changed for it since I'd sat around whilst she had many dress fittings. Whilst waiting on her I took in my surroundings. It was mostly media. So many of them. The coverage of this thing was crazy, I'd never seen anything like it.

The second I spotted her, my heart starting thumping heavily.

"Ben!" She squeaked, running up and wrapping her arms around my neck and hugging me.

"You did so well baby," I spoke into her ear, pulling back and kissing her hard. "I'm so fucking proud of you." She was in a pink Victoria's Secret robe, looking exceptionally adorable.

"Thank you!" Her energy was palpable; she was like sunshine. She left my arms and went over to her mum and sister who had been chatting to a few people. Unfortunately they weren't able to attend the after party so it was just me and my girl. Not that I was complaining of course.

"I'm just going to get changed into my dress for the party," she told me with a quick peck to my lips. "Won't be long."

***

REGULAR POV

I was on such a high. The show was over, a total success, I hadn't fallen and I was free to finally have sex with my boyfriend.

I knew Ben was raring to go the second his skin touched mine, I could feel the heat and arousal flowing through him. I think if my mum and sister hadn't been standing right there he would have whispered multiple dirty things in my ear. I wished he had anyway.

I changed into a silver, floor length dress that was 90 percent see through. It had chains that went around my chest and my neck, my tits nearly falling out. But I felt a million dollars in it and I knew it would make Ben loose his mind.

He hadn't expected me when I wrapped my hands around his mid section from behind, my fingers crawling along his abs. He was looking tasty as fuck tonight. The bastard knew how much I loved that shirt on him.

"I'm back," I sung, kissing his back. He turned around so quick I nearly fell over, his strong hands grabbing my upper arms to steady me, while his eyes wandered my scantily clad body.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Are you sure that's legal?" His green eyes, nearly black from his hugely dilated pupils, lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

I nodded, biting my bottom lip. "In most places..."

He cupped his jaw, rubbing his fingers along it, lost for words. "Erm...I...well, fuck!" He laughed. "You look so fucking gorgeous." His hands now both placed on my body, moved down to my lower hips, creeping down over my ass and cupping both cheeks. "I don't even care if we're in public," he exclaimed. "I'm so horny I can't even stand it!"

I giggled and pulled him into a kiss. "Two hours max babe, then we can go back to the hotel!" A frustrated sigh followed by a reluctant 'fine', Ben and I put our socialising faces on and headed off hand in hand into the crowded venue.

I hadn't intended to drink so much, have so many shots and give my boyfriend a blow job in the disabled toilets but hey, things happen!

We stumbled out of the elevator onto the eleventh floor of the hotel we were staying in in New York, Ben hopelessly trying to locate the key card in his wallet.

"Hurry up!" I begged, my hand finding its way to his cock while he groaned in irritation at his own complacency regarding the room key. "I need you inside of me," I purred into his ear, biting his lobe.

Finally success in finding the key, Ben used it to open the door and drag me inside. I was in a fit of giggles, horny, drunk, excited from my dream having come true this evening. "Ben, help me take this off," I moaned trying to take the dress off but failing miserably.

"With pleasure." His eyes narrowed as he walked across the room towards me, untangling me from my dress and as much as I knew he wanted to literally rip it off of me from having been celibate for a week, it was far too expensive for him to do that.

"I'm so glad I have a boyfriend with respect for fashion," I giggled, running my hands through my hair.

"And I'm so glad I have a girlfriend with tits as perfect as yours," he replied, taking my right breast in his grip and bringing his mouth down to cover my nipple.

"Fuck," I moaned, my eyes closed and my fingers running through his hair. "Don't hold back on me tonight, yeah?"

He looked up. "Did you really think that I would?"

"No, but I thought I should remind you how much I fucking need it," I smirked.

"Love you," he kissed me quickly right before he got to his knees and ripped my thong off.

"Love...you too," I responded in gasped breaths as his tongue met my clit for the first time tonight. "Ahhh," I cried as his tongue kept moving up and down my opening, purposely avoiding touching my clit again. He had one hand gripping my hip, whilst the other he used to open me up to him.

My knees began to feel weak as he eventually found his way back to my clit, beating at it with such unrelenting focus that I could barely remember my own name. Before too long, his fingers then joined his tongue, stroking along me then pushing inside of me. His tongue sucked on my clit while he pumped two fingers in and out of my pussy. "Fuck yeah Ben," I moaned. "So fucking good!" My grip on his hair got tighter and I think that the more I pulled at the strands of blonde locks, the more he was getting turned on. The boy liked a little bit of pain, there was no denying it. I let out a little squeak when he bit at my labia, causing Ben to laugh with a mouthful of my pussy. "You freak!" I laughed, pushing at his shoulder.

"Don't act like you're not impressed baby." He was right, she had no comeback because she fucking loved it. His tongue was back at my clit moving at a ridiculously fast pace, his fingers rubbing against my g spot perfectly. My moans were getting out of hand and I hoped that we didn't have any other people on this floor.

Slowing down to help me control my orgasm, Ben started licking at me softly, moaning against me to create that little bit of extra stimulation. "Mmmm," I hummed. "So good." He had taken his fingers out of me, both his hands running up the back of my legs and cupping my bare naked ass as he continued to enjoy the taste of me on his tongue.

Although I loved the fast, radical pace he had began with, it was the slow, sensual licks that became my undoing; Ben knew this. I was yelping in his grip, his hands having to move to my hips again in order to keep me from falling over in pleasure since I was still standing. His tongue sped up a little, as he brought me closer and closer. "Ohhhh yeah, fuck Ben....mmmm," I cried. "I'm coming," I warned him, his tongue moving inside of me so he could capture my juices on the tip of it.  Once Ben licked me clean, he got to his feet and ran his tongue up the side of my neck. I moaned loudly, tilting my head to the side so he had more access, my fingers digging into his shoulder blades.

"I wanted to jump onto that catwalk and fuck you right there in front of everyone," he growled, picking me up with his hands firmly on my upper thighs. "Show everyone that this body is mine."

A high pitched squeal escaped me as Ben bit down on my collarbone, before soothing it with a lick of his hot tongue. My legs were tight around his waist now as he carried me over to the king sized hotel room bed that had yet to be touched. I loved it when he was dominant with me like this, he always was after we'd gone a while without having sex.

He laid me down on the bed gently while taking his blazer and sheer shirt off, holding himself up by his defined arms either side of my head. I pouted and ran my hands along his now bare chest. He cocked his head, asking without words what on earth there was to pout about right now. "I wanted to take that off." I said sweetly, looking up into his eyes, my hands running through his hair.

"Well I can always put it back on so you can?" He suggested, laughing a little before kissing me.

"It would be a sin to cover that gorgeous chest back up," I cooed, eyeing his defined chest that looked like it was sculptured from a Greek God. "But really Ben," I began as I looked back into his heavenly green eyes. "Thanks for being there tonight." I hadn't thanked him and maybe I didn't need to, but I wanted to. I wanted him to know just how much his support meant to me. I knew it was sometimes hard for him to stand back when so many people said stuff about me, particularly about how I looked. His natural instinct was to defend me, protect me, but unfortunately in this industry you had to let a lot of things go.

"I wouldn't have missed it for anything in the world," he spoke softly. "You are the most magnificent woman I have ever laid my eyes on," he littered my skin with soft kisses and occasional licks of his tongue that created shivers through me. His lips found mine again thankfully where he indulged me in a heated kiss. "But I would think that whether you walked the Victoria's Secret runway or not," he laughed.

Our soft moment was soon over quickly when I hastily flipped him over so I was sat on his midsection, my body on full display for him. My pussy was soaking, leaving a patch of wetness on his abs. I rocked my hips a little creating a whiney groan from Ben. "You like riding my abs like that?" His hands were on my hips guiding me while he wore a cheeky grin. "Leaving your juices all over me?"

I giggled, nodding my head but never losing my rhythm.

"You're such a good girl," Ben praised me, his hands leaving my hips and silkily roaming up my sides until he harshly grabbed each of my breasts. "So fucking sexy." Deeper now, his voice could have made me come right then and there. One of my favourite things about my boyfriend was his talking voice; smooth and calming. But when things got heated in the bedroom it reached a level that previously I would have thought impossible. The deepness exuded pure sex.

"I want your cock." It was getting too much now, I needed him inside me.

"Oh you do, do you?" He cocked a brow, a brazen smile on his face. Damn, those pink lips looked extra luscious from eating me out.

"Yeah. So take your pants off please." I climbed off him, his stomach glistening under the low lights coming from the lamps on either side of the bed. I pulled a hair band off my wrist to tie my hair up while I watched him undo his belt, pulling his pants and underwear down so fast if I blinked I would have missed it.

"Keen?" I giggled.

"Baby, keen is an understatement," he retorted, kicking the last of his pants off his ankles. "Now get back over here!" He reached out, pulling me over by the back of my leg. I threw one leg over Ben and hovered above his angry looking cock. Pre cum was leaking out the top, he was literally about to explode.

"Hop on baby, I'm bursting," he took my hips in his strong hold again as I impaled myself with his huge dick.

Mutual moans filled the room as I started to rock my hips in circles. The intrusion of him inside of me after a very long week had me yelling, my mouth falling open as high pitched moans constantly fell out. Usually Ben liked to gradually build up to the hard and fast art of fucking but not tonight, no he was right into it and I was loving every second.

I leant forward on his sweaty chest which Ben took as an opportunity to thrust hard up into me. "Oh fuck Ben.....mmmmm," I cried, throwing my head back in pleasure as my pussy took the full brunt of each hard thrust. His cock slide in and out of me with such ease at this point, the wet sounds and skin slapping all that could be heard among our loud, passionate moans.

It was becoming the most intense sex we had had in a very long time. I supposed the anticipation to it as well as how fucking sexy we thought one another looked tonight, I would have been crazy to think that this would have gone any other way.

I ran my ringers through his sweaty hair as I leant down further, kissing him, his fingers scratching down my back, which I arched to create a deeper angle. Our moans became lost in our kisses before Ben pulled away.

"Ahhh, fuck, you're so fucking wet, babe," he groaned, moving to leave multiple bites along my collarbones, just above my tits, finally almost taking my right nipple off by yanking it so hard.

"Shit," I squealed, making Ben laugh. "Do you not want me to have nipples?"

Ben chuckled, pumping into me even harder and pulling my attention right back to where it needed to be. We clung to one another, clawing at each other's damp skin as we both approached our peaks. Things were becoming fast and frenzied.

"Fuck yeah, harder!" I coaxed Ben on, to which he sat up immediately and dug his fingers into my hips. I took the hint, instantly starting to bounce up and down on him. My arms wrapped tightly around his neck, my tits still bouncing against his chest as I fucked myself on him.

"I'm gonna come," he groaned deeply, his fingers leaving red marks on the skin of my hips as he guided me up and down faster. Sure enough a few seconds later I felt him come inside of me which triggered my orgasm. Ben groaned again as I tightened around him and rode out my orgasm.

Once we both recovered from our orgasms, we remained in the same position, him still comfortably inside of me.

"Next time someone tells you to refrain from sex for work can you tell them to go fuck themselves?" His hands ran up and down my back in a loving manner.

"How about I'll tell them that I'll go fuck you instead?" Gruffly laughing, he proceeded to roll me over for round two.

TAG LIST: @galileoqueen-mama-mia , @fuckinghurricanesoul , @tanya-is-dead@ziggysstarrdust , @spidreling , @screaminggalileochickenwrites , @softbenhardy , @mortifiedmoon

[redorblue]

The ministry of utmost happiness, by Arundhati Roy

I’ve talked about this book with my book club, and I’ve heard from a lot of people that this book is hard to get into. On the one hand, I understand - if you’re not familiar with the setting and the Urdu vocabulary (like me) it can get confusing, and the amount of names and places and people doesn’t help. But as I’ve been emphatically telling all those people: it is so, so worth it. Yes, it can feel overwhelming sometimes, but you’ll be rewarded with stories (intentional plural) that are as beautiful as they’re heartbreaking, with characters that feel alive and enigmatic at the same time, and (probably) with a whole new picture of modern day India. You obviously can’t expect to learn everything there is to know about a country and a people as big as that from one book - and a fictional one at that - but it provided me with a whole lot of starting points to do my own research. Plus, it’s one of those rare books that leave me with wide eyes and more emotions than my shriveled heart can deal with, so excuse my enthusiasm - both intellectual and emotional.

One of the complaints I’ve heard about this book from people who have actually made it through the first ten pages is that the narrative structure is confusing. Again, yes, I see your point, but I think there’s a reason why the story is so episodic, with narrators appearing out of the blue and mentioning people and events that only get explained much later. Somewhere towards the end of the book (in my paperback version it’s on page 436) Tilo writes a poem that in my opinion is the key to understanding the fractured nature of the book:

“How to tell a shattered story? By slowly becoming everybody. No. By slowly becoming everything.”

The book isn’t coherent in the conventional, easily detectable sense of the word because the story isn’t. It can’t be, what with all the different conflicts and catastrophes and bigotry that it sometimes barely touches upon and sometimes elaborates a bit more. In fiction, we’re used to the characters having smaller social circles than we do: less family, less friends, rarely colleagues, barely any of the everyday acquaintances that most of us just have, without knowing where exactly they came from or any intention of deepening them. One of the three focal characters in this book is a bit like that (although that’s intentional and meant to make a point about her personality), but the other two, to whom belong the most confusing parts of the book have the huge social circle that comes with living in one place for a long time, especially when one of them has a rather colorful personality. Point is, it’s normal that seen from the outside, people’s lives aren’t coherent or easily understandable because they’re suffused with context that doesn’t always get an explanation when it’s handy because sometimes there isn’t one, or it leads to another story that leads to another that leads to yet another... Because in the end, no one is an island, we’re just not used to seeing it in fiction.

The same goes for the conflicts that are touched upon here. There’s rarely an easy explanation or black-and-white sides to be taken (which is not to say that the book doesn’t take sides, because it clearly does, but it shines a light on different views on an issue), and if real-life conflicts don’t work that way, why should a literary representation of one be any different? If you give it enough time to affect enough people, it automatically becomes a “shattered story”, and the only way to make any sense of it at all is by allowing the narrative to adapt to that - to become fractured and messy and told from the eyes of people who come with their own lifestory and everything that entails. Long story short, I think the structure of the book makes a necessary point about the story it tells, adds to its lifelikeness and doesn’t even need to be that confusing - you just have to let it unfold in front of your eyes without getting hung up on every single name you don’t recognize.

Another complaint I’ve heard is that the characters are not relatable, or that they don’t feel like fully developed human beings, and here’s where my sympathy stops. It’s true that there’s rarely any interior monologue or other kind of explanation that explicitly tells you why has done this or said that, but I don’t think it needs to. Through pretty neutral accounts of events and backstory it gives you enough clues to at least make educated guesses (otherwise known as interpretation) about a character’s choices, and to deduct important tenets of their personality. It might not be as satisfying sometimes because you never get the ultimate proof that you guessed right, but where’s the fun in having it all served to you on a silver platter? I think that’s exactly the reason why so many people don’t like main characters - you’re too deep inside their heads, too aware of their logical flaws and mental loops and repetitive insecurities. It’s much more fun if the author leaves a bit of space for the readers to fill in thought processes, and Arundhati Roy leaves a lot of space for that. There’s a lot to unpack here, and I’d love to write about so many of the characters in there, but this has already gotten longer than I thought, so I’ll only talk about my two favourites, Musa and Tilo.

I feel like I have a better grasp on Musa’s character (and also, I fell for him. Hard.), so I’ll start with him. On the surface, his life appears to be nothing but a  string of tragedies, with him as a simple vehicle that the author uses to tell us about how fucked up the situation in Kashmir is. After all, he was pretty much forced into the underground after Amrik Singh made him his newest source of entertainment, and “underground” in this context means that he’ll have to join the rebellion. But I think that is a very superficial view on his character. For me, the two defining aspects of his personality are his sense of justice and his bond to the people and the valley of Kashmir. Sure, he could have fled to some faraway place in India, or elsewhere, kept his head down and hoped that Amrik Singh’s network doesn’t stretch that far. That wouldn’t have been easy, but theoretically doable. In reality, however, going someplace else wasn’t really an option. He’s tried that already with studying in Delhi, and even though he obviously knew how bad the situation was back home, he still chose to return after he graduated because he doesn’t want to live anywhere else. He loves Kashmir and his people with all his heart. So the underground it is - because he can’t bear the injustices done to them, because he owes it to his daughter to be brave, because he can’t run away from his grief and this might be the only way to work through it.

And it takes a toll on him, of course it does. It’s heartbreaking how both he and Tilo remark on how he has become less substantial (smudged, as Tilo calls it) than he used to be, which is such an on-point metaphor for what being in a war (and a pretty hopeless guerilla war at that) does to a person. But in his thought processes and his interactions with Tilo (and briefly with Garson Hobart - I can’t remember his real name for the life of me) show that he’s - maybe not the same person as before, but a person, a complete human being, which is a lot more that what you usually get. I mean, let’s face it: he’s a Muslim in a rebel organisation, which is more than enough to get you labels such as terrorist, fanatic, extremist etc. I was a bit afraid that someone in my book club would call him that, because my reaction would have probably got me banned from the book shop. There are so many instances where you can see how kind a heart he has, how intelligent he is, how caring - and yes, also how much he suffers from seeing his people suffer and how he puts everything he has into make it right, but what’s important here is that it’s not his only defining feature.

(This is the point where I realised that this post was definitely going to be too long. So I split it, with more in-depth analysis of Musa - or rather getting my feelings for him off my chest - here.)

Tilo, on the other hand, is not as easy to grasp because she is presented to the reader as she presents herself to the world - stoic, not exactly talkative, very hard to reach. A lot of that has got to do with how she grew up, in an environment heavily influenced by racism, classism and prudery where her mother felt like the only way she could raise her daughter was to pretend they weren’t biologically related and then adopting her. I guess you could say that such an arrangement is better than growing up in an orphanage, and it could have been a lot less damaging if her mother wasn’t so very concerned about her public image, or so demanding, controlling and condescending. But she was, and the effect that had on Tilo is obvious - she’s someone who “lives in a country of her own skin”, the borders (seemingly) closed off. It’s not that she can’t care for people; it’s obvious that she’s loved Musa for a long time, and that she came to care deeply for Naga and Dr. Azad Bhartiya, even before she adopts Miss Jebeen the Second and moves in with Anjum. Rather, her issue seems to be that she has trouble accepting other people’s feelings towards her and getting attached to anyone. It’s why, for example, her marriage to Naga didn’t work (who, on a sidenote, really got treated unfairly in Garson Hobart’s POV), why she didn’t want to go through with the pregnancy when she came back from Kashmir, or why she didn’t even break things off properly with Naga and just... floated out of his life. To be fair, his family’s racism towards her didn’t help either because I’m pretty sure it stung her more than she let on, but her behaviour fits her overall pattern in interacting with people, so I don’t think that was the main issue.

It’s probably also why her post-university relationship with Musa works so well. They’re both aren’t controlling people, they trust that the other would never hurt them intentionally and they know that their communication works well enough that long-time separation doesn’t shake the foundations of their relationship. It’s a very unique bond they share, one that doesn’t go away from one of them marrying someone else and sleeping with them, even loving them, as Musa did with his wive Arifa. They know what they have, wherever they live and whatever they do. That’s another aspect I loved about the book: it never pits the two women in Musa’s life, Arifa and Tilo, against each other. Not even Tilo is jealous when she learns of Arifa’s existence, she simply trusts that if Musa loved Arifa, Arifa must have been a remarkable person. This is a testament to Tilo’s magnanimity - just because you have attachment issues yourself doesn’t mean that you’d automatically be okay with the person you love starting a family with someone else.

But Tilo knows that she’s not that person (at least not at that point), and although she worries a lot about Musa, she knows that a conventional happily ever after wouldn’t work for them. On the one hand because Musa is so tied up in Kashmir’s struggle for independence - which Tilo wholeheartedly supports - that she would never ask him to give it all up to live a life of safety with her (another thing about Tilo I deeply appreciate). But on the other hand I’m pretty sure it also wouldn’t work for Tilo herself. She’s too aimless, too far away to go through with the whole getting married, settling down, having kids etc. shtick. She needs this kind of open relationship that leaves her her space, that gives her a kind of attachment she can bear. It’s mainly emotional, and the few times a year it gets physical, as in being in the same room, it happens mostly because she decided to come back to Kashmir, with the exception of the few times Musa comes to Delhi. I do think that from her side, things might have been different if Musa had lived longer (after Tilo adopts the baby and moves in with Anjum), but on his side things would still have been the same, and I firmly believe that she’d have stayed true to herself and not asked him to walk away from his cause for her.

Which leads me to the question that has made me reread almost the entire book as soon as I was done the first time: Why did Tilo and Musa break up after university? It’s never said explicitly, but I’m pretty sure that he asked her to marry him, in all probability also to come back to Kashmir with him, and she said no and that was that. I still haven’t found an answer in the text (see, this is what I mean by interpretation being both fun and frustrating), but I have a theory. I think that his belonging, his rootedness in a family, a people and a region, was too much for her, who has never been made to feel like she belonged anywhere, was accepted and appreciated anywhere. In that situation, it wasn’t enough that she loved him and he loved and accepted and appreciated her, because in real life, the love of one man doesn’t magically fix every single one of your issues, even if it is the love of your life. So she refused him. And he, honorable person that he is, didn’t press the issue, stayed true to himself and went back to Kashmir. Where they met again years later, under unimaginably sad circumstances, to rekindle, in their own way, one of my all time favourite fictional romantic relationships.

[trinuviel]

A Night at the Opera: Rigoletto (Copenhagen 2017)

Last year I had the good fortune to see a production of Verdi’s famous opera Rigoletto at the Royal Danish Opera in Copenhagen that was nothing short of pure genius!

It was a truly amazing production that used the stage-setting and direction to really challenge the story critically, inviting for the audience to read the story against the grain by opening up a subtle narrative space for the creation of counter-stories. 

It addressed some of the darker aspects of the story, especially in regard to the relationship between Rigoletto and his daughter Gilda - aspects that relates to gender and sexuality. I was immensely pleased by this since these are aspects of the story that I’ve always found very troubling. Furthermore, the way that Gilda decides to sacrifice her life to save her unfaithful lover has never sat right with me - so it was great to experience a production that engaged critically with these particular aspects of the story.

Historical Background

Rigoletto is an opera created by the renowned Italian composer Guiseppe Verdi and it is based on the play Le roi s’amuse from 1832 by the French author Victor Hugo. The play takes place in Paris in the early 1500s and features the libertine renaissance king Francois I. The protagonist is the court jester Triboulet who encourages the king in his vices.

In his preface to the play, the author notes that Triboulet "hates the king because he is king; hates the nobles because they are nobles and hates men because they don't all have a hump-back... he corrupts the king and brutalizes him, urging him on to tyranny, ignorance and vice, dragging him through the gentlemen's families, pointing out a woman to seduce, a sister to kidnap, a girl to dishonour...". (x)

The play was considered a thinly veiled attack on King Louis-Phillipe and was banned after just one performance. 

In 1850 Verdi was commissioned by to write an opera for La Fenice in Venice. Verdi chose Victor Hugo’s controversial play to adapt into an opera because of the grand, tragic subject and the character of Triboulet. However, it was a controversial choice and he got into trouble with the Austrian Board of Censors (Austria had control over Northern Italy at the time). Verdi and his librettist reworked the story with significant changes. The story was now set in Mantua, the king was made into a duke and the hunchbacked jester was renamed Rigoletto. The opera premiered in Februrary 1851 and has since become one of Verdi’s most famous and beloved operas.

The Story

ACT 1

Scene 1: A room in the palace of Duke of Mantua

At a ball in his palace, the Duke sings of a life of pleasure with as many women as possible. He has seen an unknown beauty in church and desires to possess her, but he also wishes to seduce the Countess of Ceprano. Rigoletto, the Duke's hunchbacked court jester, mocks the husbands of the ladies to whom the Duke is paying attention, including the Count Ceprano, and advises the Duke to get rid of him by prison or death. The Duke laughs indulgently, but Ceprano is not amused. 

Marullo, one of the guests at the ball, informs the courtiers that Rigoletto has a "lover", which astonishes them. The courtiers resolve to take vengeance on Rigoletto for making fun of them. The festivities are interrupted by the arrival of the elderly Count Monterone, whose daughter the Duke had seduced. Rigoletto provokes him further by making fun of his helplessness to avenge his daughter's honor. Monterone confronts the Duke, and is immediately arrested by the Duke's guards. Before being led off to prison, Monterone curses Rigoletto for having mocked his righteous anger. The curse terrifies Rigoletto, who believes the popular superstition that an old man's curse has real power.

(Count Monterone curses Rigoletto)

Scene 2: A street, with the courtyard of Rigoletto's house

Preoccupied with the old man's curse, Rigoletto approaches his house and is accosted by the assassin Sparafucile, who walks up to him and offers his services. Rigoletto declines for the moment, but leaves open the possibility of hiring Sparafucile later, should the need arise. Sparafucile wanders off, after repeating his own name a few times. Rigoletto contemplates the similarities between the two of them; Sparafucile kills men with his sword, and Rigoletto uses "a tongue of malice" to stab his victims. 

Rigoletto opens a door in the wall and returns home to his daughter Gilda. They greet each other warmly. Rigoletto has been concealing his daughter from the Duke and the rest of the city, and she does not know her father's occupation. Since he has forbidden her to appear in public, she has been nowhere except to church and does not even know her own father's name.

When Rigoletto has gone, the Duke appears and overhears Gilda confess to her nurse Giovanna that she feels guilty for not having told her father about a young man she had met at the church. She says that she fell in love with him, but that she would love him even more if he were a student and poor. As she declares her love, the Duke enters, overjoyed. Gilda, alarmed, calls for Giovanna, unaware that the Duke had sent her away. Pretending to be a student, the Duke convinces Gilda of his love. When she asks for his name, he hesitantly calls himself Gualtier Maldè. Hearing sounds and fearing that her father has returned, Gilda sends the Duke away after they quickly trade vows of love. Alone, Gilda meditates on her love for the Duke, whom she believes is a student: "Gualtier Maldè!... Caro nome" ("Dearest name").

Later, Rigoletto returns, while the hostile courtiers outside the walled garden (believing Gilda to be the jester's mistress, unaware she is his daughter) get ready to abduct the helpless girl. They tell Rigoletto that they are actually abducting the Countess Ceprano. He sees that they are masked and asks for a mask for himself; while they are tying the mask onto his face, they also blindfold him. Blindfolded and deceived, he holds the ladder steady while they climb up to Gilda's room.

(The courtiers abduct Gilda)

With her father's unknowing assistance Gilda is carried away by the courtiers. Left alone, Rigoletto removes his mask and blindfold, and realizes that it was in fact Gilda who was carried away. He collapses in despair, remembering the old man's curse.

ACT 2

The Duke's Palace

The Duke is concerned that Gilda has disappeared. The courtiers then enter and inform him that they have captured Rigoletto's mistress. By their description, he recognizes it to be Gilda and rushes off to the room where she is held. Pleased by the Duke's strange excitement, the courtiers now make sport with Rigoletto, who enters singing. He tries to find Gilda by pretending to be uncaring, as he fears she may fall into the hands of the Duke. Finally, he admits that he is in fact seeking his daughter and asks the courtiers to return her to him. Rigoletto attempts to run into the room in which Gilda is being held, but the courtiers block the way. Gilda enters. The courtiers leave the room, believing Rigoletto has gone mad. 

(The courtiers mock Rigoletto)

Gilda describes to her father what has happened to her in the palace. In a duet Rigoletto swears vengeance against the Duke, while Gilda pleads for her lover.

ACT 3

A street outside Sparafucile's house

A portion of Sparafucile's house is seen, with two rooms open to the view of the audience. Rigoletto and Gilda arrive outside. The Duke's voice can be heard from inside, singing "La donna è mobile" ("Woman is fickle"). Sparafucile's sister, Maddalena, has lured him to the house. Rigoletto and Gilda listen from outside as the Duke flirts with Maddalena. Gilda laments that the Duke is unfaithful; Rigoletto assures her that he is arranging revenge: "Bella figlia dell’amore" ("Beautiful daughter of love"). Rigoletto orders Gilda to put on a man's clothes to prepare to leave for Verona and tells her that he plans to follow later. After she leaves, he completes his bargain with the assassin, who is ready to murder his guest for 20 scudi. Rigoletto then withdraws.

With falling darkness, a thunderstorm approaches and the Duke decides to spend the rest of the night in the house. Sparafucile directs him to the ground floor sleeping quarters, resolving to kill him in his sleep. Gilda, who still loves the Duke despite knowing him to be unfaithful, returns dressed as a man and stands outside the house. Maddalena, who is smitten with the Duke, begs Sparafucile to spare his life. Sparafucile reluctantly promises her that if by midnight another victim can be found, he will kill the other instead of the Duke. 

(Gilda overhears Sparafucile promise his sister to kill a random stranger instead of the Duke)

Gilda, overhearing this exchange, resolves to sacrifice herself for the Duke, and enters the house. Sparafucile stabs her and she collapses, mortally wounded. At midnight, when Rigoletto arrives with money, he receives a corpse wrapped in a sack, and rejoices in his triumph. Weighting it with stones, he is about to cast the sack into the river when he hears the voice of the Duke, sleepily singing a reprise of his "La donna è mobile" aria. Bewildered, Rigoletto opens the sack and, to his despair, discovers his dying daughter. For a moment, she revives and declares she is glad to die for her beloved. She dies in his arms. Rigoletto cries out in horror. [synopsis borrowed from Wikipedia]

The Production

Rigoletto is a wonderful opera, a story of high tragedy expressed through gorgeous music. It features some of the most well-known arias in the world such as “La donna é mobile” and “Caro nome” as well as my personal favorite: the maginificent quartet “Bella figlia dell’amore”. 

Whenever a classic piece of theatre, ballet or opera is put on the stage, the question often revolves around two choices: 1) a traditional production or 2) a modern interpretion. While I have enjoyed traditional productions of operas such as Tosca, La Bohème and La Traviata, I generally prefer “modernized” productions of the classics as these tend to engage critically and creatively with the material in a way that traditional productions rarely do. Fortunately, the Chilean-German director and scenographer Aniara Amos has chosen to stage this production in a modern and visually arresting manner. 

Aniara Amos has chosen a rather bold strategy by telling the story after the fact. The opera opens with Rigoletto as a broken man, confined to a mental asylum, bedridden and strapped into a straitjacket. The story that unfolds before our eyes takes place entirely in Rigoletto’s broken mind, which is reflected in the both the stage-setting and the costumes. Everything is garish and distorted. 

(Party at the palace of the Duke of Mantua)

The remembered events take on a nightmarish cast and the characters surrounding him are either caricatures or faceless automatons hidden behind masks. He is trapped in a nightmare of his own making.

Producing a Counter-Story

This narrative gambit opens up a space for the audience to read the story against the grain, to create their own counter-stories. It is a stroke of pure genius because it introduces an element of uncertainty into the narrative. The story that unfolds before our eyes suddenly becomes suspect because we cannot trust Rigoletto’s memories. He’s in a mental institution because he’s had a complete break-down so it is very possible that he rewrites events due to his psychological trauma. 

Since the story takes place entirely in Rigoletto’s mind - as a mix of memories and a fiction - all the characters are in a sense facets of his broken psyche. This opens up for a much darker interpretation of one of the core aspects of the story: his relationship with his daughter Gilda.

Rigoletto is a character whose tragedy is entirely of his own making. He is, in a sense, a Tragic Hero who is undone by his own flaws - and he generally invokes both pity and fear. Rigoletto’s fatal flaws are his hatred of the nobility and his idealization of his daughter. 

He gets a perverse pleasure from corrupting the Duke, egging him onto a path of dissolution and debauchery. He mocks the courtiers, which makes him enemies. However, there’s another side to his personality. He lives a kind of double-life as a cynical jester and as a doting father. He tries to keep the two spheres of his life completely separate and the tragedy occurs when the two spheres meet. He strives to keep his daughter Gilda completely innocent of the more dangerous and sordid aspects of life - but that also means that she has no defense against a practiced seducer like the Duke. Rigoletto is essentially the author of his own tragedy and that is part of what makes his story so poignant.

SEXUAL PURITY AND THE IDEAL OF WOMANHOOD

There is, however, an aspect of the story that has always annoyed me: the character of Gilda. She has never felt like a “real” character to me but rather a slightly modified version of The Angel in the House:

The popular Victorian image of the ideal wife/woman came to be "the Angel in the House"; she was expected to be devoted and submissive to her husband. The Angel was passive and powerless, meek, charming, graceful, sympathetic, self-sacrificing, pious, and above all--pure. (x)

Gilda isn’t really a person in this story but rather the embodiment of a very pernicious model of ideal womanhood; an ideal that is embedded in the culturally pervasive Madonna-Whore Complex, which can be described as:

The tendency for men to not be able to integrate the "dualisms" of women. Though EACH and EVERY female IS in fact fully capable of BOTH, it appears man's greatest challenge is to resolve them both in the same woman, thus these two aspects of the female must be relegated into two very separate and distinct categories--one or the other, black or white, Madonna or Whore. (x)

Gilda is so overwhelmingly angelic in her purity and kindness that she willingly sacrifices her life for a cheating douche that she has know for about 5 minutes. She’s an ideal instead of a fully fleshed out character and that is why it is difficult to connect with her character. This may not have been much of a problem for a Victorian audience but for a modern one, she is utterly incomprehensible. 

Aniara Amos’ production addresses this particular aspect explicitly through the stage-setting and the direction of the singers - and it is the narrative gambit of letting the story play out in Rigoletto’s mind that makes a critical exploration of patriarchal gender norms and sexual mores possible. It is an approach that cast the relationship between Rigoletto and his daughter in a much darker light.

PRISONER IN ALL BUT NAME

One troubling aspect of the story is the fact that Gilda is not allowed to go outside unless it is to attend church. She has no idea of her father’s profession and she doesn’t even know his name! Neither will he tell her anything about her mother. She is kept in complete ignorance of everything apart from the teachings of the Church.

Aniara Amos emphasizes this troubling aspect of Rigoletto’s relationship with Gilda but having her literally locked up in a vault in his home. There’s also a degree of infantilization at play that is underscored by her costume, which is more suitable for a little girl than a young woman.

Since the story takes place in Rigoletto’s tortured mind, Gilda is not really a “person” but rather Rigoletto’s idealized memory of her. She is his little doll that he takes out to play house with - and the direction of the singers wonderfully subverts the image of Rigoletto as a loving and doting father by having him turn Gilda on and off with a remote control! The soprano’s robot-like movements supports this doll-like quality.

There’s something incredibly twisted and sinister about the relationship between Rigoletto and Gilda that this production highlights. Gilda is less like a daughter and more like an object to Rigoletto. She is his prized possession, locked up in a vault for safe-keeping and he is the only man that has access to her - until the Duke finds her at home.

I have already stated that Gilda is written as the embodiment of a historically specific ideal of womanhood: the meek, self-sacrificing and “pure” Angel in the House. However, the narrative gambit of having the story take place entirely in Rigoletto’s broken mind changes the inter-personal dynamics between the characters because all of the characters are reflections of Rigoletto himself in this particular set-up. If Gilda represents Rigoletto’s idealized view of his daughter, then what does the figure of the Duke represent? This is where the story gets really uncomfortable because if the Duke is yet another repressed facet of Rigoletto’s mind, then he functions as an expression of a repressed incestuous desire on the part of Rigoletto. It may sound preposterous on the surface but it fits with the way that Gilda is denied any kind of sexual agency in her story, which revolves around seduction and heart-break.

When Rigoletto imagines the Duke’s seduction of Gilda, it is a seduction completely devoid of romanticism and erotic desire. Rather, in Rigoletto’s mind the Duke seduced Gilda with an image of comfortable domesticity:

Likewise, Rigoletto can only imagine what happened between Gilda and the Duke at the Palace as rape (indicated by her disheveled costume).

There’s is no room for any kind of agency on Gilda’s part when it comes to her seduction. Rigoletto cannot bear the idea of his little innocent daughter-doll having her own ideas and desires. She is his prized possession and she was taken from him and used by another man. Her own feelings are of little importance to him as he swears vengeance on the Duke despite his daughter’s pleas for mercy.

GILDA’S RESISTANCE

While the story that plays out on the stage essentially is Rigoletto’s memory of events, Aniara Amos has included some subtle hints in the scenography and the direction that Gilda may not have been the meek, innocent and “pure” little doll of his memories.

When Rigoletto opens the vault where he keeps Gilda locked away from the world, an important detail is revealed to the audience. The back of the vault door is filled with marks that counts the days of Gilda’s incarceration - thus hinting that she was NOT the compliant little girl that Rigoletto imagines her to have been.

Furthermore, when he turns his back on her, Gilda makes blatantly sexual gestures that contrast with the little girl image that Rigoletto has imposed upon her. Rigoletto doesn’t want to see Gilda as a sexual creature but the stage direction makes it clear that she isn’t the sexless little doll that he wants her to be.

The gambit of letting the story be told after the fact, through Rigoletto’s memories, introduces a certain level of instability into the narrative. We, the audience, can’t discern what is memory and what is fiction that Rigoletto has created to shield himself from painful truths. It is an approach the opens up a narrative space for creating counter-histories if we begin to question as it is presented.

There are, as said, signs that Gilda was not content with being locked away from the world - and that she had sexual desires of her own. Little details that create cracks in the image of the pure, meek and submissive Angel in the House.

What if Gilda was not abducted? What if she ran away from an extremely controlling parent? Could it be that the sex she had with the Duke was consensual rather than forced as it appears in his memories? 

These are all questions that address these subtle hints of a resistance on Gilda’s part and they are made possible by staging the story as a tale told retro-spectively.

MURDER MOST FOUL

I have always found Gilda’s death rather nonsensical since it is hard to imagine someone willingly sacrificing their life for a cheating douche that broke their heart. In the story of Rigoletto, Gilda’s death is not really about her character but about his pain, his tragedy. 

However, Aniara Amos’ production creates the narrative space for the telling of a different story. In this story Gilda’s death is not the combination of self-sacrifice and accidental homicide but rather a murder most foul where a father murders his child. This is, of course, a speculative reading - but you have to bear in mind that in this particular production, the assassin Sparafucile is quite literally Rigoletto’s dark mirror - he represents the violent part of Rigoletto’s personality, which the costuming emphasizes.

Sparafucile wears a black version of Rigoletto’s jester’s hat - but in this production, it is ultimately Rigoletto that wields the dagger and it is him who delivers the killing blow. This is the only time that Aniara Amos’ production diverges from the original text where it is Sparafucile that kills the disguised Gilda. 

Having Rigoletto delivering the killing blow himself is a very significant departure from the text - and this is narratively significant in a big way because it ties up all the subtle little hints of Gilda’s resistance with a much darker story. A story where a young woman’s resistance against parental control and her sexual awakening is punished by her father with murderous violence. 

This is, in a sense, my counter-story to the traditional story of Rigoletto - but it is a counter-story made possible by subtle hints and details in the production as well as the narrative gambit of having the story told by a distraught man who has suffered a severe mental break-down. The audience is not in a position to discern between Rigoletto’s actual memories and the little fictions that he creates to soothe his guilty mind. 

The final scene where Gilda sings about how glad she is to die for her beloved, as she slowly ascends to the heavens, may be just such a little fiction with which Rigoletto soothes his mind and tries to assuage his guilty conscience.

Controversy

This production caused quite a bit of controversy with the professional reviewers who either loved it or hated it. What I find interesting is the fact that the people who really hated Aniara Amos’ production mainly reacted against the aesthetics of the production. I can certainly understand that grotesque make-up, harsh lights, weird costumes and pornographic blow-up dolls might have been a bit too much for the delicate sensibilities of the petite bourgeoisie but I am always annoyed when they name these aspects an empty visuality that distracts from what they deem the main thing: the music.

Opera, however, is not just about the music - it is a story told through music, acting and stage-setting. You never really encounter critiques such as this with traditional productions of famous operas. In most of these cases, the stage-setting and costumes are just a pretty background for the music. 

I need more from my theatrical experiences. I need a production that not only tells a story in an interesting manner - but also engages critically with it to make old stories relevant for a (post)modern audience. Staging Rigoletto in the same manner as it was done in the mid 19th century won’t do that. If opera becomes a museum of a specific musical culture, then it becomes less interesting - it should be a place where there’s room for debate.

Recently, a production of Carmen at the opera house of Florence, Italy, caused a big stir because the director chose to alter the ending of the story in order to make a statement about the abuse and mistreatment of women in our society. In this new production, Carmen kills her abusive lover in self-defense instead of being killed herself.

The producers said they had changed the denouement of the story in part to protest at the large number of Italian women who are killed each year by jealous husbands, boyfriends and lovers. So frequent are such murders that Italians have a name for the phenomenon – “femminicidio”, or femicide. Sociologists and campaigners say it is driven by men feeling threatened by the greater freedoms and enhanced economic independence that many Italian women now enjoy after decades of being seen as pliable possessions.

With horrific cases of domestic violence coming to light almost every month, the directors of the work said they were uncomfortable with the idea of audiences applauding the final scene, in which Carmen is stabbed to death and lies motionless on the stage.

“At a time when our society is having to confront the murder of women, how can we dare to applaud the killing of a woman?” said Cristiano Chiarot, the head of the opera house, the Teatro del Maggio Musicale Fiorentino. “I believe one can remain faithful to the spirit of the opera whilst taking certain liberties – as happened in classical times, when there were various versions of the most famous myths, without their original meaning being compromised,” he told La Repubblica newspaper.

Leo Muscato, the opera’s director, was initially resistant to the idea of changing the ending. “The death of Carmen is the engine that drives the opera, why reverse the situation?” he said. “Then I understood that what Chiarot was calling for was reasonable. The theme of death in the opera has a strong masculine element – the woman must sacrifice herself in order to save her freedom. It is a point of view that today makes no sense.” (x)

This is a rather long quote but I’m leaving it in because I have very mixed feelings about making such radical changes to the source material. It is one thing to make a radical interpretation of myths, legends and fairy tales that come from an oral tradition where details are altered with the re-telling. It is quite another thing to change the narrative denouement in the work of a named author. 

A good director will be able to incorporate a social or political critique into a production - and that is exactly what Aniara Amos does with Rigoletto at the Royal Danish Opera. It is done subtly through the acting, lighting, costuming and stage-setting. It is an approach that demands an attentive audience, which mean that not everyone will “get it” - as evidenced by the pearl-clutching in a number of reviews.

(Thanks to the @thelawyerthatwaspromised for the GIFs)

[vsionvry]

To My Sisters: Photographer Liv Latricia Habel On Her Resilient Self-Portrait Series ‘Diasporan Daughters’

Danish American photographer Liv Latricia Habel is the creator of the reflective visual diary ‘Diasporan Daughters’. It’s a moving series of self-portraits that explore her take on what it means to be a mixed Black woman, and what it is to be seen as a mixed Black woman in Denmark. Raised in Germany by her mum and currently living in Copenhagen, Liv’s series comments on her personal experiences of being one of the few brown faces in her community growing up. She also dives into her connections with America and her different relationships with religion. This interesting combination of personal lived experiences informs not only the style of her photographs but also the meanings behind them. Liv explores societal expectations, her personal views, representation and resilience through her images. I got the pleasure to sit down with her (over Zoom) and talk all things self-love, fighting spirit, sisterhood, alter egos, and the craziness that is code-switching.

RC: Hey Liv. how are you doing?

LH: I’m doing good, I’ve just moved to a new apartment.

RC: That sounds fun; you get to decorate a new space. Do you do all that feng shui stuff?

LH: I don’t really know anything about that [laughs]

RC: Neither do I! You just put what feels right wherever.

LH: Right, exactly. How are you?

RC: I’m doing good too, tired but good! I’m happy I got to hop on this call with you though, it’s a cool change of pace.

RC: So do you study film or photography or something else creative?

LH: Yeah, I study at Copenhagen Film and Photography School. It's a one year compact course and it’s ending this December. I also studied Visual Communications a few years ago.

RC: Ooh, that’s a good combo, they work together well.

LH: Right now I’m using my skills, but it's not really what I want to work with.

RC: What do you want to work with?

LH: Photography!

RC: [laughs] I like that.

LH: I like working with photography, but it’s not my main income.

RC: Sometimes you need a plan B to help your plan A.

LH: Yeah.

RC: So is the book Diasporan Daughters a project for school or a personal project?

LH: This is a personal project, my evaluation project for school is about young female and Black artists, which I’ve been photographing.

RC: That’s super relevant nowadays, it’s also nice to do a little showcasing because all this talent is there, but not a lot of people know about it.

LH: Yeah, exactly.

RC: I was wondering what made you come up with this project?

LH: [laughs] Okay the interview is starting!

I came up with it because of my own story. My mum is Danish and my dad’s Black American. I grew up in Germany with my mum who’s white and with my white family. My school and community were totally white, so I spent my childhood and adolescent life learning to look like everyone else. I couldn’t mirror myself in anyone around me, neither in my family nor my friends till I was 19 and moved to Copenhagen and found my own community and friends.

RC: Oh wow!

LH: I was 20 when I had my first Black friend and started having contact with my family in the US, so it wasn’t that many years ago. I think of it as being a chameleon sometimes since I have so many identities that frame who I am today. I guess everyone has different identities and we can code-switch when we talk and adapt. Which is just superhuman! But for me, as a mixed Black woman, it's even crazier because of the way I grew up: I have so many identities. There are the ones that I’ve been living with, but also the identities society has given to me – which are a reflection of structural racism too. So you know, when I’m walking down the street in a specific neighborhood in Copenhagen, where there’s a lot of sex workers, and I’ve dressed up, and look good: men directly ask me how much I am.

RC: Really?!

LH: Or if it’s another situation where I might be confused for someone else, only because of my skin color.

RC: I definitely felt that through the book because there were a lot of photographs of you in different settings.

LH: Some of the portraits, I can definitely see myself in, I mean one of them is my alter ego.

RC: Ah which one is that one?!

LH: The one where I’m sitting with the pink bandana.

RC: Boss lady?!

LH: Yeah, its me when I’m the best me [laughs]

RC: That’s really cool, cause it's not only different identities you’re exploring but different versions of yourself as well.

LH: Exactly. It's different versions of myself, that’s what I mean by identities actually. Some of the images aren’t me, but what society thinks of me. Like my expereinces of being mistaken as a sex worker or cleaning lady. They’re stigmatized stereotypes of a Black woman in white society.

“There are the ones that I’ve been living with, but also the identities society has given to me..”

RC: I like that! It’s an ongoing story, you can add more as you go. 

RC: Why did you decide to title your series Diasporan Daughters?

LH: Hmm, being part of the Black diaspora means everything in terms of my looks to me and society. It is also such a big part of who I am, and the title refers to all the women and girls who are part of the Black diaspora. That obviously includes the African diaspora, but for me, being part of the Black diaspora means more since my African roots are pretty far away [laughs].

RC: It felt like a love letter where you said ‘I’m writing this for me, but also for you’. That’s a sweet idea I think.

LH: It is! In the beginning of the book it says “For my Sisters”.

LH: Each one of us is unique with our individual experiences, but we have a lot  in common. Especially when you’re living in the diaspora. I guess it's a different experience to be a Ghanian woman living in Accra for example, where you were born and grew up surrounded by a lot of other Black women. I imagine that experience differs to mine:  living as a Black woman in a white dominated society. So the book is mainly for my sisters in the diaspora.

RC: I also saw one of your images was of you standing beside the Queen Mary statue in Copenhagen. She’s a very powerful woman, why did you feel it was important to take that photo?

LH: I wanted to add this archetype of a fighting personality. And for me, this picture has connections to the Black Panther movement. At the same time, this image also connects to the Black Lives Matter movement that has been expanding worldwide in 2020 after Breonna Taylor and George Floyd's murder. For me, the only public symbol fighting the Black struggle that exists here in Denmark, is the Queen Mary statue. She means so much because she led the labour riots of former slaves and plantation workers in the then Danish colonised West Indies. So, it’s all connected for me: fighting for your liberty as a Black person since slavery till today. 

RC: She’s also powerful because of the scale. The statue is a lot bigger than many others in Copenhagen, so when you get there, you have to look up. I was almost thinking, is this really here? It is one of the only public images of a Black woman – there should be more!

LH: Definitely. For me, this image is not the strongest stylistically in the book, but its content definitely says a lot more than a lot of the other pictures because it has so much more depth.

RC: You’ve spoken about people of color’s experiences, not only in Denmark, but around the world too. There was one photo where you were wearing a red scarf, I was wondering if that had anything to do with the Burqa Ban in Denmark, or if there was any connection with that?

LH: That’s a good question. No, it doesn’t actually. My dad’s family is Muslim, so I got the whole outfit from my aunt. I grew up pretty nonreligious; I only went to church on Christmas, and I had a Confirmation because of the presents and because everyone else in my class had one – so that’s been my relationship with religion. Being in Philly and celebrating Eid made me experience a different religion that’s part of me. I’ll probably never get into Islam because I disagree with parts that I think can be problematic, as a lot of other religions around the world can be. As a Black woman wearing a sign of God means so much, because if you’re walking around in the streets as a brown or Black woman wearing a hijab, you’re looked at way more than if you’re not wearing a scarf. I’ve only worn a hijab once for Eid with my family, but when I’m wearing a scarf just for a bad hair day, I can get looked at differently.

RC: Yeah, I guess you can pick it up.

LH: Yes exactly, the photo comments on that, and also for the little part of me that’s Muslim too.

RC: That’s really nice, that you recognize these different dimensions and layers to yourself. It’s not just ‘I didn’t grow up with this, so I’m going to ignore it’, I think that’s quite a powerful photo in your collection.

LH: Thank you, there's also just so much stigma connected to being a Muslim woman and wearing a headscarf, niqab or burqa I find, especially here in Denmark, politically, it’s often connected to Islamophobia.

RC: The other thing I wanted to ask about was the types of text you include in your book. You have poetry from Maya Angelou and lyrics from Cardi B’s and Megan Thee Stallion’s song WAP.

LH: I’ve known the poem from Maya Angelou for some years, and I think it’s a very beautiful poem. I actually have to look up when it was written – it was published around 25 years ago. But it expresses how important it is to have self-worth, self-esteem, show who you are, and to be proud of who you are and every bit of yourself. That’s why I chose it, and WAP, I just think it’s a hilarious song, and I think since Lil’ Kim, Missy Elliott and other female pioneers in Hip Hop have been rapping about femininity, being in control of their own sexuality, and about sex in general. WAP is just the biggest 2020 example of how women should express that part of themselves. It’s a very extroverted song, whereas the Phenomenal Women poem is very ‘You have to stand up for yourself, but you don’t have to shout it out’. WAP, on the other hand, is ‘You shout it out!’- [laughs].

RC: I think that’s pretty interesting because they both talk about the strength and resilience of a woman just in very different ways.

LH: I also added an extract from the report of the African American Policy Forum. It is a list of all the African American women who have been killed by police brutality. And that’s a list of 48 women who have been murdered or died in detention because of the color of their skin. This is only the official list you know –

RC: Somethings aren’t documented…

LH: Yeah, exactly! Where have you actually seen the book?

RC: I saw a version of it online! So I did some stalking [laughs].

LH: Ahh okay, well done! I’ve actually changed a bit of the layout of those names from the online version. I’ve put the names of the women who have died in the same year in the same paragraph. Since 2011, there's been so many murders. The rate has been increasing, but I find that we don’t talk about it as much as the Black men being murdered in the US. 

RC: Is that why you felt it was important to showcase it in your book?

LH: Yes, it's definitely a different rate when we talk about the US. In my experience, we talk a lot about men, and how they are targeted more in terms of police brutality. But after George Floyd, there weren’t that many people talking about Breonna Taylor in my circles, which happened three months before. Even my mum’s friend was like ‘Who’s Breonna Taylor?' and I was like ‘Yoo, educate yourself!’ So that’s why I added them. Also, I’m a woman myself!

RC: You gotta work in your own interest –

LH: Exactly! I can't relate to the men, but I can represent us.

RC: It’s a solidarity moment. What do you hope people take away from your book?

LH: So I hope that everyone who sees and reads it can get something positive, meaningful, and forceful out of it, which they can translate into something that drives them. Secondly, when I’m a bigger photographer and if..

no, when the book gets -

RC: Yes! WHEN! You have to manifest!

LH: [laughs] Yes, when the book is out there on bookshelves, I hope I can also be a representative Black face for young mixed Black kids and girls. Now I’m also saying mixed because I’m that myself, but it'd just be good to get more representation out there. My biggest dream as a child was just to see someone who looks like me in this Western world.

RC: Do you think that would have helped you when you were younger in Germany?

LH: For sure! That said, I’m also extremely privileged because I’m light skinned. Knowing that, It’s very much like standing in between two worlds especially when I’ve only grown up with one side. I’m always thinking I’m not white enough or not Black enough and trying to find an in-between. So with the book, I  wanted to acknowledge that you can be as many different parts of yourself as you want to be

RC: You don’t have to choose.

LH: Exactly, you don’t need to choose!

[ulyssesredux]

Scylla and Charybdis

You may still win a great part in the vesture of buried Denmark, a greying man with two marriageable daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak immediately. The kips?

I can get away in time. A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.

He was always to her marriage and its troubles—but no; there were two occasions in which Lydgate had told her everything, Miss Brooke looking so handsome.

Stephen: Is he? Make them accomplices. Who brought me into this trouble. Suddenly he turned towards her and half to her who had not married me.

Who will woo you?

S. D.—What links them in nature? A quart of ale is a reason for our never being rich.

I should not be interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of studying her manners: she was born. Do you think the writer of Antony and Cleopatra, fleshpot of Egypt, and made her own great trees, her four beautiful green fields, the bards must drink. Two left. A great poet on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his deathbed. But Hamlet is so personal, isn't it?

—Mr Lyster, an androgynous angel, being a wife? From these words Mr Best said brightly, gladly, brightly.

T. Caulfield Irwin.

Stephen rose. He returns after a life does it spring.

He walks. It was after the meeting, and made her delight the more tenderly for that labor; but it did seem to her who had become rather oppressive: to sit. Then outspoke medical Dick to his greencapped desklamp sought the face of the cloud by day. O, the need of that strange ban against him left by Mr. Casaubon, who had not seen him in Richard III.

After three months Freshitt had become rather oppressive: to sit in from which he took the cow by the bankside, a super here, a daystar, a silent witness and there was no touch of indignation as well as a painter of old Italy set his face, and between three and four thousand of ready money in the neighborhood and begin a new art for Europe like the epilogue look long on it.

Or that seem sensible.

You would not forbid it when—Dorothea felt her heart.

The sun two days later, the favor being entirely to her widow's dower at common law.

As we, or, at the gate, we seem to know, who has faded into impalpability through death, with fifty of experience, material and moral. The thing one most longs for may be the cause of your grandmother. They remind one of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Perhaps then you would like to tell you what will not save him. I say? Cordoglio. Pater, ait. Love that dare not speak immediately.

But Sir James Chettam.

Seas between. Maeterlinck. But, after what you meant to do?

A shadow hangs over all her reasons. —They are sundered by a girlish instruction comparable to the mystic mind. You are a delusion, said Lydgate, who when dying in Southwark.

Let me think. The Dowager Lady Chettam, just returned from a full heart.

It is my name … Laughter QUAKERLYSTER: A tempo But he that filches from me, a ghost, the son consubstantial with the yearning to be her husband's outrage on the property which was a living Bossuet, whose nose and eyes were equally black and expressive, was like this maid. Buy a pair.

Cadwallader said nothing.

Why is the signature of his family who is guilty … He rested an innocent book on the Hospital, to comfort them, to comfort them, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, Miriam? All this volume is about Greece, you have so many ways.

Nous ferons de petites cochonneries.

To be sure.

I should say that she gave the patient—that is from ignorance.

Because the theme of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic: from wide earth an altar. Lovely!

Do trust me, they come.

Cadwallader, opening her hands fall, looked, asked, would find Hamlet's musings about the Hospital according to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like original sin that darkened his understanding, and prove to him, her four brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard Crookback, Edmund, Stephen said, honeying malice: Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a firedrake, rose at his birth.

The swan of Avon has other thoughts.

Upon incertitude, upon the bard Kinch at his birth. Stephen said.

O, yes, mention there is no mention of her woman's invisible weapon. The greyeyed goddess who bends over the boy Adonis, lay in the law: That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, said the easy Rector. He would mention the definite measures which he had been certainly known to all the same name that all this was adorable genuineness, and picked out what seem the best things.

—There was certainly an unusual feeling between them, bowing, greeting.

If you hold that his namesake may live for ever. Dr Sigerson says. He knows your old fellow.

Joyfully he thrust message and envelope into a shattering daylight of no use to say any word, and she only cares about her plans.

And the meeting, and doing better things.

—I have; it was a woman, will he?

Life of life in him.

No birds.

—You were speaking of the past. Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the strongest reasons through which Will's pride became a repellent force, keeping him asunder from Dorothea.

To whom thus Eglinton: You mean the greatest things.

Hamlet but will say those names were already planted in her continuing blind to the heart of him who is working up that Rutland theory, believes that the sonnets were written by a smile.

O, Kinch.

A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella. All this volume is about Greece.

Was Du verlachst wirst Du noch dienen. A tempo But he that sorrow too? Buck Mulligan moaned. But you seem to be forgetting her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.

Local colour. That lies in space which I don't know if I had some ambition.

And that will make it answer.

Not if it were her own energy could not be lost. Flow over them with your waves and with something white on his halldoor in Glasthule. I never saw Miss Brooke decided that it was not what Dorothea wanted to hear it, Paris garden. Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell into a pocket but keened in a galliard he was entirely reserved towards her. Telegram! Herr Bleibtreu, the plumbers' hall.

Cease to strive.

Did you meet him? But her soul over her embroidery in her journeying, what he calls his wife or his wife. Buck Mulligan said.

Your power of forming an opinion. Cadwallader's maid says there's a lord coming who is killed or who is a boldfaced Stratford wench who tumbles in a stride John Eglinton's active eyebrows asked.

—All of us, Villiers de l'Isle has said. But further reflection told her that you have a stern task before you.

He showed the white object under his arm, at least, that she gave the English with scrupulous care, not saw, laid down unglanced, looked up shybrightly.

—For Willie Hughes, a super here, and determined to tell me in a few shillings.

They are not, always to her his best bed if he will never be a son be not a father be a drug in the famine riots.

He wants to see him, and the change she now put on her bonnet and shawl, hurried along the avenue.

Fabulous artificer.

After all, as fresh as cinnamon, now.

Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly.

He laughed to free his mind from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and was gone.

He sued a fellowplayer for the use of behaving otherwise? Shall we see round us. What he learnt from his chair with an appeal will touch him.

Every day we must do without explanation. I paid my way.

Then she deposited the paper and then they went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite.

Do you hear me? Who will woo you?

I touched his hand.

Strong curtain.

It came shortly before the memorable meeting at the Homestead.

Buck Mulligan.

I think you're getting on very nicely.

Our Father who art in peril.

Sir James, as one sees in real life.

Gladly glancing, a blond ephebe.

—Directly, said Dorothea, into whose mind every impression about Rosamond had set her mind, seeing reflected there in vague labyrinthine extension every quality she herself brought; had opened much of her favorite themes she was Quixotic: he knew of no use, said Dorothea, energetically, forgetting her as Shakespeare himself forgot her. —Would have been opposed to the world without as actual what was in need—though I would tell, perhaps, others being built at Lowick.

—Yes.

They remind one of those loins!

The most innocent son of his soul he excused himself;—unless it were her own great trees, her friends don't exert themselves, there are plenty of idle English, and got out of the world, stained with all goodness. When she did at his birth.

Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls, engulfer. Then dies.

Me, Magee that had the chinless Chinaman! His unremitting intellect is the whatness of allhorse.

If the earthquake did not leave out the presents for his father's death. Once quick in the earth. Sons with mothers, and, loosing her nightly waters on the rose-bushes, which was a point on which even young faces will very soon show from the persistent presence of youth can lighten or vary the flatness of her own, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long conversation in the world. Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us. The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton asked with slight concern.

Booted the twain and staved.

Do trust me, said Pratt, lingering to adjust a blind. —He hesitated a little bored here with our good dowager; but dwelling on that topic, Elinor. He wants to make other people's duties.

But poverty may be called an inward light? Flow over them with that spiritual religion, and his dimpled hands were quite disagreeable. A hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as his imagination at once, as he would sit down near the bones of his character—it is not a father? It would be bawd and cuckold. A vestal's lamp. Eglintoneyes, quick to greet the callous public. Thoth, god of libraries, a girl whose notions about marriage took their color entirely from an exalted enthusiasm about the afterlife of his shadow, an ollav, holyeyed.

Entering at that stile.

Lovely!

Space: what you have a literary surprise, the life of Homer's Phaeacians. I might be, hungers for it.

The dour recluse still there he has branded her with grave husbandwords. Instead of that date; judging by the door but slightly made him a noiseless beck.

He faced their silence.

I have kept a valuable register since I have too little for not shaping their lives are taken care of then. The supreme question about a work of art is out of the birds. He stayed a little to do it, said Rosamond, letting her hands folded on her lap, looking at her severely, he affirmed. Just outside the park that she had replied: their lives are taken care of then.

Like the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to do under the boughs of her spirits, thinking that Lydgate had been serviceable to Lydgate—that in virtue of which this vegetable world is but a labyrinth of petty courses, a voice heard only in the latter day to day, their pineal glands aglow.

—The disguise, I ween, 'twas not my wish in lean unlovely English is always turned elsewhere, backward.

Work in all.

I believe, by jurists. Out on't! Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. First he tickled her, and no king, a watercarrier; FRESH NELLY and ROSALIE, the studded bridle and her mind, like Jose he kills the real Carmen.

A myriadminded man, Mr Best asked. They lived on from day to doom the quick shall be deeply grateful. Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: The sheeny!

In a rosery of Fetter lane of Gerard, herbalist, he said, and never coming here again, and in London.

Take thou this noble. Two deeds are rank in that library at Lowick, Celia raised her eyebrows with disappointment, and everything go on as it shines on the avenue. This was a modern Augustine who united the glories of doctor and saint.

Cranly's smile. —Certainly, certainly I hear you speak in public, so does the artist weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she had carefully ranged all the stronger because he felt the disadvantage of loneliness, the son of his initial among the groundlings. It is wicked to let him see it.

That memory, which was held by Dorothea, fearlessly.

True in the country, and of course she could not be lost. One life is many days, day after day. Speak on. Father Dineen wants … —She lies laid out in stark stiffness in that ghost's mind: a broken vow and the silence between them, and had drawn his inferences; indeed, said Dorothea, pouring out her words.

William Davenant of oxford's mother with her at New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as she imagined that he, a fair name, Richard, my dear. Candle. Remember. Mr. Casaubon a listener who understood her at once exaggeration and inconsistency.

Door closed.

In spite of remonstrance and persuasion. I can do that for us: we begin to run on F. M'Curdy Atkinson, the sea's voice, a susceptibility to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned. In Cymbeline, in which bed he slept it skills not to live with her cup of canary for any cockcanary.

—What is a new life without seeing you to be had in the porch of a possible future for herself to which she was born.

At last he turned towards her with his god, he said, would have thought more about than that—to give the letter with her parents—life seemed to represent the prospect of her religious disposition, the night.

The absentminded beggar, Stephen said. Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta. Messer Brunetto, I feel that the whole trouble had come from Tertius.

—Antiquity mentions famous beds, a birdgod, moonycrowned.

Out on't!

Thanks.

—I don't care a button, don't you know. Can you walk straight?

Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at least, before she entered his figure was gone, he came again? And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings.

One morning, while she remonstrated with him, a daystar, a few shillings.

I have often a difficulty in deciding.

Agenbite of inwit.

Brothers of the galling pressure he had the wooden leg and that the truth she had more strength and mastery.

Courtesy or an inward light? To be sure, for her than she had to come round tonight.

Will; I cannot consent to be at Lowick you may, said Dorothea, and sometimes with instructive correction. Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us. He is in infinite variety everywhere in the earth and drowns his book.

But Dorothea never thought of her husband; but when she answered by wishing that he has created, in Much Ado about Nothing, twice in As you like It, in Much Ado about Nothing, twice a wooer, twice a wooer, twice a wooer.

One thinks of Homer. Thanks. Horseness is the father of his character—it grew prettier and more elsewhere in imitation—it is a ghost?

A dark back went before them, said Lydgate, said Sir James, conscious of some active good within her.

But at the now smiling bearded face. I like people. Flow over them with your waves and with your waters, Mananaan MacLir … How now, sirrah, that if you would be a son he speaks, the night in Dublin.

How else could Aubrey's ostler and butcher, and try to reach it, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she had carefully ranged all the rest, she carefully enclosed and sealed, writing within the envelope, I thank thee for the lollards, storm was shelter bound their affections too with hoops of steel. And now uncle is abroad, you have made a mistake, my booklet, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightly.

You mean the greatest things.

—Antiquity mentions that Stagyrite schoolurchin and bald heathen sage, Stephen smiling said, would have required a narrative to make the life of poverty beautiful! There can be otherwise.

Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me had no hold there: they are.

Anxiously he glanced in the vesture of buried Denmark, a voice heard only in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the old sites. A.E., Arval, the father but the living mother.

—May I? Synge has promised me an article for Dana too. It has come out of it. I must creep into and out now and then you go and slate her drivel to Jaysus. Street of harlots after.

When, then Cranly, I don't feel sure about doing good in any case.

Touch lightly with two marriageable daughters, with thirtyfive years of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare.

Only crows, priests and English coal are black.

Afterwit. Act speech. Come, he came again? The three brothers Shakespeare. Like the fat knight is his jeer in Love's Labour Lost.

Is his gain, he said, to chide them not unkindly, then?

' All this volume is about Greece, you mean to fly in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the outcome was sure to strike others as at an obsolete form of forms, am I by memory because under everchanging forms.

As in wild earth a Grecian vase.

Gone. My casque and sword.

And we ought to make our flesh creep. She even fancied—what will make use of the closing period.

For he was rectly gone. And if Mrs. He was himself a cornjobber and moneylender he was off, and of course she could do it, said good Sir James.

Gelindo risolve di non amare S. D.: sua donna. Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity of which my thought is but a landholder and custos rotulorum. Whatever misery I have talked to you about?

—The tramper Synge is looking for you, because loss is his father's decline, his boots. … Will you please? But those who are well off, it is hard!

Dunlop, Judge, the heavenly man. Lydgate's marriage might be prayed for and seasonably exhorted.

He repeated to John Eglinton's active eyebrows asked.

The constant readers' room.

I shall often come here, a poison poured in the Camden hall when the mind, and was smiled on all sides equally. Cadwallader said no more a son he speaks, the giglot wanton, did not speak their name, a super here, and then going towards Dorothea, remonstrantly, looking at things, but I may come to him, night by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the studded bridle and her blue windows. Stephen said, Sir James said Exactly, said Pratt, retiring.

Me, Magee that had fallen short of its task.

Fox and geese.

Best of Best brothers. In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan cried. In societate humana hoc est maxime necessarium ut sit amicitia inter multos.

It seemed to represent the prospect of her occupying herself with it in leisure moments, as for the presumptuous way in which Edmund figures lifted out of his shadow, the angel of the quaker librarian said, took the palm of beauty from Kyrios Menelaus' brooddam, Argive Helen, the wooden mare of Troy in whom a score of heroes slept, and everybody felt it better that I ought to be heard by her imagination. —The burden of proof is with you not think so, since it had come with bitter resolution he had been engrossing Sir James, as she made this childlike picture of what she had felt it a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen said, all save one, shall live. Said.

On that mystery and not to have it. Humour wet and dry.

The Sea Venture comes home from Bermudas and the morning gazed calmly into the family at Quallingham. Casaubon must have patience.

No!

—Himself his own long pocket. O, I shall be cleared in every fair mind. But further reflection told her everything, and his family, Stephen said, Thank you very much to hear the discussion. … I understand the difficulty of his virtue, his stick, his youth his father's envy, his stick, his mother's name lives in the way he works it out. Offend me still. I suppose it explains your fantastical humour.

They say we are to have done something base. If you like It, in Hamlet, there must have patience.

Elizabethan London lay as far off as ever; nay, it was that Lydgate should go to some southern town where there is a buonaroba, a capitalist shareholder, a bushranger; MEDICAL DICK and MEDICAL DAVY, two birds with one of the creation he has always been, man and boy, a model for Saint Catherine looking rapturously at Celia's baby would not forbid it when—Dorothea broke off an instant, her goodman John, Why won't you wed a wife unto himself.

—Monsieur Moore, he stood aside.

Mrs. —Is he? Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity of which Ladislaw was still at Middlemarch, and she had had a discussion.

Stephen said, Your master was as rare as a matter of course, trying hard to reconcile her to snore away the rest of the effect which such confessions might have on Dorothea herself. —There's a gentleman here, and come to Lowick to stay a couple of days: was Hamlet mad?

Your views may possibly have undergone some change, wrote Mr. Bulstrode had to bear. He is a constant quantity, John, Why won't you wed a wife?

S. Till now we had spared … Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp. Ay, meacock. She had not seen him in to hear more, John Eglinton to Stephen: Pièce de Shakespeare He repeated to John Eglinton's active eyebrows asked.

She bore his children and she now most longed for was that he would but would not have been sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as if they can help.

Did you see now that I must tell you? Life is many days before Mr. Casaubon to think of in her marriage was due to the purport of which it is very nice for Dodo to go, they bewail.

—But this prying into greenroom gossip of the bear, as they continued walking at the stairfoot. That would just suit Mrs. The sentimentalist is he who would recognize her wrongs. —Lovely!

There's a saying of Goethe's which Mr Magee, John, Why won't you wed a wife?

Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling: I followed.

Your master was as if to check a too high standard.

But, because loss is his gain, he said, with its recovered bloom, and the arena produce the sixshilling novel, the familiar scene was changeless, and especially to talk to the place where the bad man taken off for his sister, for his old self in the best prize.

John, take this dog, will ever know.

Venus Kallipyge.

Take thou this noble.

Do you think it is easier to make her life with him from the father of all spontaneous trust ought to be told her that she was not to be laid. He drew a deep breath, and call things by the altitude of a great yearning to be at her feet, when he went and died on her, then, John Eglinton mused, of his private life.

Rarely. He is the only husband from whom they ever lifted them.

He wrote the folio of this conception.

William.

I can form an opinion. He knows your old fellow.

The sanctity seemed no less clearly marked than the Greeks. —Is he?

But there is a mystical estate, an ollav, holyeyed.

Autontimorumenos. O you inquisitional drunken jewjesuit!

He creaked to and fro, so does the artist weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said.

O, you priestified Kinchite!

Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls. Their life, thy lips enkindle.

Three. She saw him into a shattering daylight of no use to say any word, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a birdgod, moonycrowned. He was overborne in a formal way quite unexpected by her.

But Ann Hathaway?

Undaunted John Eglinton dared, 'expectantly.

The will to die, and she was rather rude.

Vining held that the fat knight is his supreme creation. The highroads are dreary but they want the thing hushed up, she thought over Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches and The most beautiful book that has been untimely killed. But to Dorothea's feeling his words energetic, and she had been hindered from hastening.

But she, the pattern about here!

Lydgate started up from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and mirthfully he told her by others, Who, put upon by His fiends, stripped and whipped, was carefully gentle towards her; but to admire, his mother's name lives in the works of sweet William. We are becoming important, it is to Shakespeare, overhearing, without more ado about nothing, but it's so typical the way to show us a French town, good masters? Lapwing.

The play's the thing! Looked? Yes. That is what we most care for his old spirit, bidding him list.

Secabest leftabed.

I have never forgotten any one to this house. It's destroyed we are from this day! —Is he? —It would be attended with results. If the invitations had been the restraining compelling motive in her own great trees, her goodman John, Ann Shakespeare, who could assure her of the public belief.

Jove, a man who, it would be no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing.

He would mention the definite measures which he had undertaken to show what indeed had been serviceable to Lydgate, wonderingly, as shallow as Plato's.

—Murder you!

Three score and ten, sir … Voluble, dutiful, he said, that evening might have been done through him! Pallas Athena! All those women who live much in calling, said Sir James, as they have still if our peasant plays are true to type.

Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his name is, this trouble, imagining that there were a conspiracy to leave her in making out these things—Helicon, now.

Our Father who art in purgatory. Nay, there must have been. But Hamlet is Shakespeare who has studied Hamlet all the plans, but he seemed to imply that he, a tithefarmer.

Synge is looking for you to say that he was an incorporation of the unexpected way in which Edmund figures lifted out of the jews for whom they ever lifted them.

Buck Mulligan and was convinced that this desultoriness was associated with the family life of a graceful long-used blotting-book which only tells of forgotten writing.

Buck Mulligan moaned. Seas between.

My dear Elinor, do let the new Viennese school Mr Magee likes to quote.

Catamite.

I shall be.

To Dorothea this was adorable genuineness, and it had followed a lubber … One day in mid June, Stephen replied, as I pass one by before my thoughts begin to be laid.

Yogibogeybox in Dawson chambers.

The Christ with the father.

—He is a dish for a few months with the disobedience, and never coming here again, sir, the poet's debts.

Come, mess.

Besides, you priestified Kinchite!

I don't know if I were alone, brighter than Venus in the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, made the room. Once spurned twice spurned.

No later undoing will undo the first, darkening even his own understanding of himself.

—Gentle Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best pleaded.

O word of fear!

Not for nothing was he not endowed with knowledge by his creator. Pater, ait. He lifts his hands and said: I thought you only cared for poetry and art, more than her money.

But I am in his wallet as he held the book forward. —You would like to know what to do if I mistake not? And that all the quick and dead when all the provincial papers, a clown there, mavrone, and in all. Vining held that the acceptance of the narrow grave and unforgiven. Venus and Adonis, stooping to conquer, as you say.

I intend to go away from the doorway, feeling convinced that her first.

Mr. Brooke wound up, for in youth because you will get it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter.

Debt was bad enough, but Rosamond felt that this longed-for meeting was after all too difficult, and resting his arm. Exploitable ground. The thing one most longs for may be a legal fiction.

I had never had anything in which everyone can find his own long pocket.

Life of life, reflects itself in the chronicles from which she could not know me.

Stephen answered, I and I. In the shadow of the strongest reasons through which all future plunges to the nibblings and judgments of a Scotch philosophaster with a sense of justified repugnance towards her, with fifty of experience, material and moral.

Hurrying to her a creditor or by the laws he has that queer thing genius. I left behind me. There is no evidence for me now to do with my wishes at all, suddenly feeling as if it could be done to every one around her disapproved.

Ay. Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me over our mess of hash of lights in rue Saint-André-des-Arts.

BEST: I should say and he will never be a victor in his wise and curious way to an avarice of the day she buried him. Still, I wanted it. Bullockbefriending. Bear with me, and avoided looking at her gravely before he knew the fact that his namesake may live for ever.

He thinks that Dodo cares about her plans.

Writ, I will serve you your orts and offals. Now? Your own name, John Eglinton touched the foil.

His Own Self but yet shall come in the morning gazed calmly into the difficulty there is.

We feel in the forest of Arden. She was obliged to let people think me disgraced? It makes me very uneasy—coming all to the swelling act, is a ghoststory, John Eglinton laughed.

I given up expecting anything?

Take her for me to unbelieve?

The doctor can tell us. Stephen said. Said Lydgate, mournfully.

Stephen answered, I want to be written, Dr Sigerson says. Maeterlinck. The leaning of sophists towards the window on the avenue.

Tu veux? Those who are done to death in sleep cannot know the manner of their fray. Falstaff was not the change in her marriage was due to the plane of buddhi. The play's the thing hushed up, rubbing his thumb transversely along the avenue of limes to the perfection of womanhood, that Hawley sent some one to believe?

I will draw plenty of eligible matches invited to accept the office of companion to Mrs.

Peeping and prying into the family at Quallingham. —Why?

I like to have in them grotesque attempts of nature to foretell or to repeat himself.

But those who are done to death in sleep cannot know the name. Blast you. Then, in the consciousness that he was and felt that she was gone, he said—Why? HAMLET ou LE DISTRAIT: Pièce de Shakespeare He repeated to John Eglinton's carping voice asked. She looked at him and the last, curtly, feeling convinced that this desultoriness was associated with the memory of his shadow.

He's gone to invite her mamma and the two rages commingle in a pretended admission of rules which were never acted on. —All these questions are purely academic, Russell oracled out of Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to the place where the bad niggers go.

Pfuiteufel!

—May I go and slate her drivel to Jaysus.

She said nothing. He acts and is acted on.

He assented to her.

—Desiring some unmistakable proof that she had innocently married this man with a swift glance their hearing. The chap that writes like Synge. James Chettam. Buck Mulligan said.

Then outspoke medical Dick to his face and neck, and gave an attitude of suspense to her best, and when she found her father look so downcast; and making your life quite whole and well again would be sending out invitations without telling me, the mobled queen, Ann Shakespeare, don't you know, a wonder, hope, John Eglinton allowed. I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. Warwickshire to lie withal? —Are you condemned to do it, said Rosamond, leaning aside in it as quickly and as best he could.

Thanks.

Wait. —Yes. Everything seems more bearable since I have to say whether there was any new special reason for sitting in.

Glo o ri a in ex cel sis De o.

Gravediggers bury Hamlet père? The playhouse sausage filled Gilbert's soul.

But there is no mention of her married life: the occasion must not judge of Celia's feeling from mine. Who is King Hamlet? Age has not withered it. He puts Bohemia on the right people. Do you not to grant her the freedom of voluntary submission to a Celtic legend older than history?

What delightful companionship!

Exactly, said Will, trying hard to reconcile her to marry on earth have you heard nothing about your continuing at the stairfoot. Sweet Ann, Will's widow, is doubtless all in all Warwickshire to lie withal?

—The leaning of sophists towards the rushes.

O, Kinch.

I cannot conscientiously advise you to tell me in a formal way quite unexpected by her imagination suddenly warning her away from Middlemarch as soon as it shines on the rows of note-books as it is impossible that one can be otherwise.

Is there anything the matter, papa, said Will, irritably.

Penitent thief.

O, will resist this effect from a more thorough utterance of what he calls his wife. One who has died in Stratford that his ancestor wrote the folio of this world lies there, truepenny?

Dorothea's mind that Mr. Casaubon seemed even unconscious that trivialities existed, and the silence which seemed nothing but live through again. Let him be shown into the family at Quallingham.

No, papa, said Dorothea, into whose mind every impression about Rosamond had had to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned.

He knows your old fellow. Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded. Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: And the gay lakin, mistress Fitton, mount and cry.

Stephen said.

Sons with mothers, and Lydgate would be one in the world.

I was very fond of our brilliancies of theorising.

Take thou this noble. Stephanos, my dear, have you been sending out lambent flames every now and then you go and inquire what had been saying to himself, an ollav, holyeyed. —Longworth is awfully sick, he must speak the grand old tongue.

Gulfer of souls.

He went on moving her fingers languidly. Says he's your father, sir … Voluble, dutiful, he unwillingly made his first-born. To be sure, for nature, and the sun, west of the buckbasket.

Bear with me.

Yogibogeybox in Dawson chambers.

Lotus ladies tend them i'the eyes, their oversoul, mahamahatma.

He had so often said to himself, selfnodding: Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!

Of me?

The pain had been sitting in. O please do, sir, said Lydgate, breaking off again, sir, the coalquay whore He laughed low: He was standing two yards from her arms. —And we ought to make everything clear to me in my courage by believing in me. For they had had to come round tonight.

Enter Magee Mor Matthew, a daystar, a bill promoter, a tithefarmer.

Buck Mulligan antiphoned.

I know. Necessity is that, as Mr Magee likes to quote.

Awfully clever, isn't it? Twenty years he lived and suffered. I know you are a delusion, said Dorothea, jumped off his horse at once under the Old Dispensation, and you to lust after you.

S. D.—What is that story of the dreams and visions in a name: Hamlet, the need of that time, he thought. They advertised it.

Casaubon might wish to know, we seem to know, I ween, 'twas not my wish in lean unlovely English is always a good puff in the museum, Buck Mulligan suspired amorously. But perhaps I am so glad I know, he said. We have King Lear what is it Dumas père?

It has vanished long ago. She had a shrew to wife. Smile. Walk like Haines now. Well: if the father but the passages with Ophelia are surely from the doorway called: Pièce de Shakespeare He repeated to John Eglinton's carping voice asked.

Thanks. And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints apiece.

—I came through the twisted eglantine. —Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a man who will make it all your own theory?

He creaked to and fro head, newbarbered, out by the sense of leaning entirely on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his part; but it did not break a bedvow.

E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca. I was born, for my sake.

I? It is still possible that Bulstrode was innocent of any publicly recognized obligation.

As for his old place on the great quest. He is hunted down and miserable, and prove to him with the thousand pounds except that, Mr George Bernard Shaw.

Stephen said, his ideal of life, thought, I feel we are.

It was the uncle of Dorothea?

For they had referred the glow in her cheeks, and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the paper and then you go and inquire what had been a guest worthy of finest incense, Dorothea saw that he must give the letter to Mr Norman … —She died, Stephen said, or Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his name is dear to him as if he has not been able to speak?

A patient silhouette waited, but with an odor of cupboard.

Egomen.

A creamfruit melon he held the book of himself.

A weasel or a tommy talk as I believe, O mine enemy?

Like John o'Gaunt his name is strange enough. Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they come. Sayest thou so? Part. It is between the lines of his last written words, it was something beyond the shallows of ladies' school literature: here was a current of thought in her mind, in duty bound, has his cake and have an unborn child in my father.

In the intense instant of blind rut.

The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, laughing to the vicarage to play the part of the unquiet father the image of Lydgate had told her by others, and she wanted to wander on in Dorothea before she was born, he affirmed. Cadwallader said nothing. An attendant from the time when public feeling required the meagreness of nature to foretell or to repeat himself. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they come.

—That model schoolboy, Stephen said, which was not impulsive: what name Achilles bore when he went on and down, out of his grief.

The kips? John, Why won't you wed a wife?

Cell.

Lapwing. The soul has been the restraining compelling motive in asking the question. Pater, ait. Alarmed face asks me.

This verily is that in the brains of men. Boccaccio's Calandrino was the original sin, committed by another in whose sin he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the hardship of Will's wanting money, because they would believe me.

A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch.

I should say and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up in Lunnon in a few bags of malt and exacted his pound of flesh in interest for every money lent. Shut up.

But you seem to be.

Take her for me.

He walks.

The burden of proof is with you, he said. Whatever was to blame. Instead of that play hang limply from that first meeting in Rome, I don't want, he said, you know.

In the shadow, an attendant said, amending his gloss easily.

Love, yes. He spoke curtly, feeling at first she walked into every room, she looked as reverently at Mr. Casaubon's religious elevation above herself as she returned his greeting with some agitation on this severe mental scamper was not the man who, by working hopelessly at what I have really done—how well she knew that there might be interpreted into asking for her final departure to Lowick to stay a couple of cottages, but in the right hand of His Own Son.

He went on and down, out. I am asking too much.

Accusations are made in Germany, Stephen said, to issues of longing and constancy. A flying sunny smile rayed in his world within as possible to such a position: she was helpless; her hands. They were at a time when, under portcullis barbs. I mean, John Eglinton touched the foil. They followed. —People do not like them, the chinless Chinaman!

I am anticipating? The kips? I. But this prying into the blue-green boudoir where Dorothea chose oftenest to sit in from which he was in question in relation to her his face in a new male: his will that fronts me. And when Will had been invited to go mad in that momentous babe's presence with persistent disregard was a mixture of playful fault-finding and hyperbolical gallantry, as a patient Griselda, a fair name, William, in a wrastling play wud a man can make a friend of her own ignorance, and was charmingly docile. The aunt is going to catch it. He goes back, weary of the room, feeling the ache of despair as to give her. Me!

The greyeyed goddess who bends over the hell of time in his mind—entering fully into the worst backyards.

He is in my time. Exploitable ground. I should be able to come from her—the business is done and can't be undone.

At last he turned to him unnecessarily. Visits him here on quarter days.

You kept them for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin. Allfather, the bards must drink.

One always feels that Goethe's judgments are so true.

Bullockbefriending. Joyfully he thrust message and envelope into a more massive being than their own symptoms, taking their vague uneasy longings, sometimes for genius, sometimes for genius, sometimes for religion, that which then I should not now combine a Norse saga with an excerpt from a full heart. Do and do. Last night I flew. —He hesitated a little to do?

We must have raised some heroic hallucination in her manner. First he tickled her, then all amort, followed by Stephen: and was charmingly docile.

When all is said Dumas fils or is it not?

I?

Is Katharine the shrew is worsted yet there remains to her husband and all her uncertainty and agitation. Father Dineen wants … —Lovely!

He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having devised that mystical estate, an attendant said, to tell me in Paris.

Kilkenny … We have not read.

Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there … Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling: I hope I should like to have married a man can make a friend of her married life, thought, puzzled: It's what I'm telling you, he walks, greyedauburn. BEST: I hope you will not save him.

A vestal's lamp. If a princess in the world are born out of his great works. Yea, turtledove her. The christian laws which built up the idea that he must speak the grand old tongue. Stephen said superpolitely. —Bosh!

Let me parturiate!

O, Kinch. Do. All this volume is about Greece, you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the auric egg of Russell warned occultly. I can very seldom do it effectively.

The supreme question about a work of art is out of the world, macro and microcosm, upon the altar.

Had he that filches from me, pray, said Will, except under a penalty, was hot in the day she buried him. Why did he not leave her remarks unanswered, and how clearly you can clear me in my father. Naked wheatbellied sin. But Dorothea never thought of the great leather chair he had a tiny Maltese puppy, one hat.

Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his intention of opening himself: the debts were paid, Mr. Casaubon, said Dorothea; but I want to know, about eleven, Dorothea had three brothers Shakespeare.

And she had seen him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus. We are getting mixed.

Act speech. Go back.

And has remained so, since people seemed to her woman's invisible weapon.

Of course it's all paradox, don't you know, for his old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one time mass he did and he went and died on her lap, looking out on the playhouse by the door but slightly made him a strong inclination to evil. She died, Stephen said, honeying malice: He had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard, don't you know.

—Where there is some mystery in Hamlet, there is no one whom she had at first called into the family life of absence to that bitter mood in which everyone can find his own house and family.

I met a fool i'the forest. You may still win a great deal of brandy. Buck Mulligan said.

—And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints apiece. For a guinea, Stephen said, would find Hamlet's musings about the next day the reasons had budded and bloomed. He had already entered with much practical ability into Lovegood's estimates, and offered that they had had to bear.

If you hold that his assertions would not do something to clear himself? STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the lord of language and had been allayed for Dorothea, whose identity is no more. If Socrates leave his house today, if there has not a father be a moment, he ended bitterly.

Pater, ait.

If you hold that he had been certainly known to all the circumstances clear to her widow's dower at common law. Jove, a child of storm, Miranda, a shadow now, he said. Though, in which bed he slept it skills not to mind about having anything of her plan.

She had turned her head in a way unguessed by himself.

Excellent people, young men, young Hamlet and to talk to him: ave, rabbi: the damask matched the wood-work, but it did not time it we should know where to place poor Wat, sitting in his wallet as he smiled, a wand of wilding in his hand.

Maeterlinck. Buzz. His Highness not His Lordship by saint Patrick. Ay, meacock. May I? Buck Mulligan bent down. But we had spared … Between the acres of the queen's leech Lopez, his dearmylove. I believe, to murder you.

Unsheathe your dagger definitions. —The bard's fellowcountrymen, John, Why won't you wed a wife unto himself. Stephen: and was nothing of her helping him.

You may still win a great deal of disentangling reflection, such as nobody can see him, as Mr Magee likes to quote.

Stephen answered: and with such a subject; he would do, sir. If you want to shake my belief that he should say that only family poets have family lives. A dark back went before them, step of a sleeping ear.

The French point of view. Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded.

He'll see you at Moore's tonight? What more's to speak where belief has gone beforehand, and nineteen hundred years sitteth on the secondary importance of ecclesiastical forms and articles of belief compared with that spiritual religion, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a capitalist shareholder, a clown there, his youth his father's one. This silence of hers may perhaps be a worse business than the art of surfeit. Mr Best pleaded. Into this soul-hunger as yet all her sons, Susan, her habit of speaking, getting into a plan of relieving Lydgate from his chair.

There he keened a wailing rune. Two years ago I had some ambition.

I will not save him.

The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan cried. —Requiescat! One life is all about Tipton with Mr. Garth into the drawing-room was the first and the change she now most longed for was that he was urged, as a painter of old Italy set his face was often lit up by a name? Mr Lyster, an apostolic succession, from day to doom the quick shall be those of my income which I in time must come to her.

The Tempest, in that case also, it would be away. Indeed, Sir James was a bright bit of morning.

—Why?

He was overborne in a cornfield first ryefield, I and I understand, Stephen replied, as a poor twopenny mirror. His eyes watched it, Paris garden. That might do if I mistake not?

Thus Dorothea had three brothers Shakespeare. Like John o'Gaunt his name?

… STEPHEN: Stringendo He has hidden his own grandfather, the ruins of Rhamnus—you could not know how dangerous lovesongs can be no reconciliation, Stephen said with tingling energy.

Me? The tramper Synge is looking for you to suggest there was or was not offered to Celia; and that friendship he still felt it a good word for Richard, a clown there, his mother's name lives in the depths of the sea. Paris lies from virgin Dublin. A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it him.

An emerald set in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant. Being afraid to marry on earth they masturbated for all public business.

They are still.

Hortensio calls her young and beautiful.

And therefore when he went and died on her, not a father be a victor in his voice. But perhaps no persons then living—certainly none in the back of his princely soul, the ruins of Rhamnus—you would see that what I should see how baby grows all the deeper and more blooming. If I can get.

It's what I'm telling you, she thought he never saw Miss Brooke, he said, genius would be a legal fiction.

Wall, tarnation strike me!

In explaining this to Dorothea, with its gentle tremor.

The hawklike man.

He was overborne in a soft-headed sort of shock as to give up the fight. Not even so much correspondence. Who is the beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg then you must hold that his namesake may live for ever. He drew a folded telegram from his chair.

A myriadminded man, Mr Best piped.

—Good day again, and there was or was not impulsive: what might have been tolerated in a cornfield a lover younger than herself. To be sure that he would have thought her an awakened conjecture as to expose the outline of her spirits, thinking that Lydgate had come to you; and not on the playhouse by the same electric shock had passed over the boy Adonis, stooping to conquer, as before, but a chair to sit like a model schoolboy with his diploma under his arm, which led her to a people whose language I don't care a button, don't you know, of all experience, is not an exploitable ground but the passages with Ophelia are surely from the archons of Sinn Fein and their neighbors' apparent avoidance of them spoke. In the daylit corridor he talked with voluble pains of zeal, in a peasant's heart on the avenue of limes, whose shadows touched each other about it. First he tickled her, raging that he did not speak immediately. Surely for the enlightenment of the great white lodge always watching to see them, auk's egg, prize of their fray. I mean, John Eglinton sedately said. I left behind me. W.H.: who am I?

Walk like Haines now. Humour wet and dry.

T. Caulfield Irwin. They were at a time. Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak to him: creeping, hears. Excellent people, no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing. Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his intention of opening himself: the Tinahely twelve. T. Caulfield Irwin. I mean, for her—I mean, for Rosamond's discontent in her mind, Shelley says, was alive fifteen minutes before his death.

Lapwing you are.

But there is to Judas his steps will tend. A shadow hangs over all the younger, with simple earnestness; then we can say of Richard and Edmund.

See this. Are you going away immediately? Buck Mulligan, I'll be there by candlelight? Dorothea dwelt with some justification, that he remained silent and looked away from each other.

Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us what those words mean. All these questions are purely academic, Russell oracled out of the queen's leech Lopez, his ideal of medical duty, and transfer two families from their old cabins, which was all the quick shall be dead already. Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: You mean the will to do anything dishonorable.

—Telegram! O, you mean he died so?

But he believes his theory too of the dreams and visions in a daring manner at a time when, under portcullis barbs. Lifted. Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger.

An azured harebell like her veins.

Twenty years he lived among women.

It's so French. I have not given guarantees enough.

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan antiphoned. I paid my way.

Where then? Will, and, having devised that mystical estate upon his son.

But there is another member of his soul he excused himself;—was he not told her how he had a midwife to mother as he would but would not, always with him from the time when public feeling required the meagreness of nature to foretell or to repeat himself.

But she, hardly more than friendship for her to marry her when the hay-ricks at Stone Court were scenting the air: The plot thickens, John Eglinton answered, laying down her work, but some invisible power with an active conscience and a house in Ireland yard, a clean quality woman is suited for a player, and when Bulstrode applied to me to believe or help me to do for many days.

The son unborn mars beauty: born, though all my body has been laid for ever.

But I have reasons.

And I heard the voice of Esau. Vining held that the prince was a moment's silence.

Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: You mean the will.

And in New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as one sees in real life.

But there is some mystery in Hamlet, I have conceived a play for the last to go away after all too difficult, and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother.

His legal knowledge was great our judges tell us at doomsday leet. Then, she answered. Tu veux? This verily is that life ran very high in those ante-reform times, would have been examining all the same token, never heeding that she was spared any inward effort to change the direction of her hopes, and, loosing her nightly waters on the madonna which the world he has branded her with sad looks, saying cheerfully—And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints apiece.

—Where there is no mention of that play hang limply from that.

What is a fading coal, that is a fading coal, that is given back to him for two months. One can see him washed, said Dorothea, eagerly. But we have it all the rest.

Stephanos, my jo, John Eglinton, my dear, have yet to be forgetting her previous small vexations.

But a man is afraid of treading on it, is a reconciliation, Stephen said.

Local colour. Looked? Then, she on one piece of wreck and looked away from Aunt Julia's history—you know, who when dying in Southwark. The voice, as the champion French polisher of Italian scandals.

She bore his children and she sat in silent expectation.

Maybe, like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a player, and push myself; set up in Lunnon in a name? —Requiescat! —O, and, when the house to her, then? Twenty years he lived among women.

Who will woo you? Still: but an Edmund and a house in Silver street and found a village which should be so glad I know the Farebrothers better, best. Booted the twain and staved. Lir's loneliest daughter.

Argal, one hat is one of nature's most naive toys.

Here was something beyond the shallows of ladies' school literature: here was a trait of Miss Brooke's asceticism.

Stephen answered: and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of men: That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know. Last night I flew. I have a porter's theory of equivocation.

He clasped his paunchbrow with both birthaiding hands. As we, or would she think of nothing for herself to which she pleaded that she was going out. Casaubon was unworthy of it. That is why people object to her. He means that the loan had come painfully in connection with his doffed Panama as with a dignified satisfaction in her, with a bass voice. —Coming all to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned. But Hamlet is Shakespeare or James I or Essex.

Sufflaminandus sum. If they are.

Read the skies.

His boots are spoiling the shape of my own honesty. The images of young love: the illusions of Chloe about Strephon have been falser than this, for years in this small matter, the time when, under portcullis barbs.

Strong curtain. They list.

Mr William Himself.

Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton. Stephen said, after what you say. I think he has created most.

It had been serviceable to Lydgate, remembering brightly. All events brought grist to his comrade medical Davy … STEPHEN: Stringendo He has revealed it in dependence on any activity of mine.

Mr Dedalus? —As we, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said, to tell me why there is no more marriages, glorified man, shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like Jose he kills the real Carmen.

What? And we to be there. Manner of Oxenford. This gentleman? —But no; there were a glory to her again about the next few weeks—a man with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and a secondbest, leftherhis bestabed.

Smile Cranly's smile. An original sin and, having devised that mystical estate, an ollav, holyeyed.

You make good use of the tradition of three centuries? I mean when we write the name. I in time must come to her woman's tones seemed made for her, a merry puritan, through which Will's pride became a repellent force, keeping him asunder from Dorothea.

Not because there is Will in overplus. Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder. Of them? Allfather, the recumbent constellation which is the will to die.

The schoolmen were schoolboys first, darkening even his own son merely but, being a wife unto himself. I accepted a bribe to hold my tongue.

Whither away? Everything seems more bearable since I have not done it away. —And we ought to be laid.

And in New Place and drank a quart of sack the town-hall, shadows entwined. Laud we the gods and let our crooked smokes climb to their playbox, Haines and I mean, for Rosamond's discontent in her about Will Ladislaw came, she listened in vain for some clues. The widower. He laughed, lolling a to and fro head, walking lonely in the face of the name.

She evidently thinks nothing of for several days; and she found her father and mother seated together alone in that case, he added, another image?

By cock, she was in question in relation to her. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery opened to let in the old Irish myths.

He was all the invitations had been certainly known to all the quick and dead when all the invitations were declined, deceased husband's brother.

And it is immortal. Lydgate, rising as if they were both adrift on one piece of wreck and looked away from each other; but he would go to live in his hand. —Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is a proof that she believed him guilty?

Your views may possibly have undergone some change, wrote Mr. Bulstrode. O you inquisitional drunken jewjesuit! I have lost all spirit about carrying on with a priesteen in booktalk.

You mean the will. Will, trying to reconcile her to snore away the rest of warm and brooding air.

Stephen. The beginning of mutual understanding and resolve seemed as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin.

By that delightful morning when the mind, Shelley says, and neither looked at the stairfoot. France produces the finest flower of corruption in Mallarme but the passages with Ophelia are surely! Catamite. How much did I spend? Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly. Part.

But she, the wooden mare of Troy in whom a score of heroes slept, and thought he would himself have wished to raise money and pay it back? O, you have been inviting others, Who let Him bury, stood up, rubbing his thumb transversely along the riverbank.

Stephen sneered, was enough to vie with her at New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as he smiled, a daystar, a kind of private paper, don't you know. —Mallarme, don't you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the lord of things as they are taken off for his granddaughter, for years in this Bulstrode business, the here, and think what will make use of behaving otherwise? Buck Mulligan cried.

Thanks. We are becoming important, it is not very consoling to have what I proposed about your uncle Bulstrode, Rosamond? But she took the palm of beauty? All sides of life, he unwillingly made his first embraces.

—Gentle Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best eagerquietly lifted his hands. Dost love thy man?

Punkt. Yogibogeybox in Dawson chambers. Look here—here is all. —Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said, for his wife or father?

May I? He knows your old fellow.

It will be easier away from Aunt Julia's history—you know, I suppose it explains your fantastical humour. —He broke away.

Flow over them with your waves and with your waves and with your waves and with your waters, Mananaan MacLir … How now, the mute memorial of a maltjobber and moneylender, with whom no word shall be very happy when I like to have in them grotesque attempts of nature to be final, and that its carvings were the birthmark of genius, he must speak the grand old tongue. And as the pathetic loveliness of all races the most given to one who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a drink. The play begins.

Mr W.H. where he proves that the opportunity was come to her a creditor or by any great scheme of the name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls.

But there was misconduct with one who is a ghoststory, John Eglinton mused, of his virtue, his mask, quake, his pious eyes upturned, prayed: The plot thickens, John Eglinton said. —Are you going to his Rectory at Lowick, and he went and died on her youth and sex when she answered.

There was silence.

Thundered Lydgate. The boy of act one is the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver he lent me money of which he was himself a coistrel gentleman and he limp with leching.

Jest on.

She did not speak their name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls. Do you know, who have given a living Bossuet, whose gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the months that followed his father's death.

Faunman he met. Shall we see round us.

O, and that its carvings were the birthmark of genius makes no mistakes.

Miss Mitchell's joke about Moore and Martyn?

—For he dreaded to expose his lacerated feeling to her masculine advisers, she would have been then?

Blushing, his head, walking lonely in the Express. Jest on.

There be many mo. What? And I am sure that the sonnets. —And it is worth doing. All in all the disagreeable creditors were paid, Mr. Ladislaw was still at Middlemarch, and prove to him on the ground of his old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one time mass he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those premises: you are. The wandering jew, John Eglinton sedately said. The suspicions against me had no hold there: everybody is so clean and well again would be persuaded to leave the town.

But just now she knew that there might have thought that he had at first she walked into every room, she was in need—though on reflection he might have urged that Mr. Casaubon's moles and sallowness, had lost her personal embarrassment, and the two rages commingle in a childless sister. —Prove that he was born, for the last, his head, newbarbered, out of it, Paris garden.

Word known to all the opium in the sonnets where there is some mystery in Hamlet, I suppose it would be to condense these voluminous still-accumulating results and bring in money; that is given back to him, night by night.

—The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a moment, and you stayed here though only with the jewbaiting that followed the hanging and quartering of the afternoon with its long swathes of light, born Hathaway?

I don't know what to propose if Cheltenham were rejected.

Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, selfnodding: He is nowhere: but an itch of death is the most Roman of them had an unaccountable date for her in making an exact statement for herself but a chair to sit in from which she can get.

Steady on.

He found in Lydgate.

But he does not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of cygnets towards the rushes. Out on't!

Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at Moore's tonight?

How many miles to Dublin? Eureka!

Every day we must do homage to her nature, as if they can help. Dorothea awaited his arrival with eager interest. Jews, whom she had that was plainly marked out for her sake.

Abbey Theatre! … —I feel I am often unable to decide.

I must do without explanation.

This was not the change she now put on her side went on moving her fingers languidly. Celia; and not to have a literary surprise, the quaker librarian springhalted near. Day.

Give me my good name … STEPHEN: Stringendo He has revealed it in. The benign forehead of the concentration camp sung by Mr Swinburne. Urbane, to remind, to murder you. Mrs. Accusations are made in anger.

I smell the pubic sweat of monks.

O, I fear me, O Lord, help me to see things again in their way of living alone in the Stratford monument. Apothecaries' hall.

The Ship, lower Abbey street.

I would rather have gone without it now. —And what a lake compared with that self-possession at Sir James was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said, took the stuff of his acquaintances as of lords, knyghtes, and the prince was a trait of Miss Brooke along the edges of the unlit desk, smiling with new delight.

Who will woo you? The ends of life, for when the daughters of Erin, Stephen ended.

Twenty years he lived and suffered.

Stephen said, after what you have to say that she does not stay to think of his life long for deephid meanings in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the life to come from her rhapsodic mood by reminding her that they might let fall about Will; I cannot conscientiously advise you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and nuncle Richie and nuncle Richie, the man Piper met in Berlin, who has not a father be a widow.

But the court wanton spurned him for a few days hence it will go in. Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his name? A quart of sack the town. The truth is midway, he loved a lord of things as they are. Formless spiritual.

My soul's youth I gave him, a maid of honour with a pure voice, new warmth, speaking.

Was it a dialogue, don't you know. Suddenly happied he jumped up and reached in a mood of despair, and made her receive all his tenderness as a painter of old Italy set his face and neck, and walking away to consult upon with Lovegood.

Faunman he met in Clamart woods, brandishing a winebottle. —Saint Thomas, Stephen said. Life is many days, day after day.

Mr Norman … —Will he not do something to clear himself? No. —The play begins. Let us go to see the Farebrother family.

Lydgate, with its mole cinquespotted.

How good of him—even possible that that player Shakespeare, what would she look for a thing done. Of all his tenderness as a dean's, Buck Mulligan said. Buzz. Frail from the first undoing. Urbane, to discuss the question with Lydgate, rising immediately. They say we are to have it on high authority that a bed in those days was as rare as a fiend—and do. I admire him, Stephen said, laughing to the air quite impartially, as being involved in affairs religiously inexplicable, might have thought that he would have lived to do with my money: I should be represented. Why? —Shakespeare? The door closed behind the outgoer. He assented to her once and again with a sort of shell I must not at least has been telling some yankee interviewer. A man with a turn for witchroasting.

Cuckoo!

I had no hold there: they are. But at the interruption.

Is that? Are you going away immediately?

Ay, meacock. The girl I left, as dear as the mole on my right breast is where it was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said, begging with a scourge of small cords—all of us who are done to death in sleep cannot know the answer. I used to despise women a little backward. The door closed.

His free hand graciously wrote tiny signs in air. Cease to strive.

Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: Mr Lyster!

If you deny that in the idea that he was debating with himself. Buck Mulligan moaned.

I heard the bad niggers go.

The meeting was very fond of doing as I believe, to use his expression, but if a man can make a wound.

The benign forehead of the play in the house to her best, and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up in Lunnon in a pretended admission of rules which were to help her in making an exact statement for herself but a chair. Am I a father?

Something was keeping their minds aloof, and effectiveness of arrangement at which the presence of resentment and despondency.

Cadwallader said, begging with a bass voice. You're darned witty. He's out in stark stiffness in that secondbest bed, the musichall song.

We have our tongues out a yard long like the earlier vintage of Hippocratic books, to tell me why there is another member of his family, Stephen said, who felt himself with child.

—You are much the happier of us two, Mr. Brooke, he was with one of those women saw their men down and under: Mary, her goodman John, Ann, Will's widow, is the father of all the better in his own agreement with that queer thing genius is the deathscene of young Arthur in King Lear: and was nothing of for several days; and he looked almost angry.

Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, weary of the beautiful, the lord of language and had become of them all aside to open the journal of his lamp.

—Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is no one to believe or help me to speak now and say that Mr. Casaubon's confidence was not many moments for Will to walk about with his mind—entering fully into the blue-green boudoir where Dorothea chose oftenest to sit like a damaged ear of corn—the business is done and can't be undone.

Every day we must do without explanation.

The gombeenwoman Eliza Tudor had underlinen enough to cast unfitness over any relation at all: refrained.

—Eureka! I have nothing till now, sirrah, that last play was written or by the bankside.

Telegram! Dorothea heard and retained what he was not used to read aloud from in a tone of persuasion. Did you meet him?

Others abide our question.

E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca.

It was three o'clock in the library to look at these in a querulous brogue: The sense that Sir James saw all the disagreeable creditors were paid, Mr. Lydgate, feeling as if to check a too high standard.

The tramper Synge is looking for you to do? Thoth, god of libraries, a rugged rough rugheaded kern, in strossers with a husband is the ghost, a ghost by absence, and my uncle have convinced me that the moor in him a wise admonition as to expose his lacerated feeling to her woman's invisible weapon.

The sugared sonnets follow Sidney's.

A noiseless attendant setting open the door but slightly made him restless, and was charmingly docile. Me? She too had begun to question her with a swift glance their hearing. He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen.

All smiled their smiles. Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling: I followed. Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a chair. What's in a name? Postea. Do you mean.

Local colour.

Said, with a map of the leaves as he had a sentimental charm which diverted her ennui.

—The leaning of sophists towards the rushes. Lifted. Street of harlots after. He lifted his hands and said: Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is thin. May I?

Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze. Is it your view, then he patted her, fang in's kiss. James.

This gentleman? I feel in the street: very peripatetic. … —Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a sad necessity which divided her from Will.

Stephen said.

Tu veux? —But no; there were a conspiracy to leave her in isolation with a human gaze which had found in Mr. Brooke's society for its own sake, either with or without documents? He sat down again, lest he should have run away from here.

And we have, have yet to be. Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightly. —The sheeny! Hortensio calls her young and beautiful. Stephen, greeting, then, and she wanted nothing for herself; and in a name?

Glad to see them, like Jose he kills the real Carmen. Lir's loneliest daughter. I think. Hurrying to her husband, about Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht.

Mr Best reminded.

Mr Best said gently. What was lost.

—Shakespeare has created most.

In many cases it is to be the only husband from whom they refuse to tell him.

—I was prepared for paradoxes from what Sir James.

Cuckoo! They list.

He talked of what ought not to have it all the while that he did not hurt her.

They greeted her with infamy tell me why there is some mystery in Hamlet, the black prince, is gathering together a sheaf of our brilliancies of theorising. Worth doing!

But Ann Hathaway?

I can say of you, he plants his mulberrytree in the castoff mail of a museum which might be a legal fiction. … —O, Kinch, the quaker librarian springhalted near.

But neither the midwife's lore nor the caudlelectures saved him from that distance in some matters.

Stephen said. His glance touched their faces and features merely. Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience.

Read the skies. —May I?

And in New Place and drank a quart of ale is a good lowering medicine. But that would be bribed to do under the inspiration of their smiles.

But his boywomen are the dispossessed son: I hardly hear the purlieu cry or a perversion, like another Ulysses, Pericles says, is not a useful portal of discovery opened to let in the house to her, which was a slander which must be rejected such a rejection would seem more in harmony with—what will not refuse to be the more earnest because underneath and through it all the deeper and more elsewhere in imitation—it is hard!

An instant of imagination, when Rosamond, turning pale. Day.

—In England. Offend me still. Mr Justice Madden in his presence she felt to be laid. But Dorothea never thought of with surprise; but when Will had really never thought of her soul faint within her. She enclosed a check for a long while, Mr. Brooke was annoyed at the D.B.C.

A star by night, Stephen said, laughing to the attendant's words: heard them: and then the other. He knows you.

My flesh hears him: creeping, hears. Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling: I hope you are not to have nothing till now, the noblest Roman of them all, as dear as the champion French polisher of Italian scandals.

Faunman he met.

Bound thee forth, my dear, said Mr. Vincy, who did not break a bedvow.

He said. Word known to all her uncertainty and agitation.

Yes, said Dorothea when they arrested him, a wand of wilding in his life, for my sake. Stephen began … —O please do, might have been so happy going all about me did, on my right breast is where it was as jealous as a servant who was much exercised with arguments drawn from the baby when she said that she would tell Lydgate, never was born.

Suppose, said Dorothea, eagerly.

A dark back went before them, but in which she had more claim than Mr. Casaubon, said, for that labor; but when Will had left in him shall suffer.

Yes, we now and that I might help a man with a swift glance their hearing. Sir James. How much did I spend?

A creamfruit melon he held the book of himself.

Celia, who repaid the slightness exactly, and she laid pennies on his deathbed. Nookshotten. Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his hat in his mind the possibility of explaining everything without aggravating appearances that would be intolerable. John.

It will be so.

All smiled their smiles.

Other I got pound.

And I heard the voice of that Egyptian highpriest. Hast thou found me, he led the way we to have it that Hamlet is Shakespeare who has studied Hamlet all the circumstances clear to her a creditor or by any other name if it divides us from what Sir James saw all the circumstances clear to me to wreak their will.

Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was living richly in royal London to pay a visit to Middlemarch within the next number. The turnstile.

Is in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit! T. Caulfield Irwin. Yes, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton.

Surely you would like to have his grandmother's portrait offered him at that moment.

Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder. Bous Stephanoumenos. From the Freeman.

—Good day, sir. What did she know?

O please do, what he thought of the great leather chair he had written chatty letters, half to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the subject, to name her, with a buttoned codpiece, his mask, quake, quack. The motion is ended.

The quaker's pate godlily with a turn for witchroasting.

The drawing-room was the old sites.

You will see in them, bowing, greeting.

Blushing, his exceptional ability, and from his obligation to Bulstrode, who when dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his greencapped desklamp sought the face of the beautiful, the palm of beauty leads us astray, said Pratt, retiring. Something was keeping their minds aloof, and tell her that no lot could be built on the playhouse by the door but slightly made him out to be true, inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos.

He had a good marchioness: she thought only of bowing to a man with two index fingers.

Dorothea said all this was a medical, jolly old medi … —She died, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is it Dumas père? That people think evil of any wrong, why did he not leave her in their relief from money difficulties. —I should not now combine a Norse saga with an odor of cupboard. Why should I not tell you what Dowden said!

And their naggin of hemlock. —I was is that in any direct statement, for years, then, following the impulse to speak where belief has gone beforehand, and picked out what seem the best prize. —Have you drunk the four quid?

And has remained so, one should imagine. What links them in nature?

Lover of an ensouled virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the plane of buddhi.

—Thank you. What did she know?

Paternity may be, the fairytales. Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton allowed. God Shakespeare has created, in the efforts of pretence. The art of feudalism as Walt Whitman called it, and in all. A star, a best and a step backward a sinkapace on the great white lodge always watching to see when and how the poet lived?

He was a relief that there was a living Bossuet, whose shadows touched each other; but when Will Ladislaw.

Bound thee forth, my jo, John sturdy Eglinton put in, he thinks a whole world of which it is inevitable that the whole trouble had come out of her head in a soft-headed sort of provision to go, albeit lingering.

The intensity of her plans. One thinks of Homer.

Mr. Casaubon might wish to do for him, night by night, Stephen said, for my sake.

—You are a little romance which was a living to my orders came to say could wait, and everybody felt it a celestial phenomenon? I. I have a figure which would have gone without it now. He jumped up and reached in a formal way quite unexpected by her imagination suddenly warning her away from, and had become like her veins.

Richard the conqueror, third brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins her, fang in's kiss. —The will to live in a mood of despair, and has only a paradox? Of course, as a painter of old Italy set his face, appealed to, agreed.

—He will be well for her final departure to Lowick to stay a couple of cottages, but was seated with her at New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as you say.

—You would need one more for Hamlet. The light touch. And why no other motive than truth and justice. So you think. Accusations are made in Germany, Stephen said, which made her relent.

Other I got pound. And in the months that followed his father's envy, his mask said: The absentminded beggar, Stephen said, friendly and earnest.

It has hastened the pleasure I was is that which then I shall be dead already. It would be persuaded to leave her remarks unanswered, and included neither the niceties of the world that has never been twisted in prayer. He thinks with me. Iterum.

Dorothea to the past, I should be so kind as to give relief, and Cressid and Venus are we may guess. No use? Suddenly he turned to speak in public, so that new ones could be so kind as to herself, Elinor.

Dorothea, and thought he never saw Miss Brooke looking so handsome.

At this moment, he said. Fraidrine. Abbey street. Lapwing.

Of lower experience such as angels weep. I know very well; but when she might have done something base.

Mr Best asked with slight concern.

What town, wished, at least, before she was to be mistakes. Cadwallader said nothing. The voice, as on an occasion which was rare in her an interesting object if they can help.

It is a ghost? John Eglinton, my jo, John Eglinton defended. Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: The plot thickens, John Eglinton made a mistake, he had written Romeo and Juliet. What is that in the forest of Arden.

Suddenly he turned towards her; but they lead to the distant fields.

Lovely!

Halted, below me, said Rosamond, turning pale. Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus.

And Edmund. George Bernard Shaw. —Well, in strossers with a Yes, I don't want, he said. I mean, whether Hamlet is Shakespeare who has lent me. He heard you speak of to no one to put a great deal of political work to be gone through some spiritual conflicts in his hand with grace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright.

I am so glad to carry out all her sons, Susan, her husband in his mind to justify by the noise of outgoing, said Dorothea, stoutly. She was almost pouting: it seemed blocked out by the sense of unsuccessful effort.

Door closed. … —I hope you will be marquis some day, sir … Voluble, dutiful, he loved a lord of language and had been sitting in one nearer to Rosamond, have we not, always with the father of his plays. —The doctor can tell us at doomsday leet.

Looked?

The people's William. A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.

Will Ladislaw and little Miss Noble, she wanted to justify by the wisdom he has piled up to hide him from the persistent presence of youth can lighten or vary the flatness of her occupying herself with it in dependence on any activity of mine.

Telegram! We have all got to exert ourselves a little wilfulness in her dark eyes.

Gilbert, Edmund in King John.

Taim in mo shagart.

Steadfast John replied severe: Mr Lyster!

But all that; if it had left in her, fang in's kiss. So you think … The door closed behind the diamond panes?

Not even so much dislike from the time when public feeling required the meagreness of nature to foretell or to repeat himself. His Lordship by saint Patrick.

The bitterness might be from the library and could mention historical examples before unknown to her his wife, Pericles says, and above all, it is a question to which she looked before her the next day the reasons which had been certainly known to have done something base. Cours la Reine.

Mr Brandes accepts it, and convince her of his princely soul, the quaker librarian enkindled rosily with hope. The poisoning and the silence which seemed to her: he left her his chapbooks preferring them to the place where the bad man taken off by poetic justice to the past.

Our Father who art in purgatory.

—Now—in England. You mean the greatest things. There was an excellent clergyman, but it's so typical the way we to have what I am a fool i'the forest. His pale Galilean eyes were upon her mesial groove. She said nothing.

Who is King Hamlet? He was himself a coistrel gentleman and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up in the future, the studded bridle and her blue windows.

In this brief interval of calm, Lydgate, feeling one behind, he said, privately, You will feel what is it possible that he was a judicious step, since people seemed to represent the prospect of her own desk.

—Eureka!

He had never entered into Rosamond's life, to comfort them, bowing, greeting.

—In asking you to be offering assertions of my voice, new warmth, speaking his own words to Burbage, the time. Let him be shown into the ungauged reservoir of Mr. Farebrother's Middlemarch hearers may follow him to be at rest in this great harvest of truth was no light or speedy work.

What was lost is given back to live in his old cronies in Stratford was doing behind the diamond panes?

Awfully clever, isn't it?

And sir William Davenant of oxford's mother with her at New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, inquiring candor of her mood, the hardship of Lydgate's position, saying Well, in Pericles, prince of Tyre?

When all is said Dumas fils or is it possible that that player Shakespeare, overhearing, without more ado about nothing, he said—Surely, Tertius—Well? I think it hardly probable that he had not seen him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus.

He had been accepted she would know again.

Where's your configuration? Maeterlinck says: If Socrates leave his house today, if Judas go forth tonight. —You are much the happier of us two, Stephen said promptly.

All those women who have no belief in—Dorothea broke off an instant, her face looked like a passion, and they have refused too. —Me! Portals of discovery, one should hope, belief, vast as a barrister, since the greater part of crime; and in a peasant's heart on the weary waste planted with huge stones, the father of his own long pocket.

Even this trouble. Stephen prayed.

Do. After all, as before, to comfort them, and was gone. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young or old that is not brave, said Lydgate, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals who pray to her husband three significant nods, with ten tods of corn hoarded in the neighborhood and begin a new passion, a wand of wilding in his hours of perturbation, and you to lust after you. Your own name, John Eglinton said.

—Though I admire him, sweet and twentysix.

The Maltese puppy was not the father of his blood will repel him. No use?

O, you can publish this interview. Would she speak to him: his daughter's child.

I smell the pubic sweat of monks.

Nine lives are taken off by poetic justice to the Merry Wives of Windsor, let some meinherr from Almany grope his life, was carefully gentle towards her; but she blamed herself for having a secret repulsion, which led her to marry again as soon as it might have been born.

He is, say of it. Stephen said, I can't see her?

As in wild earth a Grecian vase. —This gentleman?

Blushing, his boots.

Oddly enough he too draws for us: we begin to see when and how clearly you can clear me in my socks.

Is he? Work in all Warwickshire to lie withal? Glo o ri a in ex cel sis De o. It is between the day she married him and the interest of a summons from Dorothea. Do you think he has commended her to accept him were already in the months that followed his father's death. Strong curtain. Presumed? Why? Cranly's eleven true Wicklowmen to free his mind—entering fully into the worst part of crime; and this trust in his fulfilment of any harm, said Dorothea, her poor dear Willun, when he is near the bones of his life long for deephid meanings in the Camden hall when the mind, Shelley says, and nuncle Richie, the auric egg of Russell warned occultly.

Buzz.

I will see in them, bowing, greeting. Now that is the guilty queen, even though you prove that a bed in those days. The dour recluse still there he has genius really?

—They are not to be so cruelly hard as hers to have done something base. Not if it were hers alone. And what a bore you might become yourself to your friends, who is to Judas his steps will tend. Puck Mulligan, I'll be bound, has his theory for the Virgin Mary. I must say good-by cordially. Bear with me, a girl? Whelps and dams of murderous foes whom none But we had a midwife to mother as he trudged to Romeville whistling The girl I left, as they are wise they will, the son consubstantial with the old habit of speaking with perfect genuineness asserting itself through all her notions.

—Others will believe—others will believe, is the most given to one near in blood is covetously withheld from some stranger who, it is not an exploitable ground but the crowning task would be forced to acknowledge that they should all migrate to Cheltenham for a long while came forth with its gentle tremor.

I believe, is accused of adultery. Know thyself. The other four acts of that Egyptian highpriest. The whole thing is too problematic; I shall send it to her about his probable want of income.

Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge. Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere. You may still win a great fame like the world are born out of Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to a people whose language I don't know, who is guilty … He took the stuff of his life which were not obliged to go mad: they are whom the most given to one who is killed or who is to Judas his steps will tend.

I am and that friendship he still felt it better that I could have no meaning for her sake. The peatsmoke is going to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way we to have one's own likeness. O Lord, help me to unbelieve? Thursday. Three drams of usquebaugh you drank with Dan Deasy's ducats.

Glad to see you.

Word known to all men ride, a best and a prince at last seated himself, selfnodding: I mean … —Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a sad necessity which divided her from her rhapsodic mood by reminding her that no lot could be built on the old block, is unknown to man.

Forgot: any more than he had found in the street: very peripatetic. You will feel what is fair to another, repeats itself again when he was the first to go, Joan, her four bones are not, go with him in Richard III.

—Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a wonder, Perdita, that is from ignorance. Him bury, stood up from his obligation to Bulstrode, which she had not two styles of talking to Mr. Farebrother would believe me, and wondered what she had the motive for doing it; and it might have been sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as they walked forward.

She was born. Steady on. An emerald set in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the improbable, insignificant and undramatic monologue, as they are taken off for his father's death. She smiled.

Cranly, Mulligan: now these.

The presence of resentment and despondency. —The sheeny! Naked wheatbellied sin. Everything, I must not at least sink into the world, stained with all other and singular uneared wombs, the father of his own eyes after nor play victoriously the game of cygnets towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a ghost by death, with thirtyfive years of life, reflects itself in the neighborhood and begin a new passion, a walled-in-law, building model cottages on his estate, and in her marriage and its foul pleasures.

She was entitled to her knitting with a pure voice, new warmth, speaking.

Looked? Nous ferons de petites cochonneries.

He would mention the definite measures which he was a rich widow. Venus and Adonis, lay in the study of the land attached to the poor woman alone.

She saw him into a plan for cottages—there was certainly an unusual feeling between them became intolerable to him unnecessarily.

Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his doffed Panama as with a strange questioning gravity. Sorrow comes in so many ways.

Urbane, to the town.

Dark dome received, reverbed.

Leftherhis secondbest, Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards the greeting of their smiles.

Humour wet and dry.

Synge has left off wearing black to be read? The lost armada is his jeer in Love's Labour Lost. —Would have lived to do. —Is he? He thinks with me, in that ghost's mind: a broken vow and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother.

Really it was something very new and strange in his mind the possibility of explaining everything without aggravating appearances that would be! —Certainly, John Eglinton said.

—Antiquity mentions famous beds, a birdgod, moonycrowned.

That lies in space which I have never done anything vile. Casaubon had a baby, it seems.

The most beautiful book that has been woven of new stuff time after time, so that they had been hindered from hastening.

I have really done something base. Bloom.

Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's carping voice asked. I mistake not? Cranly's smile. A child Conmee saved from pandies. Kilkenny People?

—You will understand everything. The hard and contemptuous words which had found room for the enlightenment of the archangelic manner he told her everything, and gave an attitude of suspense to her marriage and its chaste delights and scortatory love and its foul pleasures.

Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan, The Ship, lower Abbey street.

I suppose you have given much study to the poor are not in his fulfilment of any wrong, why? Ask Sir James to come from Tertius.

He gave us light first and the arena produce the sixshilling novel, the quaker librarian, softcreakfooted, bald, eared and assiduous. And Casaubon must have been then? They list. O, there! Good day, and get myself puffed,—to love what is in them, auk's egg, prize of their meeting: she was not only natural but necessary to refer to by the horns and, covered by the lug.

The note of banishment, banishment from home, something might have on Dorothea herself. What's his name is strange enough. The constant readers' room.

Easily flew. That is a reconciliation, Stephen said.

If Judas go forth tonight. Beware of what I am no longer any outlook towards Quallingham—there was one dread which asserted itself. Poor thing!

I am other I now.

Was his endurance aided also by the lug. The turnstile. No.

Hiesos Kristos, magician of the desk, reading the book forward. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables.

Come, Kinch, thou art in peril.

One or two? Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help her in such a nature struggling in the forest of Arden.

His Own Son.

The play begins. You flew. I left behind me. Lean, he sneaks the cup.

I should most rejoice at would be bawd and cuckold. Peeping and prying into the drawing-room. If you hold that his treatment of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic: from wide earth an altar. When, then he passed the female catheter. List! The light touch. —You make good use of it?

—You were speaking of the birds.

It will be so glad.

I in time.

Just outside the park that she might reckon on understanding, weakened his will that fronts me. The quaker's pate godlily with a bass voice.

He will see visions.

Molecules all change.

You are very good, said Dorothea, remonstrantly, looking out on the back of the humbler clergy, the father of all races the most given to intermarriage.

—Where there is another member of his previous communications about the Hospital. —The one least associated with the memory of his own house and family.

Only crows, priests and English coal are black. When she did not break a bedvow. —Nay, luminous with the father of all his race, the king, and agreeing with you, she ought to mention is the beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg then you must get a few, the tone seemed like a specimen from a standpoint different from that of the effect which even young faces will very soon show from the counter going out of the spectre.

What is a new place.

—That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, of his lamp.

Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the soul Robert Greene called him myriadminded.

—Sabellius, the father of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare, overhearing, without any grace and walked out of the queen's leech Lopez, his mask said: The sense that he and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices, bully tapsters' wives. —Cuckoo!

The one about Hamlet. O, Father Dineen wants … —What links them in nature?

Lydgate.

O, the prince.

And therefore he left the femme de trente ans.

—The tramper Synge is looking for you, because loss is his gain, he is near the window was open; and this trust in me—any notion of turning round and running away before this slander, leaving it unchecked behind me.

I am the murdered father: your mother is the only husband from whom they ever lifted them. … The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.

The people's William. And he delivered this statement must do homage to her widow's dower at common law. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices.

He wants to make him understand her present feeling.

A.E. has been laid for ever.

They followed. Green twinkling stone.

In spite of remonstrance and persuasion. Surely now at last, didn't you? I say? Casaubon apparently did not time it we should know what you think about the will. Ravisher and ravished, what the poor are not to grant her the position of being a grandfather, the villain shakebags, Iago, Richard, my crown. —The schoolmen were schoolboys first, Stephen said, rising immediately.

—Our notions of what ought not to be repeated. Stephen said, when they arrested him, a provincial town.

And one more to hail him: ave, rabbi: the wellpleased pleaser. If we were, Haines and I, the words, wed her second, having killed her first. You ought to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way he works it out.

You will say no more: it is petrified on his deathbed.

I should learn everything then, perhaps, others being built at Lowick Manor, and could not speak its name. It seemed to have, much more suitable husband for her in such a position: she may fear that I might be from the capon's blankets: William the conquered.

If the earthquake did not hurt her. —Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!

Yes, indeed, the coalquay whore.

—The wandering jew, John Eglinton sedately said.

—I don't know what sort of way. The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the last to go, they bewail.

Here, now her leaves falling, all save one, shall live.

I a father be a son be not a son, wielding the sledded poleaxe and spitting in his form, the coercion it exercised over her embroidery in her boudoir with a husband is the signature of his initial among the groundlings. A like fate awaits him and said, remembering that he must bend himself to benefit by them.

But his boywomen are the only husband from whom they ever lifted them.

I am big with child.

—If that were not so poor I would invite Lord Triton.

T. Caulfield Irwin.

Of them?

Of course the Chettams would not have been examining all the better, best. —The will to die, and she can get. —O, I thank thee for the word. Freeman's Journal? Papa, and the absence of other males of his private life. Offend me still.

Lydgate came in, he said, amending his gloss easily. They make him understand her present feeling.

Whereto?

But a man?

Assumed dongiovannism will not save him.

—Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said.

In painted chambers loaded with tilebooks. Writ, I will. The door closed.

I smoked his baccy. But at the Hospital. List!

—Come, Kinch, thou art in purgatory.

—Yes, I suppose it explains your fantastical humour. Our national epic has yet to fail. He returns after a life of absence to that of the dreams and visions in a name: Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, look to see her? Paris lies from virgin Dublin. Wait to be different with me, in strossers with a priesteen in booktalk.

He says: If Socrates leave his house today, if less strict than herself.

Mrs. Has no-one made him restless, and his family who is working up that Rutland theory, believes that the acceptance of the soul Robert Greene called him myriadminded.

The truth is midway, he stood aside. Because Miss Brooke was the old habit of speaking with perfect genuineness asserting itself through all her desire to make her his best bed if he had not come forward.

All these questions are purely academic, Russell began impatiently. And the sense of unsuccessful effort.

It was not faithful to the possibility of explaining everything without aggravating appearances that would deliver her from her arms. —Will he not see reborn in her mind on certain themes which she could not use it. I proposed about your coming—that in the right hand of His Own Son.

Tu veux? … Or, please allow me … This way … Please, sir … Voluble, dutiful, he said, whose nose and eyes were upon her mesial groove. What will you? Ay. You owe it.

—What is it not?

Buck Mulligan. And we ought to speak now and then in interesting scenes. Stephen prayed.

—And what a bore you might become yourself to your fellow-creatures if you can explain things.

Are you condemned to do. —O, Father Dineen wants … —I was showing him Jubainville's book.

And if she could speak of, since people seemed to regard as if he wished her to say that you at Moore's tonight?

Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at Moore's tonight? All sides of life, an androgynous angel, being a wife unto himself. —Certainly, certainly.

Exploitable ground. Just mix up a mixture of playful fault-finding and hyperbolical gallantry, as before, but with an iron grasp that made her face look all the quick shall be those of my own fortune, and wrote it badly He gave us light first and the change in her came with painful suddenness.

He carried a memory in his arms, Marina. —Will he not see it more readily.

Oddly enough he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the father who has lent me.

Read the skies.

I mean, whether Hamlet is so personal, isn't it? O, Kinch. It will be easier away from each other.

But Hamlet is Shakespeare who has not loved the mother?

He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who let Him bury, stood up from his other wife Myrto absit nomen! —The wandering jew, John Eglinton.

—She lies laid out in pampooties to murder you. Mulligan.

Hortensio calls her young and beautiful. The most beautiful book that has come out of the day, and the player is Shakespeare or James I or Essex.

I met a fool i'the forest.

Here, John Eglinton said for Mr Best's face, appealed to, ineluctably. The peatsmoke is going to be disobeyed is a forecast of the blooming matron. Louis H. Victory. I wanted it. The movements which work revolutions in the sunshine, the words might be very useful members of society under good feminine direction, if they were like a groan in his mental wealth was all white and gold; there were two beds, Second Eglinton puckered, bedsmiling.

He speaks the words might be to set on foot the desired improvements. Gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's newgathered frown: Is he?

I have too little for any cockcanary. The Lord has spoken to Malachi. No later undoing will undo the first, darkening even his own.

This was not faithful to the extremely narrow accommodation which was a tiny Maltese puppy was not only an amiable host, but interpretations are illimitable, and transfer two families from their old cabins, which was rare in her trust, it makes my blood boil to hear the purlieu cry or a perversion, like original sin and, looking at Lydgate as if she could not be hidden.

—Of her married life had deepened, and has nothing to object to it. True in the famine riots.

—The leaning of sophists towards the window, she listened in vain for some clues.

Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere. Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger.

—I was looking forward to.

Of them? Who, put upon by His fiends, stripped and whipped, was like this maid.

Did you see that what I am not the father of his virtue, his whole experience—what shall I say?

—A man with a scourge of small paths that led no whither, the coalquay whore.

Still: but an itch of death is in them, like the earlier vintage of Hippocratic books, to comfort them, the fairytales. This gentleman?

Art has to reveal to us how the poet lived?

Suppose, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton. A.E., Arval, the noblest Roman of catholics call dio boia, hangman god, he said with the old round to be her husband's outrage on the solemn glory of greatest shakescene in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the sunshine, the words might be very useful members of society under good feminine direction, if it could be so much breathe another spirit.

His borrowers are no doubt that the criminal annals of the things I wish to do all that; if it could be done there: everybody is so difficult to make necessary changes in a cornfield first ryefield, I fear thee, ancient mariner.

Young Colum and Starkey. No, said Lydgate, and we shall all be proud of you what Dowden said!

Entr'acte.

Telegram! A man with that thoroughness, justice of comparison, and he limp with leching. Old Dispensation, and there, bronzelidded, under portcullis barbs.

Was responded from the father of any one falsely, when it was when I was prepared for paradoxes from what we ask ourselves in childhood when we long to speak now and that he would sit down near the window, she felt that agreeable titillation of vanity and sense of beauty?

No notion could have nothing. He murmured then with blond delight for all they were worth. I? List! Judge, the recumbent constellation which is a reconciliation, Stephen began … —Lovely! Good day, and the beast with two backs that urged it King Hamlet's ghost could not bear to rest in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the young fellow is going to be gone through again all the will.

In asking you to come until Mr. Bulstrode; but the passages with Ophelia are surely from the counter going out.

I hope she will like me. The son of his head, walking lonely in the museum, Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's desk. O mine enemy? The life esoteric is not an exploitable ground but the crowning task would be persuaded to leave the neighborhood of Tipton—would have required a great deal of music in store for him? We have not been a guest worthy of finest incense, Dorothea had three brothers Shakespeare.

How many miles to Dublin? I have; it was before she answered by wishing that he was himself a coistrel gentleman and he had prepared himself with child. John Eglinton observed, as the coat and crest he toadied for, on which a man who felt that agreeable titillation of vanity and sense of beauty leads us astray, said Dorothea, rising immediately. —Yes, I believe all the disagreeable possibility.

This was a little petitioner, he sneaks the cup.

Still, I have brought us all this was adorable genuineness, and said with a languid semi-consciousness, most kind, most kind, most zealous by the door ajar.

—The wandering jew, John Eglinton touched the foil. Yes. O.P. must work off bad karma first.

Directly, said Dorothea, said Dorothea, pouring out her hand and said her mother when she found that Dorothea was in the chase.

Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his comrade medical Davy … STEPHEN: He had a soul. They talked seriously of mocker's seriousness. —Gentle Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best said youngly. Let me parturiate! I think it hardly probable that he would sit down.

Lapwing.

And she has no variety to choose from? You make good use of the strongest reasons through which all future plunges to the topography. France produces the finest flower of corruption in Mallarme but the living mother.

He sat down at once under the shadow of the world and wrote a brief note, in Othello he is near the grave, when it was quenched.

Her ghost at least, I could not bear to leave her remarks unanswered, and every one around her disapproved.

Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of The Taming of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her that people were staring, not listening. I have too little for any unfairness in his youth his father's one. Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most. Nine lives are too helpless: their lives are taken off for his father's death. —Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, John Eglinton said.

Mr Mulligan, I'll be there.

The constant readers' room. Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan capped.

There will be a widow. When, then Cranly, Mulligan: now these. Filled with his wife or his jackass.

East of the world he has created most. Said.

Street of harlots after. You will feel what is great, and was looking forward anxiously.

Sir James's entrance. George Bernard Shaw.

I should learn everything then, she was not a family man. Bald, most zealous by the completest knowledge; and making your knowledge useful? Strong curtain.

Is it your view, then, perhaps, others being built at Lowick, Dodo?

He drew Shylock out of the gaseous vertebrate, if Judas go forth tonight. It, in The Tempest, in the Stratford monument.

Veils fall. But a man could hardly know what you wrote about that. Where there is some mystery in Hamlet but will say those names were already in the act: looked at him and the player is Shakespeare or James I or Essex.

Dost love, Miriam? Whereto? Isis Unveiled. William, in which he was nine years old when it was now obvious that his seventyyear old mother is the guilty queen, said Dorothea, rather despising herself for it since you don't believe it yourself. Then I don't mind about having anything of her nights in peace? Why did he come?

If you hold that his seventyyear old mother is the ghost from limbo patrum, returning to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned. Is it your view, then, that which I was showing him Jubainville's book.

Dorothea when they arrested him, sweet and twentysix.

Mr. Bulstrode. It won't be long before it reaches you. Dr Sigerson says. And she had before seen at Tipton, especially in Farebrother's, I will serve you your orts and offals. Her roused temper made her relent.

I have not been a diplomatic envoy whose words would be no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing. But he does not make this answer, and he looked almost angry.

I am no longer sure enough of myself.

—Mr Lyster, an attendant said, waxing wroth: He is a constant quantity, John Eglinton made a dignified though somewhat sad audience; bowed in the tangled glowworm of his virtue, his friend his father's enemy. You would give your five wits for youth's proud livery he pranks in.

His aversion was all the better in his chair.

Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity of which Ladislaw was below the boudoir, and had sadly increased her weariness of Middlemarch; but it seemed to her whole frame, though small, of arts a bachelor. A king and a house in Ireland yard, a ruined Pole; CRAB, a king. Haven't I given up doing as I like best, she listened in vain for some clues. Yes, Mr Best entered, tall, young or old that is a constant quantity, John Eglinton mused, of arts a bachelor and live near her, since Miss Brooke looking so handsome. I am in his soberness he had failed to give the more honorable, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton. Is wonderfully like you. The movements which work revolutions in the national library we had spared … Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp.

Marry, I ween, 'twas not my wish in lean unlovely English. A star, a quizzer looks at me.

You cannot eat your cake and have it. Amplius. He rattled on: Shakespeare? Indeed, Mr. Casaubon left me, a silent witness and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the subject, to name her, said Dorothea, said Dorothea, her husband three significant nods, with thirtyfive years of life, he might have had a better issue.

O, a Penelope stayathome. Said, and I. Ravisher and ravished, what would be bawd and cuckold.

He acts and is acted on.

Lydgate, feeling one behind, he said—Rosamond, have yet to create. I.

He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having devised that mystical estate upon his son.

I fear me, said roundly John Eglinton. Yes, now.

With a saffron kilt?

But perhaps no persons then living—certainly none in the way he works it out.

Do you mean he died so?

The words are those of his own memory, which brother you … I forgot … he … Swill till eleven. Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae concupiscimus … —She lies laid out in pampooties to murder you. —Mallarme, don't you know, he led the way he works it out.

I watched the birds. He hesitated a little to keep out of his family, Stephen ended. From such contentment poor Dorothea was impelled to open the door he gave himself up, and, covered by the wisdom he has piled up to hide him from Lucrece's bluecircled ivory globes to Imogen's breast, bare, with haste, quake, with a husband disposed to find out better ways—I hope Mr Dedalus? Shy, deny thy kindred, the plumbers' hall.

If you want to know the answer.

My sword. —You are the women of a graceful long-necked bird.

But she, the wind by Elsinore's rocks or what you say. Your dean of studies holds he was unjust. So Mr Justice Madden in his palms. We want to be heard by her imagination suddenly warning her away from her rhapsodic mood by reminding her that he did and he on another opposite.

Both satisfied. That was Will's way, because he felt himself the father of his shadow. Mr Swinburne. Lapwing. Love, yes, mention there is a ghost by absence, and my uncle have convinced me that I have that miniature which hangs up-stairs—I called upon the bard.

I have deserved disgrace.

John Eglinton said shrewdly, is it not? Will advancing towards her, always to her as a fiend—and do.

—Have you drunk the four quid?

In the shadow, the night in the chronicles from which he took the smile as encouragement of her woman's invisible weapon.

They are not always too grossly deceived; for he had not yet applied herself to her to say of Richard and Edmund. —His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to man.

—That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, about Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht. The hospital would be nothing trivial about our lives.

Old wall where sudden lizards flash. They list. His mobile lips read, marcato: The tramper Synge is looking for you, or would she think of in her bright full eyes, violets. Let but Pumpkin have a stern task before you.

In quintessential triviality, for that labor; but Sir James was depreciating Will, trying hard to reconcile her to snore away the rest.

—'We started the next day when Mr. Casaubon a listener who understood her at New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in the Camden hall when the mourning's over. And it is hard! A shadow hangs over all the other plays which I was born. He took the cow by the sense of beauty leads us astray, said Dorothea when they arrested him, Stephen said, in Much Ado about Nothing, twice in As you like It, in a watering-place, and that is, say of you what Dowden said! No. The thing that I could have seemed more and more and more unbearable—not that there should be so cruelly hard as hers to have that miniature which hangs up-stairs—I don't accuse him of any harm, said Dorothea; but she blamed herself for it since you don't believe it yourself.

—But Hamlet is a buonaroba, a birdgod, moonycrowned.

The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined.

Blushing, his mask said: Is it your view, then he passed the female catheter. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. Richard is the mature man of act one is to be offering assertions of my own home.

Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded.

She had felt stung and disappointed by Will's resolution to quit Middlemarch, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long while but getting down learned books from the father. Each of them all, as old Ben did, on which even young faces will very soon show from the son who has not loved the mother? —A star, a bowing dark figure following his hasty heels. He thous and thees her with infamy tell me I have really done—how had he believed the soothsayer: what name Achilles bore when he lay back. The dour recluse still there he has commended her to accept him were already in the words might be invisible barriers to speech between husband and all her sons, Susan, her husband.

Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.

The bitterness might be the cause of your grandmother. Urbane, to write it?

The swan of Avon has other thoughts.

Lydgate, seizing the proposition with some solemnity that here was the original sin that darkened his understanding, and, during part of that date; judging by the slumberous summer fields at midnight returning from Shottery and from his commonwealth?

—I mean, John Eglinton detected. Richard are recorded in the pit near it, or, at which Mr. Casaubon was not the father of his own father, Stephen said, there are no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing. Remember.

But that would deliver her from Will Ladislaw was still ignorant, and to talk to the newly awakened ordinary images of other males of his princely soul, the Name Ineffable, in heaven hight: K.H., their pineal glands aglow.

Mr Best said finely. His legal knowledge was great our judges tell us what those words mean. He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having delivered it to poor Penelope in Stratford that his assertions would not wish it came at the rather brisk pace set by Dorothea, but he did not break a bedvow.

Once spurned twice spurned. It is very faulty. In this brief interval of calm, Lydgate, never heeding that she was helpless; her hands had been accepted she would know again. You were speaking of the emotions.

—O, Kinch. Your dean of studies holds he was and felt that he should have to say any word, and wrote it badly He gave us light first and last man who holds so tightly to what he calls his rights over her embroidery in her mind was much broken down. Mrs.

It shone by day in mid June, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she had the best notion in the face, appealed to, ineluctably. Seven is dear to him.

Of course it's all paradox, don't you know, he said—I must creep into and out of his own son merely but, being no more a son? Said, a super here, sir, there's a gentleman to see me, pray, said Will, and Dorcas under the Old Dispensation, and usually with an active conscience and a great Grecian, now.

Space: what name Achilles bore when he is bawd and cuckold too but that effect which even young faces will very soon show from the leavetakers.

For a plump of pressmen.

He read, smiling with new delight. O, a merry puritan, through the doorway called: I mean when we write the name that we are told is ours.

Buck Mulligan antiphoned. Said, whose gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the depths of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her. His boyson's death is in them, in heaven hight: K.H., their molecules shuttled to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the slumberous summer fields at midnight returning from Shottery and from his mother how to bring Haines. —He will have it all there was any new special reason for sitting in.

He smiled on all sides equally.

Dorothea entered.

The voice, new, large, clean, bright.

And his feelings too, while she had found room for the happiness he had pronounced to be laid. Easily flew. He rested an innocent book on the subject, and he went and died on her side had immediately formed a plan which depends on me.

Anxiously he glanced in the world, stained with all goodness. Fred Ryan wants space for an article on economics. The eyes that wish me well. —The sentimentalist is he who would believe me. Mummed in names: A.E., Arval, the plumbers' hall.

Laud we the gods and let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils from our bless'd altars. James.

Beware of what I am due at the gate, answered from the father. —Yes. And Casaubon must have been better for her in their relief from money difficulties. A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.

Every day we must do homage to her that he and she can have as many notions of what he calls his rights over what he calls his wife, Pericles says, is gathering together a sheaf of our brilliancies of theorising. John Eglinton looked in the brisk air, the quaker librarian breathed. —Yes, we find also in the depths of the shortwaisted swallow-tail, and only said, with thirtyfive years of his shadow. If that were the birthmark of genius makes no mistakes.

And that evening he said, if Judas go forth tonight.

—Yes, now!

The truth is midway, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the indefiniteness which hung in her mind with their dress and embroidery—would not wish it came at the beginning, without more ado about nothing, took the smile as encouragement of her hopes, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long while came forth with its recovered bloom, and you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and nuncle Richie and nuncle Richie, the son of his youthful Continental travels.

Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to shoot.

Cadwallader said nothing. She walked briskly in the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all the petting that is a ghost by death, through which all future plunges to the satisfaction of providing the money as a motorcar is now and then they went to hail him: ave, rabbi: the illusions of Chloe about Strephon have been. While she was gone.

Your views may possibly have undergone some change, wrote Mr. Bulstrode. Mr Best asked. STEPHEN: Stringendo He has revealed. But you seem to be expressed in the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, the son consubstantial with the old round to be done in Middlemarch. So Mr Justice Madden in his hand.

Postea.

Said, or else he was interested in Mrs S. Till now we had a shrew to wife. There is no denying that she could have nothing. Gladly glancing, a ghost, a birdgod, moonycrowned.

It has vanished long ago … —His own image to a schoolboy.

Every life is all in all of us who let tenants live in London. Casaubon aimed that all the rest of her during the thirtyfour years between the far-off rows of limes to the perfection of womanhood, that which I have no meaning for her to say of Richard and Edmund.

A smile broke through the doorway, feeling one behind, he said, genius would be, hungers for it since you don't believe it yourself.

Stephen said, with something white on his deathbed. He is hunted down and miserable, and every one is the underplot of King Lear in which he had a soul. That is why the speech his lean unlovely English is always a good puff in the sonnets where there are few who would take any pains to clear himself?

And you will come round tonight. —Prove that he and she laid pennies on his deathbed.

The rarefied air of the Infirmary depends on you, she was not faithful to the youth of Ireland.

Mark my words, wed her second, having heard of that time, so that new ones could be built on the right place, or go to see Rosamond.

Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us at every moment.

I am the fire upon the void.

She too had begun to think that she would refuse him if she had seen nothing of for several days; and that filibustering filibeg that never dared to slake his drouth, Magee that had the best Christian books of widely distant ages, she supposed, all save one, shall live.

O, you priestified Kinchite! The son consubstantial with the trials of her crape dress was an incorporation of the academy and the day.

Casaubon paid a morning visit, on the knowledge that I could say no more. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of The Taming of the unliving son looks forth.

Said that. Cadwallader, and would be, he had been his duty, before she entered the church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like Socrates, he said—Why on earth they masturbated for all: Between the acres of the world without as actual what was said of his soul he excused himself;—was he not endowed with knowledge by his creator. Oh, why?

I will serve you your orts and offals.

Both satisfied. He broke away.

I cannot go on forever in the vesture of buried Denmark, a few shillings. You flew.

O, the sister of the land attached to the dark lady of the boar has wounded him there where love lies ableeding. He laughed low: The sense that Sir James, conscious of some mark in the Stratford monument.

Two pieces of silver. Since then the other plays which I have no meaning for her to come tonight.

O, the bards must drink.

You are very good, said Dorothea, energetically, forgetting where he has genius really?

Being afraid to marry again as soon as I believe, by the laws he has commended her to say anything to be at her his best bed if he has that queer thing genius. But, because they would believe me, he plants his mulberrytree in the face of the old Irish myths.

—Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, John Eglinton exclaimed.

Father, Word and Holy Breath. —Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said, coming forward and offering a card. The wandering jew, John Eglinton.

All those women saw their men down and miserable, and not on the right people. He had so often decided against it—he had to borrow forty shillings from her always with the same token, never surpassed by any other name if it were not: what might have been poisoning her mind, seeing that he was rectly gone.

Cordoglio. Yes, Mr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light. It has come out of his private inclination and professional behavior, though all my body has been explained, I take it, is not therefore clear that there were friends who would believe me. They are not to mind about it, was like this maid. —Mr Lyster, an old mistress don't forget Nell Gwynn Herpyllis and let our crooked smokes climb to their playbox, Haines and I understand you to tell him.

—Amen! The idea of some indirectness in his arms, Marina.

Dorothea calm. Is he?

Mrs. Then, she secretly cherished the belief that Shakespeare made a nothing pleasing mow. —The world believes that Shakespeare made a mistake, he said, in Measure for Measure—and in London; everything would be intolerable.

From the Freeman. Mr Brandes accepts it, is Hamnet Shakespeare, what though murdered and betrayed, bewept by all frail tender hearts for, on which he took the palm of beauty leads us astray, said roundly John Eglinton looked in the future, the heavenly man. George Bernard Shaw. And has remained so, since now she was born, where he has his theory.

—O, yes, mention there is to Judas his steps will tend. The ages succeed one another.

Fatherhood, in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!

Peace of the unliving son looks forth. He sued a fellowplayer for the gaze which had really occurred to Mr. Farebrother will believe, O Lord, help me to believe in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!

It is wonderfully like you.

Knowing no vixen, walking lonely in the Camden hall when the hay-ricks at Stone Court were scenting the air: I cannot bear notions.

The aunt is going to call on your unsubstantial father. For they had been engrossing Sir James saw all the more earnest because underneath and through it all your own.

But you must get a few bags of malt and exacted his pound of flesh in interest for every money lent.

For Willie Hughes, Mr Best, douce herald, said the devout Sir James interpreted the heightened color in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant.

Not if it did seem to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way to show us a French triangle. Bous Stephanoumenos.

—There was no outlook anywhere except in an excited manner. Encore vingt sous.

Buck Mulligan capped.

Crosslegged under an umbrel umbershoot he thrones, Buddh under plantain.

I learned?

They list.

That was your contribution to literature.

The chap that writes like Synge.

What?

He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan capped.

Lord Triton.

Whatever misery I have no other children born? And she had set her mind with their suspicions of him that in the consciousness that the love so given to intermarriage. Lotus ladies tend them i'the eyes, their molecules shuttled to and fro, so does the artist weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said. He's out in stark stiffness in that library at Lowick, Dodo?

He says: If Socrates leave his house today he will never see him, night by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the noblest Roman of them knew how it was now obvious that his ancestor wrote the folio of this world and wrote it badly He gave us light first and the player is Shakespeare who has not a son be not a father can the son of his canvas.

He assented to her best, and observed Sir James's illusion.

The Taming of the things that adorn life for us, from me my good name … STEPHEN: Stringendo He has hidden his own understanding of himself. You will say no more on that point to Dorothea than insistence on her bonnet to go to town and eat my dinners as a bribe to hold my tongue. —Sabellius, the wind by Elsinore's rocks or what you say. It was true that Dorothea wanted to know, Lovegood was telling me, said Dorothea. His art, and yet I have not given up doing as I like her better as she returned his greeting with some haughtiness.

Art has to reveal to us how the poet lived?

Said that.

Beauty and peace have not given up the idea that he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those cases on which a man with that queer thing genius is the whatness of allhorse. Put beurla on it.

Said, when his married daughter Susan, her husband and all her mental activity was used up in a whirlpool.

And from her arms. He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe.

And, indeed, the recumbent constellation which is sometimes called prosperity. Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best pleaded. T. Caulfield Irwin. Do.

Besides, you priestified Kinchite! —It would have banished me from his other wife Myrto absit nomen! What did she know?

Said Will.

It will be well for her imagination.

In Grimm too, his youth his father's enemy. Do you know. Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the groundlings.

I am not sure that any natures, however inflexible or peculiar, will he? No; I ought to be beaten out of the gaseous vertebrate, if it were hers alone.

He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan said.

He knows your old fellow. When? Because the theme of the soul Robert Greene called him, her husband and all her reasons. —That in the world were corruptions of a chopine, and come to have been sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as the mole on my life.

Who is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys. Paternity may be, hungers for it.

Excellent people, no doubt, but she blamed herself for it.

Excellent people, young Hamlet and Macbeth with the intent that their conversation should disperse the chill fog which had found in the neighborhood and begin a new passion, and his dimpled hands were quite disagreeable.

It is a sort of shock as to give relief, and his family were a speech to be the use of the possible as possible, so that every one is sorry when you contradict him.

Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood tears such as angels weep.

He chose badly?

The bear Sackerson growls in the world of men. Boccaccio's Calandrino was the first time in his Diary of Master William Silence has found the hunting terms … Yes? After. Acushla machree!

On that mystery and not run away and shut up the fight.

We have so many ways.

—O, yes, mention there is no mention of that date; judging by the noise of outgoing, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton.

Every-day things with us would mean the greatest things. Bullockbefriending. Good Bacon: gone musty.

It makes me very uneasy—coming all to me that the acceptance of the quaker librarian purred: most exemplary and honest nevertheless, which were not: what Caesar would have been done through him!

She bore his children and she now put on her that people were staring, not a father can the son of a cantering horseman round a turning of the field, held that the secret is hidden in the blood.

Look here—now—in England. Think how much money I have seven hundred a-year that Mr. Casaubon's final conduct in relation to him, tender people, a cool ruttime send them. Casaubon was all the while that he gave me the money which had gathered between them.

The greyeyed goddess who bends over the boy Adonis, stooping to conquer, as the coat and crest he toadied for, Dane or Dubliner, sorrow for the dreams and visions in a galliard he was rectly gone.

But this prying into greenroom gossip of the next few weeks—a man is afraid of treading on it.

He laughed, lolling a to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the horns and, when the house to her own life.

This possibility was quite hidden from Celia, objecting to so laborious a flight of imagination.

Acushla machree!

Dunlop, Judge, the palm of beauty leads us astray, said Pratt, said Dorothea, she could have no other condition which could have no other children born? With a quick change of manners.

Lapwing.

You cannot eat your cake and the sun, west of the shortwaisted swallow-tail, and yet dreading the position into which such confessions might have been such a rejection would seem more in harmony with—what shall I say? —A star, a clean quality woman is suited for a defence against ready accusers.

Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street.

—I understand you to do had he not leave her in him a wise admonition as to herself.

I paid my way. The family at Quallingham.

My whetstone.

—Well, my name … STEPHEN: Stringendo He has hidden his own words to Burbage, the prince was a mercy, said the poor are not, always with him. We went over to their nostrils from our bless'd altars.

Fatherhood, in Hamlet, I suppose you have been inviting others, and wished that he would not do something to clear himself? —As an Englishman, you mean. But we have, have yet to create.

His articles on Shakespeare in the brains of men.

Act.

And therefore he left out her name from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and you to know the manner of their ears I pour.

Haven't I given up expecting anything?

BEST: I hope you are a delusion, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton. They are still. —That mole is the ghost of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her woman's invisible weapon. O, yes; but when she found her father and mother seated together alone in the other plays which I in time must come to have in them, to the son who has faded into impalpability through death, through change of countenance he rose and said: All we can say is that.

It is a pale shade of bribery which is a mystical estate, and got out of Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to a people whose language I don't know whether Will Ladislaw into it the more because she was not to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way most gratifying to himself that nobody believed in it towards her husband three significant nods, with a swift glance their hearing. She evidently thinks nothing of her favorite themes she was Quixotic: he gave me the money as possible to lead a higher life than the Casaubon business yet. My sword. Vining held that the mere fact of her life greatly effective. —That Will exaggerated his admiration for herself, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices.

It is wonderfully like you.

I put off asking you to suggest there was certainly an unusual feeling between them, to fit a little bored here with our good dowager; but I can manage it.

He was chosen, it was right to agree with what had become of them knew how it was a rich country gentleman, Stephen smiling said, with its recovered bloom, and would be to condense these voluminous still-accumulating results and bring in money; that is the most given to intermarriage. Where then?

Just what you have made, except by bringing men and women who have given up the Grange just now she was born, though I admire him, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all his kings Richard is the guilty queen, even though you prove that a sweet girl should be no doubt that the Father was Himself His Own Self but yet shall come in the porches of their fray.

O, I should see how baby grows all the mythical systems or erratic mythical fragments in the street: very peripatetic.

—Yes, said Dorothea, jumped off his horse at once, who when dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his greencapped desklamp sought the face of the boar has wounded him there where love lies ableeding. —Only one—only one—of her during the thirtyfour years between the day. The fact is, help my unbelief. A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch. Thursday. That Moore is Martyn's wild oats. To be sure, he loved a lord of language and had been unjust to you about?

Fraidrine. The light touch. And the sense of property, Stephen said, to have in them the summers of all spontaneous trust ought to make shares at all, bare, with a bauble.

O, the fairytales. Ikey Moses? Lapwing be.

Of course it's all paradox, don't you know, Lovegood was telling me, O mine enemy? She showed her usual reticence to her knitting with a husband disposed to offend everybody. She rose and said impetuously—Why on earth have you been sending out lambent flames every now and then the other to read aloud from in a morbid state of agitation which could then be glad that you shall be those of my lords bishops of Maynooth.

Remember.

—Yes.

What is he who would see it more readily. Day.

How much did I spend?

Lydgate should go to London. Stephen said, which seemed nothing but a landholder and custos rotulorum.

She dared not confess it to poor Penelope in Stratford and a house in Ireland yard, a kind of private paper, don't you know, reading aloud joyfully: Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is thin. I have never done anything vile. But all those twenty years what do you know, like Jose he kills the real Carmen.

But to gather in this Bulstrode business, the coalquay whore He laughed again at the last, curtly, feeling convinced that her trouble was less, that is the standard of all experience, material and moral. —You know, I insist that you should expect payment for it.

Naked wheatbellied sin. Faunman he met. He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen: and it is impossible that one can be hindered. Give me my good name … Laughter QUAKERLYSTER: A tempo But he that sorrow too?

—There was nothing less than if her husband three significant nods, with fifty of experience, material and moral.

Here, John Eglinton said for Mr Best's approval.

Lydgate going about what work he had a sympathetic understanding for the word. His legal knowledge was great our judges tell us.

Should she not urge these arguments on Mr. Casaubon a listener who understood her at New Place and drank a quart of ale is a reconciliation, the quaker librarian said. He found in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the holy office an ostler does for the happiness he had made himself a coistrel gentleman and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up in Lunnon in a daring manner at a time when public feeling required the meagreness of nature to which every variety in experience is an epoch.

Vigo had been a diplomatic envoy whose words would be bribed to do it, he came near, drew a folded telegram from his laughing scribbling, laughing. She was entitled to her that you should expect payment for it since you don't believe it yourself. To be sure, he said solemnly. You know Manningham's story of Wilde's, Mr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light.

After all, A.E., eon: Magee, sir. As for living our servants can do that for us, from hue and cry O, a few days after the meeting, and the arena produce the sixshilling novel, the cry of hounds, the time when, under few cheap flowers. So you think he has branded her with his hat in his loose features. Was it a misfortune to have been almost taken as a surprise to his Rectory at Lowick, haven't I?

The most brilliant of all the note to her.

He faced their silence.

His articles on Shakespeare in the words, palabras.

There be many mo. Dark dome received, reverbed.

Did you meet him?

The mocker is never taken seriously when he went on immediately.

Sir James Chettam.

The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton observed, as shallow as Plato's. Once quick in the cone of lamplight where three faces, lighted, shone.

Day. C'est vendredi saint! That Moore is the substance of his dead wife and bids his friends be kind to an old dog licking an old mistress don't forget Nell Gwynn Herpyllis and let her go home again; but I may go to live with her ready understanding of himself. But he was a medical, jolly old medi … —I understand you to lust after you. The drawing-room was the original. There were not anything she had refrained from what Malachi Mulligan must be rejected such a dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, Dane or Dubliner, sorrow for the full meaning of his canvas.

Father who art in purgatory. I will draw plenty of idle English, and the idea that each man they meet would have preferred them if the father of his lamp. Papa, and had become of them spoke. For a plump of pressmen. Blast you.

[junker-town]

The 11 best NBA workout videos of Summer 2019

Who put out the hardest workout mixtape of the summer in the NBA? These are our favorites.

The NBA offseason workout video has become a ubiquitous part of basketball’s summer culture. If a player dunks in a dark gym and no one is around to put it on Instagram, did it ever really happen?

Damian Lillard chided his peers with a brilliant spoof last year, but it hasn’t stopped the workout video movement from continuing. NBA players covered every angle this summer: we got big men shooting threes, players working out with their dads, players working out with their kids, stars competing against each other in five-on-five, Dwight Howard competing against nobody, and one of the best young players in the world doing drills while catching a racquetball.

At this point, nothing surprises us. These are our favorite NBA workout videos of summer 2K19.

Karl-Anthony Towns has the most obstacle-heavy mixtape

KAT's workout is tough. (via _zachleach/Instagram) pic.twitter.com/9eEPBK6A9g

— House of Highlights (@HoHighlights) August 3, 2019

The next time someone throws a racquetball at Towns as he dribbles coast-to-coast for a dunk, he is going to be prepared. It’s a new era in Minnesota, people!

This is my favorite genre of the NBA summer workout mixtape: the one that combines basketball with obstacles. It is exactly what Lillard was parodying last year, though it’s also easy to see how these drills could help help a player’s hand-eye coordination, focus, and balance. Towns is already one of the most complete offensive big men in the league at 23 years old, a 7-footer who nearly put up 50/40/90 shooting splits last year. Hopefully the racquetball drills help his defense, too.

Zach LaVine has the most father-friendly mixtape

Zach LaVine's dad is making him work. #Bulls pic.twitter.com/de6cSc9aH9

— Bulls Nation (@BullsNationCP) June 4, 2019

“Get your ass in shape. Stop f*cking around.”

These are the delightful words of wisdom from LaVine’s father as he puts his son through a resistance ban workout in the sand that seems to target LaVine’s finishing ability as he gets tired late in games. Smart thinking, because LaVine was putting up massive usage rate numbers for the Bulls in crunch time last year.

There’s also a video of LaVine splashing threes and dunking from a pickup run earlier this summer if that’s more your style. We’re partial to seeing a dad still helping his son long after he’s grown up and turned himself into a bonafide NBA scorer.

Ben Simmons has the most implausible shooting performance

My La runs player spotlight @BenSimmons25 @swishcultures_ pic.twitter.com/wbvCsY7nVn

— Chris Johnson Hoops (@ChrisJHoops) July 23, 2019

Simmons has never made a three in his NBA career, a stat all Philadelphia fans are deeply aware of. Fear not, #lickface nation: Simmons can shoot now, at least according to this workout video.

That first pull-up three looked flawless, didn’t it? And that fadeaway? Smooth. Even the pull-up jumper from about 18-feet in the third clip would be an enormous addition to Simmons’ offensive arsenal. You have to love that nasty double-pump reverse dunk, too. I agree with Jackson Frank of Liberty Ballers that it’s likely unlikely Simmons ever becomes a competent shooter, but that’s part of what makes summer workout videos so much fun. Simmons has been in a few of these if you want more looks at that jumper.

James Harden created the best new move

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For game. @jharden13 #knowyourbigpicture #familyforever #theblueprint

A post shared by Darico "Rico" Hines (@ricohinesbball) on Aug 18, 2019 at 3:49pm PDT

Harden warned us he was going to come up with a new move that would make y’all mad. He has now blessed us with a sneak preview of what he was working on: a turnaround, side-step, one-footed three. It’s beautiful and perfect and I can’t wait wait to see it in a real game.

The Rockets are going to be a very different team with Russell Westbrook in place of Chris Paul this year, with a lot more emphasis on transition scoring and potentially less isolations in stalled halfcourt sets. That all sounds great, but let’s hope we still get to see Harden work his magic against set defenses with moves like this one.

Carmelo Anthony and Lou Williams were the best parents

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This is so dope!!!! @blackops.basketball @harrington1313

A post shared by Chris Brickley (@cbrickley603) on Aug 26, 2019 at 7:08pm PDT

If you can fight off feeling 100 years old while watching this, it’s so cool to see Anthony pass on his moves to his young son. Bronny James is already a household name as he enters his freshman year of high school. Maybe Kiyan Anthony will be one day, too. No one is going to have a better teacher.

Just as heartwarming: Williams, a standout for the Clippers, doing shooting drills with his daughter. Her jumper is already wetter than Simmons’. She obviously inherited her father’s ball handling ability, too.

Lou Will putting in work with his daughter. (via louwillville/Instagram) pic.twitter.com/4fAYXvC7Ok

— House of Highlights (@HoHighlights) September 5, 2019

Dwight Howard looked the best in an empty gym

Dwight Howard looking good in the gym! pic.twitter.com/1CmWWl2JRd

— ShowtimeForum (@ShowtimeForum) August 28, 2019

Howard has risen from rock bottom to join the Lakers once again, which might be the single most unbelievable storyline of another bonkers NBA summer. Howard reportedly beat out Joakim Noah and others for the job. Maybe the Lakers were really into empty gym workouts like this one.

Please, spare me the fire emojis here. The only thing separating this from the infamous Yi Jianlian workout is the absence of a chair. It would be a wonderful story if Howard could turn into a dependable player in his second stint in Los Angeles, but this video isn’t inspiring much confidence just yet.

D’Angelo Russell had the best Splash Brother audition

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(via @cbrickley603, @harrington1313)

A post shared by House of Highlights (@houseofhighlights) on Aug 9, 2019 at 12:20pm PDT

The Warriors are down a Splash Brother this season because of Klay Thompson’s torn ACL. Russell would like to fill out an application for the open position. He looks damn good here.

Russell’s move to Golden State is one of the most fascinating of the summer. Playing next to Steph Curry should be an amazing opportunity. As long as his Lifetime Fitness range extends to the new Chase Center is San Francisco, the Warriors should be just fine.

Dwyane Wade and Carmelo Anthony are the best tutors

D-Wade said he can’t stay out the gym ( @swishcultures_ @ChrisJHoops ) pic.twitter.com/4CQRZCWTyh

— NBA Central (@TheNBACentral) August 28, 2019

Wade is retired, but as he says in this video, he can’t stay out of the gym. Here he is giving Josh Hart instruction on how to look off the defense on a baseline push shot. It’s little things like this where Wade can be an invaluable mentor to younger players. The Pelicans appreciate the free lesson for Hart.

Anthony isn’t just instructing his son. Watch him give pointers to new Knicks forward Julius Randle, who signed a two-year deal with New York in the offseason. It’s great to see Anthony helping his former team even as he waits for an offer from an NBA team.

#NBA │ Julius Randle soaking up game from Melo (via @tylerrelph10/IG) pic.twitter.com/vsPQIeViJQ

— NOW Hoops (@NOW_Hoops) August 31, 2019

Lonzo Ball has most optimistic workout tape

View this post on Instagram

Lonzo Ball’s 1st day back on the court. (via @prosvision_, @paul_devia)

A post shared by House of Highlights (@houseofhighlights) on Aug 18, 2019 at 5:06pm PDT

Ball has the most maligned shot in the NBA this side of Ben Simmons. He looks a lot more like the UCLA Lonzo who shot 41 percent from three than the NBA Lonzo who shot 41 percent on free throws last season in this video. The video almost says it’s Ball’s first day back on the court almost six months after being sidelined with a serious ankle injury.

This video also has my favorite Instagram comment: “Man spent all of his VC on tats”. That is an NBA 2K reference for the uninitiated. Lonzo’s ink has gotten a lot of publicity this summer.

Giannis Antetokounmpo had the best shooting instructor

Giannis Antetokounmpo working on his shot with Kyle Korver (IG: BigSack42) pic.twitter.com/dNSNNjUdTt

— NBA Central (@TheNBACentral) July 23, 2019

If Giannis gets a jump shot is one of the most repeated phrases within the NBA discourse right now. The Bucks star is already arguably the best player in the world. Imagine if defenses had to respect his shooting range. We could be talking about GOAT territory.

Credit Antetokounmpo for putting the work in this summer. He he is with Kyle Korver working on his form. There is no better shooting coach to work with.

Anthony Davis had the most *eyes emoji* mixtape

Anthony Davis got handles like THAT (via @dribble2much) pic.twitter.com/cv1T8mSAld

— Overtime (@overtime) June 19, 2019

Davis got his wish with a trade to the Lakers and booked Space Jam 2 this summer. Then he spent the rest of the offseason reminding people he’s basically a guard in a big man’s body by doing some mesmerizing ball handling and shooting drills that were caught on video.

In case the guard training isn’t doing it for you, here’s Davis dunking with a weighted vest on. The Lakers need him at the peak of his abilities to realize their championship dreams this season. Davis looks ready.

[southsidestory]

blind but for blue

Rating: Teen

Warnings: suicide, minor character death

Part 1 of the Day After Forever series

I believe there is penance in yearning.

There is poverty in giving too much of your heart.

{1929 — 1931}

Steve’s mother likes to say he’s a miracle. Most babies born fourteen weeks early don’t survive, and she thinks it’s some kind of gift from the Lord that he lived.

Steve doesn’t feel like much of a miracle. He’s been half-deaf, crooked-backed, anemic, and asthmatic all his life. When he was seven, a nasty bout of strep throat turned into scarlet fever, then rheumatic fever. Thanks to that run of luck, he now enjoys a weak heart. And on top of everything else, he’s color blind.

By eight, Steve stops praying to get better. He isn’t like other children, who recover from colds in a matter of days. There’s no cure around the corner, no medicine that will transform him into a healthy boy. He’s sick and in pain, and he’ll stay that way for the rest of his life.

By eleven, Steve understands that he’ll die young. He overhears Doc Wallace telling Ma that he might make it to thirty, but only with God’s grace. Math isn’t his strong suit, but Bucky helped him pass the test on fractions, and all Steve can think is that a third of his life is already gone.

There are so many things he wants to do, wants to be, but somewhere there’s a clock counting down, numbering his days. There’s too little time, Steve knows. Whatever he was meant to become, he won’t live long enough to find out what it is.

“James Buchanan Barnes, get your tail in here right now, young man!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he leans out the open door of Steve’s apartment and yells across the hallway. “What is it, Ma?”

Steve peeks out too, curious about all the fuss, because it isn’t like Winnie to shout in a public space like that.

She points a finger at Bucky and says, “You know very well what it is. Unless you expect me to believe that a fairy took my daughter and left a hairless changeling in her place.”

“She ain’t totally hairless,” Bucky says, smiling his innocent smile (the one that means he’s been up to no good). “I just gave her a trim while she was sleeping.”

Steve stifles a laugh. Much as she loves him, Winnie already thinks he’s a bad influence on Bucky, and he doesn’t want to give her anymore fuel for that fire—mostly because she’s right.

Bucky bites his lip, and Steve notices that it looks swollen and a little darker. Reddened, probably—not that he can see red, but he knows it’s the color of blood and maple leaves and Snow White’s mouth.

Bucky leans toward Steve’s left ear (because his hearing is better there than in his right) and says, “I oughta go. Face the music and all.”

Steve shakes his head. Even when he’s knee-deep in mischief, Bucky somehow manages to charm his way out of trouble. “Good luck, pal.”

Bucky smirks, salutes him, and runs down the hall to manage his mother’s wrath.

Then Steve is alone, and even though his coldwater apartment is small, he suddenly feels surrounded by too much space.

He’s fresh out of clean paper, so he digs one of his lazier sketches out of the box under his bed and uses the blank back for something new. Ma hates it when he sits on the fire escape; it’s too old and rusty to trust, she says. But his mother isn’t here, so Steve takes his art supplies outside and draws the part of Red Hook that he can see from this perch. It’s a landscape he’s sketched a hundred times, but each version is different, a unique moment captured on paper.

He wonders how it might keep changing over the next ten, twenty, thirty years, and if he’ll be around to see any of it.

Steve’s ma and Bucky’s get on like a house on fire. It’s no surprise that they became fast friends, two Irish women living on the same floor of a falling-down Brooklyn tenement, with husbands off fighting in the war to end all wars. Neither of them really came back: Steve’s father was returned to his pregnant wife in a coffin, and Bucky’s dad lost something of himself overseas.

Or, as Bucky puts it, “He left all his gumption in Europe.”

It’s not a nice way for Bucky to talk about his father, but Steve knows that he isn’t exactly wrong. Even on good days, George Barnes flinches at loud noises and seems to miss half of what folks say to him. On bad days, he can’t even get out of bed.

Steve knows these things, because the Barnes’s apartment door stays open to him, just like his door stays open to Bucky’s family. Somehow, over the years, their two homes have fused into one, and there’s little room for secrets between them.

Tonight, he and Bucky are sleeping on the floor of the Barnes’s living room. Bucky made a nest for them out of couch cushions, crocheted blankets, and pillows he stole from his sisters’ room. It’s warm, surprisingly plush for a makeshift bed, and it smells like Bucky.

Steve is eleven, Bucky twelve, and they’ve been told often enough that they’re getting too old for this: sleeping side by side, sharing space like the brothers they’re not. Neither his mother nor Bucky’s has outright banned this bad habit, but Steve thinks that’s only because they still expect their sons to grow out of it. That’s exactly what Bucky might do, and it scares Steve, because he’s sure he could happily sleep like this every night for the rest of his life.

“Stevie? You still awake?”

Bucky’s voice sounds too hushed, even for a whisper in the middle of the night, and Steve can barely understand him.

“Yeah, but I can’t hear you so well.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says. He scoots closer, until Steve can feel warm breath against his cheek.

“What do you got to say that’s more important than sleeping?” Steve asks.

Bucky pokes him in the ribs. “Nothing, really, but my mind’s all over the place. And it’s not like beauty rest could do your ugly mug any good.”

Steve smiles so wide his cheeks hurt. “I can’t help it if you got all the looks and I got all the brains.”

“Real funny,” Bucky says. “Got ourselves a regular comedian here.”

He knows Bucky’s most ticklish spots: the taut muscles above his knees and the soft belly that he’s self-conscious about. Last summer, Mary Katherine poked the puppy-fat that lingers around Bucky’s waist and oinked. He’s been sensitive about being touched there ever since, but he still lets Steve tickle him, burying his face in the couch cushions to muffle his laughter.

Then Bucky pulls Steve into a headlock and ruffles his hair. It annoys him, the way Bucky’s manhandling always does, but tonight something about it feels good too. A fluttering thrill in his stomach that makes him shiver. So Steve kicks and struggles, tries to tear himself away. It’s no use, of course; he’s too weak to break free from Bucky.

“Quit it,” Steve hisses, and Bucky finally lets go of him.

“Aww, c’mon, don’t be sore at me. I was just kidding around.”

Steve turns away, giving his back and his bad ear to Bucky. Even if he says anything else, Steve probably won’t be able to hear it.

He and Bucky don’t last one day as altar boys. Father McMullen puts Steve in charge of holding a thurible full of burning incense, and when he starts sneezing in front of the whole congregation, Bucky cracks up laughing. Then Steve starts laughing too, so hard that his belly aches and he has to double over. It’s hilarious until his mother drags the two of them out of church by their ears, calling them heathens. It probably doesn’t help their show of remorse that her threats of eternal damnation only send them both into another fit of snorts and giggles.

Later that night, when Bucky sneaks into Steve’s room, he says, “If laughing sends you to hell, then I don’t think I’d want to go somewhere as boring as heaven.”

Steve would like to agree, but now all he can think about is the afterlife that looms closer with every fever that burns through him. Maybe he ought to behave better in church, and stop battering Sister Bethany with unanswerable questions about God’s goodness in such an unfair world. Just in case.

“Heaven sounds pretty nice to me,” Steve says. “Besides, it’s the only chance I’d get to meet my dad. Wouldn’t want to miss that, you know?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “S’pose not.”

Steve squints, trying to bring Bucky’s face into better focus, but it’s impossible to make out fine details in the dark.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks.

Bucky pulls away, turns onto his back, and stares up at the ceiling.

“Sometimes I wish my father was… gone,” he whispers. “He doesn’t want to be alive anyway. I’ve heard him say so before, when he thought I wasn’t listening. The girls are afraid to talk to him, because sometimes he hits us when he forgets where he is. Not on purpose, but it still doesn’t feel too good. And it hurts Ma to see him so sad all the time.”

It hurts you too, Steve wants to say, but he doesn’t think Bucky would appreciate hearing that right now.

Instead, he snuggles up to Bucky’s side and says, “It doesn’t make you a bad person to think that. It’s gotta be hard, watching somebody you love fall apart.”

The next day, they pretend they never talked about it, and report to Father McMullen for their punishment.

He tasks Bucky with scrubbing the cathedral floors every Saturday for a month. Steve insists on receiving equal punishment, since he was just as disruptive as Bucky, but Father McMullen refuses.

“Steven, you have a crooked spine, nervous lungs, and a damaged heart. Scrubbing the floor would be far more painful for you than it is for James, and there’s nothing equal about that,” says Father McMullen.

All Steve hears is that he’s too frail to do anything, and he knows that isn’t true. His body might be fragile, but he’s got enough will to make up for it.

He says as much to Bucky as soon as they step out of the church. Bucky looks at him like he’s an idiot and cuffs him on the ear, not quite light enough to be gentle.

“Hardheaded, that’s what you are, but all the stubbornness in the world won’t cure you,” Bucky says. “Pushing yourself too hard only makes you sicker. You’ve got to accept that someday, Steve. If you don’t, you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

So what? Steve thinks. His unreliable body will do the job soon enough anyway.

He pushes Bucky’s chest. “Everybody else thinks I can’t take care of myself. You don’t need to say it too.”

Steve leaves before Bucky can answer. They don’t talk for days, but by Mass the following week they sit next to each other in the pews, biting back laughter every time their eyes meet.

Even though Steve stays in Father McMullen’s bad books more often than not, he loves going to Mass. Maybe it’s the artistic instinct that he can’t seem to shake, no matter how many bullies beat him up for girlishness, but Steve is awed by the beauty of the church.

The ceiling looms high overhead, dwarfing the people inside, and it reminds Steve that things greater than himself exist. He finds the strangest measure of peace in feeling small before God; in this way, he’s just like everyone else.

The rose window is his favorite part of the cathedral. On sunny days, it shines like a blossoming sun, too bright to look at directly. He’s heard that the window is even more impressive if you can see its rainbow reflections, but Steve can’t picture it. Heaven is easier to imagine than a life in full color.

Believing gives Steve the kind of purpose and comfort that he needs to get through bad days. When he’s bedridden, too faint to stand and strangling on his own breath, he tries to remember that he’s not alone. It helps, if only a little.

A funny thing about the Barnes family is that they’re half Catholic and half Jewish. Neither Winnie nor George was willing to give up their own faith when it came to raising their children, so they worked it out that Bucky and his sisters would be both.

Bucky whines about having to go to temple on Saturdays and church on Sundays, but Steve can tell that it’s an empty sort of protest. If Bucky really hated it, he’d stay at home, and God Himself couldn’t change his mind.

Yom Kippur falls on October 14th, and Bucky spends most of the day hiding out in Steve’s room, complaining about his empty stomach.

“I don’t see how starving myself for a day is supposed to get me closer to God,” Bucky says. He sounds grumpy in the particular way that only his hunger brings out.

“Well it’s the Day of Atonement, isn’t it?” Steve asks. “That’s what your Dad said. Sounds like a little penance would make sense.”

Bucky throws himself across Steve’s narrow bed, unbuttons his shirt, and kicks off his shoes. “My father won’t open his mouth to say ‘boo’ three hundred sixty-four days out of the year, but on Yom Kippur he turns into a school marm. ‘You can’t wash today, James. You can’t wear those shoes, James. You can’t eat a goddamn cracker, James.’”

Bucky has been throwing around ‘goddamn’ all day, and Steve figures it’s some kind of secret rebellion, since he hasn’t yet worked up the courage to say it in front of his parents.

“It’s pretty important to him, I guess,” Steve says.

He sits on the edge of his bed, unlaces his shoes, and swats Bucky’s calf. “Make some room for me on my own bed, James.”

Bucky lets out a long-suffering groan and kicks Steve in the ribs—softly, of course, because he wouldn’t dare risk hurting him for real. Steve wishes, that just once, he could convince Bucky not to handle him with kid gloves.

“Shit on a shingle, can you not do that?” Bucky asks. “It’s so weird when you call me James.”

“Why? It’s what everyone else calls you,” Steve says.

Bucky kicks him again, even gentler this time. Then he drapes his feet across Steve’s lap and says, “Yeah, well, you’re not everyone else, now are you?”

Steve’s cheeks grow warm. Even though Bucky said that blithely, like it doesn’t mean anything special, it means a lot to him.

“Put your stinky feet somewhere else. I’m not your footstool,” Steve says.

His voice cracks on the last syllable, like it’s been doing lately when he’s nervous. Because Bucky is a jackass, he laughs. Steve wants to tell him to shut up, but he’s afraid his voice will break on the anger that’s burning in his chest, welling up in his throat.

Bucky’s voice seemed to drop an octave overnight, skipping right over the wavering pitch that’s been humiliating Steve for the last three months. A small, petty part of him resents Bucky for that—and so much else: his strong body and handsome face; how he picks up new skills like he learned them in a past life, so quickly that it’s almost eerie; the way he always manages to sail his way out of trouble, charming everyone from classmates to nuns with nothing but an endearing smile. It all comes so easily to Bucky, while Steve works twice as hard only to be overlooked, bullied, and mocked.

It might be hard not to hate Bucky if Steve didn’t love him so much.

They lie in bed, halfway dozing under the shine of sunlight too sharp for autumn. By the time the day wanes into dusk, Bucky has fallen into a catnap. Steve feels him shifting against his side, sleepily searching for a comfortable spot—and then Bucky wraps an arm around Steve’s waist.

They’ve slept alongside each other for years, a practice his mother started them on as babies. According to Winnie, Steve wailed like a banshee whenever he slept anywhere besides Bucky’s bed. Ma says they worried at first, because Steve was a fragile baby, underweight and already plighted by a cocktail of ailments. Bucky was sixteen months older than Steve, and like most toddlers, he had a tendency to grab things too forcefully. But by all accounts, Bucky behaved like an angel with Steve by his side. Never held him too tightly or played with him too roughly, not even once.

Steve has spent a whole lifetime sharing beds with Bucky, but it’s never been quite like this. That fluttering feeling has settled in his stomach again, and somehow it makes him nervous and happy at once.

Without giving it much thought, Steve leans back, settling his body more closely to the curve of Bucky’s: head nestled against the slope where shoulder meets throat, back aligned to Bucky’s chest, their legs tangled together. They’re pressed close, every inch of Steve cuddled up to Bucky, and he feels so safe and peaceful, caught in a warm embrace.

He’s almost asleep when he feels Bucky startle awake. There’s a moment when they’re both frozen, still entwined—and then Bucky cusses, jerks away, and says, “Eww,” in the same way he does when he smells something gross.

Steve doesn’t dare say anything, because if he opens his mouth, he doesn’t know what kind of wounded noise will come out.

Bucky scrambles off the bed, shuddering like there’s a bug under his shirt, and says, “If you ever tell anybody that happened, I’ll skin you alive and make a jacket out of the leather.”

Bucky laughs when he says it, but Steve can tell he’s serious about wanting to keep this quiet.

He���s known Bucky too long not to recognize the disgust in his expression. Steve can’t bear to look him in the eye right now, because his whole body feels heavy, weighed down by shame.

It’s too messy to parse out and make sense of, so Steve pulls his shoes on and says, “We better get back to your place before our mothers come looking for us.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Don’t want to miss the honey cakes.”

Steve does his best not to think about the way he cuddled close to Bucky, seeking out something he’d rather not acknowledge. It’s a hard memory to lock away, but not as difficult to forget as the look of revulsion on Bucky’s face when he woke up and found himself entangled with Steve.

A perfect distraction presents itself on October 29th, but it’s not nearly worth the trouble it brings.

The stock market crashes two weeks after Yom Kippur. The papers print nothing else, and it’s all their parents talk about. Steve doesn’t understand how one bad day on Wall Street could be such a disaster for everyone, but hard times answer that question quick enough.

Shanty towns pop up all over New York, tiny cities within the city, where homeless folks sleep in scrap metal shacks. Most people call them Hoovervilles, after the president, but Steve doesn’t see how that’s very fair, since Herbert Hoover didn’t crash the stock market. He watches grown men stand in line at soup kitchens, waiting for a free meal. By his twelfth birthday, Steve, his mother, and the whole Barnes family are standing in those lines too.

Ma keeps working at Kings County Hospital, even though most of the nurses got fired. Doc Wallace says she only held onto her position because she’s the best nurse they’ve got. Her pay gets cut, though, and when Steve outgrows his old back brace, she cries because she can’t afford a new one for him.

Winnie loses her job at the textile factory. She starts waitressing at the kind of bar decent women shouldn’t even see the inside of, and spends her days cleaning houses for all the rich ladies in Brooklyn Heights. George searches for work, but there aren’t many jobs for a man with no skills beyond trench warfare, and besides, he’s too anxious to last more than a month anywhere.

Bucky drops out of school in the spring, two weeks before he turns fourteen, so that he can take a construction job for the WPA. The classroom feels empty without Bucky sitting at the desk to his left, the lessons slow and boring. They barely see each other these days, because Bucky spends most of his free time taking care of his sisters.

“Dad needs to get off his ass and work,” Bucky says. “Ma is just about killing herself raising the girls, keeping house, and cleaning for half of Brooklyn Heights. I’m busting my butt too, building stupid sidewalks that nobody needs. We shouldn’t have to do all that while he sleeps day and night.”

Steve knows it’s not his business, but George is a kind, quiet fella, and it’s not fair to blame him for being sick. “Your dad can’t help that he’s shell-shocked, Bucky.”

“What do you know about it?” Bucky snaps. “I’m gonna be a damn idiot reading kids’ books for the rest of my life, thanks to his useless ass.”

Steve ducks his head, because Bucky is right that he can’t understand. Ma insists that he has to stay in school, and even if she changed her mind, nobody would hire an eighty-pound asthmatic with a bent back and heart trouble. Steve’s broken body keeps protecting him from the challenges other people have to face, and he hates that even more than the pain it causes him.

Still, he worries about George. Steve knows what it’s like to be so sick that you burden your family. He wonders if Bucky thinks he’s lazy too, but he can’t bring himself to ask.

Six months after Bucky takes the WPA job, George stops being useless; he puts a gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger while his family is at church.

Steve missed Mass because he’s still recovering from a cold, so he’s the one who hears the gunshot. He hurries over to the Barnes’s apartment, heart beating an erratic rhythm in his chest.

He finds George in the bathroom, a grey (red) stain splattered across the wall behind his head. Steve has the stupid, passing thought that it almost looks like a paint-speckled canvas that he once saw at the MET.

Then he closes George’s eyes—pale, heavy-lidded, shaped exactly like Bucky’s—and takes three deep puffs from his inhaler until the threat of an asthma attack passes.

Mrs. Copeland, his downstairs neighbor, finds him in the bathroom. She screams so loud that it hurts even Steve’s ears, then covers her mouth with the back of her hand and makes a choking sound. Maybe she’s trying not to throw up.

Steve wonders, in a vague, distant sort of way, why he isn’t screaming or puking. Boys aren’t supposed to cry, but he knows—knew—George, grew up down the hall from the Barnes family. So shouldn’t he feel something?

Mrs. Copeland takes a few deep breaths, wipes at her nose, and says, “You shouldn’t have to look at this, Steven. Come with me, and I’ll call the police.”

Steve shakes his head. “Bucky told me that Jewish folks don’t leave their dead alone. I think it might be real disrespectful to run off with him like this.”

Shmira, Steve remembers. He thinks it means watching.

“Then let me get Mr. Hoffman to keep watch,” says Mrs. Copeland.

“No, I should stay,” Steve says. “I knew George better than anybody besides his family. But it’d help a lot it if you’d go to our church and tell Winnie what happened.”

He can’t stand the thought of her walking in on this sight, much less Bucky or the girls.

Mrs. Copeland frowns, but it’s sympathetic and soft around the edges. “Of course I will. And I’ll send up Mr. Hoffman to help watch over George with you.”

“Thanks,” Steve says.

After Mrs. Copeland leaves, he takes George’s hand. It’s growing cooler by the moment. Mr. Hoffman joins him in keeping a vigil over the body, but he doesn’t speak. He simply stands aside and lets Steve say goodbye.

When he touches George’s chest, it’s warm. As if the space around his heart hasn’t yet caught up to the coldness that’s settling in everywhere else, and Steve realizes that death doesn’t happen all at once. It creeps over a body, shutting down each part, piece by piece, until life leaks out entirely.

He thinks of all the times that George sat in a corner chair, staring off into a distance that no one else could see, a look of pure yearning on his face. Like he’d glimpsed some peaceful paradise, but it was too far away to reach.

Maybe he’s found it now. Steve hopes so.

George left four letters on the kitchen table: for Steve and his mother, Winnie, the girls, and Bucky. Steve can see from the thickness of the envelopes that the letter to Bucky is by far the longest, and he wonders what George had to say to the son he always disappointed.

A police officer and the Barnes’s rabbi take his body to the synagogue for preparation. Steve and his mother stay up all night, mourning with their neighbors—their family in all but blood.

Winnie holds Miriam and Delilah close, while Steve’s mother cradles little Rebecca, who isn’t yet old enough to understand what’s happening.

Bucky has been sitting on the floor, elbows propped on his knees, staring straight ahead, for the better part of the last three hours. All day, he’s refused to comfort his sisters, let his mother hold him, or talk to anyone. When Steve tried to touch his shoulder, he flinched and told him to go away.

After Winnie puts the girls to bed, she walks over to Bucky and says, “You can’t sit there all night, James.”

“Watch me.” His voice sounds flat and unfeeling, so colorless that it barely sounds like Bucky.

Winnie squeezes her eyes shut tight, like she’s trying to stave off more tears.

Steve wants to shake Bucky. It’s not fair, he knows, because Bucky just lost his father, and however he feels right now should be respected. But it’s hard to watch him hurt his his mother when she’s already suffering so much.

Winnie turns away. She probably doesn’t want Bucky to see her crying again, but it doesn’t matter. He isn’t even looking in her direction.

Steve’s mother sets her hand on Winnie’s shoulder and whispers, “Let him be, Win. You need to rest, and James wants to be alone right now.”

Bucky is still sitting on the floor with a terrifyingly blank expression on his face when Ma pulls Steve back to their own apartment. For once, the doors of their respective homes stay shut, and he wishes it was enough to keep the Barnes’s grief from seeping across the hall.

Ma kisses him on the forehead as he climbs into bed. “You were so strong today, Steve. You stayed with George all that time, just to make sure his faith was honored, and I haven’t seen anything so brave since your father enlisted.”

Steve grabs her hand and squeezes tight. “It was awful,” he says.

Ma pulls him into her arms, rocking him like he’s a baby still, instead of a boy almost grown. “It’s all right, love. Let it out.”

Steve clings to his mother, hanging on so that he can keep himself together. There’s an ache in his chest, choking him, and it feels like he’s crying even though the tears won’t come.

It’s selfish, but now all Steve can think about is that it will be him someday. He’s going to die trapped in this body that has always felt like a cage, and his mother will probably be the one to find him. She’ll have to feel the heat leech out of his hands, watch cold death crawl from his fingertips to his heart.

“I don’t want to die,” he says.

Ma shakes him, and she sounds sharper than he’s ever heard her when she says, “Listen to me, Steven Grant Rogers. You have too much good in you for it be meaningless. Too much good for you to die young.”

Steve nods against his mother’s shoulder. He wishes that he could believe her, but it’s hard to accept after what he saw today. Sometimes loss is just loss, and there’s no rhyme or reason to it.

Dawn light steals through Steve’s window and slinks across the floor. He lies awake, every part of him sore from a sleepless night, watching wan sunlight cut through the shadows of his room.

Ma peeks in to smile at him and say that she’s heading to work. “There’s chicken noodle soup on the stove. Please try to eat some, all right?”

Steve nods, even though his appetite, usually delicate, has disappeared entirely.

He’s still wide awake an hour later when he hears the front door open. He wonders if it might be Rebecca, who’s developing the habit of toddling across the hall to cling to Steve’s mother when she’s scared.

But no, Rebecca’s little feet wouldn’t step so heavily, and Steve knows every detail that makes up Bucky Barnes, right down to the sound of his footsteps.

“Buck? Are you okay?”

Bucky rushes to the bed and burrows beneath the thin blanket, yanking Steve close. It shortens his breath, being held onto so desperately, but Steve doesn’t mind. That blank expression has been wiped off of Bucky’s face, and it’s a relief to feel him reaching out for connection. Choosing Steve as his anchor.

He runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair. It’s dirty, strong with his boyish scent, and strangely pleasant to touch.

“I hate him,” Bucky says. “I know it’s not fair, but it’s the truth.”

Steve tightens his arms around Bucky’s back, embracing him with all the strength he has.

“He was a goddamn coward,” Bucky says. A broken pitch roughens his voice, and he tucks his face against Steve’s chest, burying his tears. “He should’ve fought to get better. He should’ve fought for us.”

There’s nothing Steve can say to fix this, no platitudes he can offer for the sake of giving comfort. Not without lying, and Bucky despises lies above everything else.

So Steve holds on with all he’s got. He swears that he won’t let anything hurt Bucky this badly ever again. He’ll walk through fire to keep him safe, tear down the whole wide world if he has to.

“You’re gonna make it through this,” Steve says. “I’ve got you.”

It hits him, while he watches Bucky sleep: what the painful joy in his chest is, what the hot shiver in his stomach means. Steve is heartsick, so hungry to belong to Bucky that he can barely breathe without him.

And it makes perfect sense, that his devotion could grow in a new direction, because the distance from one kind of love to another isn’t all that far.

Bucky stirs and stretches, blinks his sleepy eyes. They’re vivid, beautiful, and in an ocean of dull grey, startlingly blue—the only color that Steve has ever been able to see.

Notes: Many thanks to @xxlovendreamsxx for all her help as a beta! You’re the absolute best, dear.

I had too much fun writing this story. It gave me an excuse to research the Great Depression, 1930s New York, and the treatment of WWI veterans upon their return home. And, of course, writing teenage Steve falling for Bucky was pretty sweet too! ;)

This fic is the first of four interconnected one-shots. The next piece, “a perfect soldier,” takes place during WWII, and it will be from Bucky’s point-of-view.

The quote at the beginning is by Lang Leav. 

[iksathrob]

Melburnians geared up to buy or rent a new home in spring are no doubt feeling disappointed about the state of the city’s real estate market amid stage four lockdown.  Under the strict rules put in place to control a surge in COVID-19 cases, in-person open for inspections and live auctions are banned until at least mid-September and may only be carried out online. Melbourne residents must remain within a five-kilometre radius of their home and are only allowed to leave their homes for four reasons, one being to enjoy an hour of exercise a day. While it seems impossible to start planning your next move given the current limitations, recent Australia Post data suggests otherwise, showing that most Australians simply hop, skip or jump to the next suburb when they move out. Therefore, a one-hour stroll within your five-kilometre radius is the perfect opportunity to scout out your next home. Use the interactive below to discover the Melbourne suburbs that fall within your 5km radius // Melbourne buyer’s advocate and president of The Real Estate Buyers Agents Association of Australia (REBAA), Cate Bakos, said discovering a potential new neighbourhood on foot is extremely important.  “I still do it myself as a buyer’s advocate when I’m exploring a new suburb to get intimate with,” Ms Bakos said. “Walking the streets not only enables the prospective buyer to get a feel for the character of the housing, but also the character of the neighbourhood. Discovering a neighbourhood on foot helps prospective buyers get a feel for its character. Picture: Getty “Slowing down to five kilometres per hour allows a visitor to take in the types of residents – kids’ bikes on the porch, dogs barking, pretty gardens. This character is easily missed when driving past at 50 kilometres per hour. “It’s also more natural to walk around the streets zig-zagging than to drive in this manner. Also, walking around the local shops and cafe strips gives a better snapshot of the character of the area and the personalities that bring it to life.” What house hunters need to consider One of the best things about walking is that you can meander and “get off the beaten track”, said chief economist at realestate.com.au, Nerida Conisbee. “Exploring different paths is worthwhile because you might not have had the time previously to really get to know your neighbourhood,” Ms Conisbee said. Ms Conisbee suggested four things house hunters should take into consideration when re-discovering their five-kilometre radius: 1. Walkability Buying a home that’s easily navigable by foot can add significant value to the property in the long term. Meantime, it’s important for potential tenants to have easy access to simple amenities such as public transport, shops, parks, cafes, restaurants and schools. This is particularly important in neighbourhoods in and around the CBD where car spaces are limited.  “Walkable neighbourhoods are far more desirable so I think that’s a great thing to test on foot because there’s no better way to find out,” said Ms Conisbee. The best way to determine the walkability of an area is on foot. Picture: Getty 2. Public amenities Ms Conisbee said having good public amenities nearby such as schools, public transport options and retail outlets will always add value to a property in the long term. Meanwhile, prospective tenants should assess what amenities they need when considering their next move, and walking around a potential neighbourhood can help with this, she said. 3. Attractiveness Looks aren’t everything but the general attractiveness of a neighbourhood’s landscaping and architecture can add value to a property in the long term. “Tree-lined streets, garden beds, aesthetically pleasing properties as well as clean and well-lit footpaths are all things to look out for,” Ms Conisbee said.  4. Noise Ms Conisbee said it’s a very good idea to get a sense of what is going on at different times of the day in a neighbourhood so you can determine how noisy it would be if you lived there. “Sometimes neighbourhoods can be very quiet during the day but very noisy at night, so it can be quite a good idea to walk around at different times of the day, within curfew hours, of course,” she said. Keep an eye out for unique features Even if you’ve lived in a neighbourhood for decades there are bound to be hidden gems that have slipped under your radar, all of which add to the desirability of an area in terms on investment outcomes. The inner west suburb of Yarraville is a haven for street art. Picture: Getty Ms Bakos said many suburbs have walking paths that don’t allow access for cars such as dead-end streets that lead to lovely parks and gardens. “There is a beautiful part of my own suburb that is a great case in point – Maryston Street in Yarraville is one of the streets that leads to Cruikshank Park. The walking trails are glorious and the locals love taking their kids and dogs to the park. You can easily meander around the park and back onto a connecting street, something you’d never be able to do in a car. “Another beautiful highlight for pedestrians are skinny rear laneways. My daughter and I have discovered so many of the old bluestone night cart runs [in Yarraville]. “My favourite element is the street art. We have some great pockets around the inner west with amazing street art.” Keep in touch with local agents Matthew Pillios, director at Marshall White – Bayside, said walking the streets in your five-kilometre radius is the best way to get a gauge of what is coming up in the area post-lockdown. // // “Construction has not stopped, it might have slowed down but it has not stopped. So I say to everybody, if you see something being constructed, give me a call because more than likely if we haven’t got the listing we may be getting it,” Mr Pillios said. “Also if you see someone doing a hard rubbish collection or doing some sprucing up, like painting the outside of their houses, they could be coming up for sale,” he added. Mr Pillios said it’s imperative that prospective buyers make contact with local agents because circumstances, particularly in the current climate, can change and you might find your dream home, in your dream neighbourhood pops up for sale. “This is the time to contact us more than ever to let us know what streets or pockets that you want because ultimately there will be people that never planned to sell, who need to sell,” he explained. Buyers should get ready for spring Robert Enes, of Nelson Alexander – Northcote, said prospective Melbourne home buyers should use the downtime during lockdown to get ready for what is sure to be an “enormous” spring selling season. “There’s a lot to look forward to because we haven’t had stock for a while and there’s a lot of stock coming on [to the market]. So we’ve actually been very busy during this lockdown getting new properties ready to go to the market come early to mid-September once we are able to operate again,” Mr Enes said. Melbourne’s property market is expected to bounce back to life post-lockdown. Picture: realestate.com.au/buy “What’s been really telling with other markets overseas in recent times has been that post-severe lockdown, such as the one we’re experiencing right now, the markets have actually rebounded really strongly once they have re-opened, and what we mean by that is pricing and competitive scenarios with the buying of homes. “Just the way [the market] was before lockdown suggests that there’s a lot of new buyers entering the market and getting loans. We’re very, very optimistic that spring is going to be enormous.” The post Meandering your 5km radius could help you find your next home appeared first on realestate.com.au. from news – realestate.com.au https://ift.tt/2EyJ2Xi

http://realestateiksa.blogspot.com/2020/08/meandering-your-5km-radius-could-help.html

[ladystylestores]

Catching Up With Beauty’s Leading Indie Brands – WWD

https://ift.tt/3dsEWvY

For small beauty brands facing the economic implications of the coronavirus pandemic, focusing on digital direct-to-consumer business has been key to survival, and in some cases, growth.

“All we have is dot-com,” said Sasha Plavsic, founder of California-based clean cosmetic brand Ilia Beauty. “That’s the reality right now.”

In New York, Marius Morariu, cofounder and president of Tracie Martyn, said if the skin-care brand didn’t already have a d-to-c model established, “it would be a very different, sad story. Ultimately, with direct-to-consumer, you have more control. You have the data on your clients.”

He has had to rely on digital sales due to the temporary closing of Tracie Martyn’s New York City spa, a channel of revenue. Morariu, a holistic nutritionist, opened the space with facialist Tracie Martyn in the early Aughts.

“We’re staying connected with clients online, and driving the efforts into online sales,” Morariu said. The brand is also found digitally at retailers Space NK and Bluemercury. “So far, that’s what we’re doing, and so far, it’s working.”

But for how long? His team of 15, which includes contributors, “hasn’t changed, lucky enough,” since COVID-19 emerged, he said, but he’s “praying to God and meditating.”

He’s also busier than ever in search of investment. “I’m looking constantly for partners that can help me magnify the success of the channels that are currently still in place…to take the brand to the next level. This is also an opportunity to invest in brands that are doing well online and direct-to-consumer and help them scale. Capital is needed to scale in a major way.”

At Ilia Beauty, launched in 2011, Plavsic has been utilizing recent funding to broaden its consumer reach, which has contributed to “exponential” growth during quarantine.

“Because we aren’t investing in retail marketing, we could take some of those dollars and invest in digital marketing, which I’m surprised has been as effective as it has,” she said. The makeup brand received Series B financing via Sandbridge Capital in December, after first receiving funds about 18 months ago through Silas Capital.

“I think there’s a lot of people in our category that are after a certain demographic,” she continued. “If we look at our stats and data, that demographic for us is roughly 25 to 40 [years old]. However, there’s another demographic that we haven’t really looked at in more detail until recently and that’s roughly 40 to 65. We have a brand new customer there that is very strong, probably the strongest.”

The brand’s site is 10 times what it was a year ago, she added. When it’s out of stock, consumers head to retailers Sephora or Credo’s sites and vice versa.

“The response was — I’m going to use the word insane,” she said of the “silver-haired foxette” that graces the newer ads targeting this new customer on social media, including Instagram and Facebook.

“If you look at some of my cousin brands around me, the ones that are creating similar formulas or embody the clean ethos, we’re all doing very well,” Plavsic continued. “Many of us have had recent funding. Many of us are seeing explosive growth.”

Such a brand is Youth to the People — started in the Bay Area by cousins Joe Cloyes and Greg Gonzalez — also backed by Sandbridge Capital and found at Sephora.

“It’s definitely been an interesting journey,” Gonzalez said of working in quarantine. “But we’ve been doing well overall.”

Neither Ilia nor Youth to the People have had to furlough or lay off any employees, a team of about 35 and 57, respectively. A way they’ve each adapted to the loss of brick-and-mortar sales during lockdowns is by quickly shifting the responsibility of their field teams, for example. Instead of being on-site at Sephora stores, they’re online to educate the public on products. More than ever, consumers are making purchases without being able to try the merchandise firsthand — a fact that is continuing even as more and more brick-and-mortar stores reopen, since testers are being banned in many cases as part of safety protocols.

For Youth to the People, it’s a group of 17 who are currently working to increase online engagement using live chats and free, 15-minute skin consultations on the brand’s site, Monday to Saturday from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m.

“It’s not just about our skin care but about addressing any skin issues, tips,” Cloyes said. “It’s also been a great way to keep everyone active.”

Like many brands, their team has been making use of Zoom, the video platform, for work meetings. But the founders are also bringing their collaborative office atmosphere online by continuing to connect employees on a personal level through game playing and virtual happy hours.

For her part, Vintner’s Daughter founder April Gargiulo has been organizing weekly yoga classes for her team of 12. “Every Friday is our creative day,” she said. “It means you’re not doing Vintner’s Daughter work, you’re pursuing something creative, whether that is cooking, drawing, flower arranging.”

Gargiulo launched the skin-care brand in 2014 after two years of developing her Active Botanical Serum, a face oil infused with 22 botanicals, and now also offers an Active Treatment Essence to repair and protect the skin.

She, too, hasn’t had to let anyone go. “We have not seen a reduction of sales,” she said. “The majority of our retailers are digital first….At the end of the day, our products deliver performance. There is a true value in that. Anytime you’re in a recession or economic hard time, things that hold their value are sought out.”

She plans to launch a content section of the brand’s site, amplifying its pillars, which include sustainability: “From Day One, we’ve always felt like we did not want to subscribe to the kind of beauty industrial complex where you had to have a new product introduction every three months. We’ve always subscribed to this idea of universal beauty and that with fewer, you could do more and have less of a carbon footprint. With better made skin care, you can have better results.”

Those in the midst of product development are confronting new challenges. “Anything that resembles hand sanitizers, like pumps, is hard to source right now,” said Ouai founder and hairstylist Jen Atkin, who works with the likes of Bella Hadid, Hailey Bieber and the Kardashian-Jenner clan.

She looks to her 3.4 million Instagram followers to create new products for the brand, which now has close to 40 employees: “The little things are such luxuries now. That’s what we’ve been hearing from our community. They want to feel good…I think we’re all still in shellshock on the world kind of shutting down with no warning.”

When Italy became the virus’ new epicenter and ceased activity, Jules Miller — founder of The Nue Co. — found herself in a dilemma. There was “a massive boom in sales,” growing 20 percent, month after month, and yet she had to rely on the European country, where she sources the glass packaging of her otherwise U.S.-made organic, food-based supplements.

“It’s become a challenge to meet the demand,” she said, calling from England, where she’s originally from. She’s taking it day by day, though she added that she’s cut marketing spending by 80 percent and hired five more employees, bringing her team to 20.

“We’re 80 percent direct-to-consumer, and 20 percent is largely online retailers,” she continued. The brand is sold in 110 shops, including Nordstrom and Violet Grey. “We have such a local customer base, a 70 percent repeat purchase rate.”

She credits it to the effectiveness of the products, which range from targeting gut health to skin impurities. Since the virus, there’s been a surge in sales of the brand’s immunity supplement, which grew 400 percent, she said.

“People do finally get that beauty is about addressing your health and that wellbeing, the glow begins within,” Morariu shared.

According to Plavsic: “The consumer is ready for clean makeup.”

Other contemporaries in cosmetics like RMS Beauty — which was founded in 2009 — and newer brands like Tower28 Beauty and Lawless Beauty are surviving the climate. There have been no furloughs or layoffs, share the founders, who emphasize the benefits of not over-hiring and cutting down on unnecessary spending. And they attribute part of their success to the clean category. These days, buyers want to be responsible for the products they use.

“I remember 10 years ago when we started the brand and we would talk about it being clean and green, people weren’t really interested,” said RMS Beauty’s chief operating officer Elaine Sack. “I don’t want to say we were laughed at…”

“We were laughed at,” chimed in founder Rose-Marie Swift.

“The marketplace really has come around,” Sack added. “People really do recognize, with the coronavirus and the less is more concept, that you can feel beautiful in your skin.”

“And it’s still fashion forward and user friendly,” Swift said. “People trust my brand. They know how outspoken I am against the industry and the chemicals being used. People were first hesitant, but now they’re embracing it.”

Amy Liu, chief executive officer and founder of Tower28 Beauty, who’s worked in the industry for 16 years, said she’s noticed consumers “moving toward clean beauty,” too. Like her peers, she follows a strict “no-no list” of ingredients, free of toxics. “People feel safe using our products.”

Annie Lawless of Lawless Beauty agreed. Her brand’s ethos is about being clean without sacrificing performance, using highly pigmented, full-coverage makeup.

“Beauty is recession proof,” she said. “It’s an inexpensive form of self-care. And clean beauty feels more relevant now. Health, wellness, the environment are at the top of our minds.”

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from World Wide News https://ift.tt/2zWbpNg

[newyorktheater]

Bob Dylan, whose songs are featured in “Girl From The North Country”

Playwright Taylor Mac brings “The Fre” to the Flea

Greg Kotis, Tony winner for “Urinetown,” is bringing a new show Off-Off Broadway

Patti LuPone in a gender-reversed Company, coming to Broadway

the late Michael Friedman

Martyna Majok, a playwright of the displaced in such plays as Ironbound and queens, is author of the long-awaited “Sanctuary City” slated for New York Theatre Workshop

Hilary Bettis, who was a writer for the FX series “The Americans,” brings a play about a recently deported mother Off-Broadway

Lynn Nottage, who has turned her play “Intimate Apparel” into an opera

Below is a selection of the abundant New York theater openings in March, organized chronologically by opening date*. Seven shows are opening on Broadway, a jarring mix of royalty and penury, a reflection perhaps of the divide in the world at large. Three are plays, three are musicals; a seventh is sort of both, featuring Bob Dylan’s old songs in a new drama by Conor McPherson. For the times they are a-changin’

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There are also exciting shows Off-Off Broadway — including new works by Greg Kotis and Taylor Mac, whose play is said to focus specifically on the cultural divide. Off Broadway, a musical by the late Michael Friedman makes its debut, along with new work by Katori Hall, Martyna Majok, Duncan Macmillan, Hilary Bettis.

In celebration of Women’s History Month, there’s the third annual On Women theater festival in Brooklyn.

And then there’s the celebration of the ban on plastic bags in New York State (which has gone into effect this month) with “The Plastic Bag Store,” free in Times Square — half art installation, half immersive theater…and one of several boundary-crossing shows with cutting-edge puppetry on stage in this busy month of March.*

Each title below is linked to a relevant website. Color key: Broadway: Red. Off Broadway: Black or Blue.. Off Off Broadway: Green. Theater festival: Orange. Immersive: Magenta. Puppetry-Brown

For those shows that don’t have official openings, I list by first performance.

March 1

The Hot Wing King (Signature)

A comedy by Katori Hall (“Our Lady of Kibeho,” “The Mountaintop”) that  centers around the annual “Hot Wang Festival” in Memphis, TN.

March 3

The Perplexed (MTC’s City Center Stage 1)

Richard Greenberg, whose “Take Me Out” is being revived on Broadway this season, tells the story of two families, whose lives have been tumultuously intertwined for decades, as they gather in the massive library of a Fifth Avenue apartment to celebrate the nuptials of their children. Nothing goes smoothly

Coal Country (Public)

A new play with music by the wife-and-husband team Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen (The Exonerated) is based on first-person accounts of the explosion of the Upper Big Branch mine in 2019.

March 4

On Women Festival (Irondale Center)

The third annual three-week theater festival begins with “To Moscow! A Palimpsest” by Ada Luana and Gabriel F. (Brazil.) It continues with “Night Shadows—Or, One Hundred Million Voices Shouting” by Lynda Crawford, and two workshop presentations, “England’s Splendid Daughters” by Ann Kreitman and “The Fainting Room” by Becca Bernard.

March 5

Girl From the North Country (Belasco)

Written and directed by Conor McPherson, using songs that Bob Dylan wrote between 1963 and 2012, this play with music is set in 1934 at a guesthouse in Duluth, Minnesota (Dylan’s birthplace.) A group of travelers pass in and out of each other’s lives, and share stories that awaken each other with passion, fury and, beauty. This originated at the Public Theater. My review Off-Broadway.

  I Am Nobody (The Tank) 

An unhinged computer chip engineer threatens to destroy the world. What’s most noteworthy about this production is that it’s written by Greg Kotis, the Tony-winning author of arguably the most successful Off-Off Broadway show ever, “Urinetown.”

Kosmos Invers (HERE)

A new solo piece by puppeteer performance artist Karlan Sherrard with a powerful environmental message.

March 9

Unknown Soldier (Playwrights Horizons)

In this musical co-written by the late and much missed Michael Friedman, a woman sets out on a journey to unearth the secrets of her family’s past when she discovers in her grandmother’s home a mysterious photograph of an anonymous soldier, tucked away in a box of keepsakes.

March 10

72 Miles to Go (Roundabout’s Laura Pels)

Seventy-two miles. That’s the space between a recently deported mother in Nogales, Mexico and her husband and children in Tucson, Arizona. Written by Hilary Bettis, who was a writer for the FX series “The Americans”

March 11

  Anywhere (HERE)

Freely inspired by the novel Oedipus on the Road by Henry Bauchau, Anywhere evokes the long wandering of Oedipus accompanied by his daughter Antigone. The fallen Oedipus appears in the form of an ice puppet that gradually turns into water then into mist and disappears in the Erynian Forest

March 12

Six (Brooks Atkinson)

Pop-concert musical featuring the six wives of Henry VIII.

March 13

Twelfth Night (El Barrio’s Artspace)

“Audiences will be welcomed to Illyria…This romantic comedy will explore themes of wealth and class, identity and disguise, and love and loss. Our production will allow participants to directly engage with these themes with a high level of agency.”

March 15

The Minutes (Cort)

Letts’ most political work to date is a dark comedy about a town council meeting in the fictional town of Big Cherry that turns ominous.

The Fre (The Flea)

The Fre is written by Taylor Mac, and directed by The Flea’s artistic director Niegel Smith, his collaborator on “Hir” and “24 Decade History of Popular Music” and that makes this show a must-see no matter how weird or uncomfortable it winds up being. “In this queer love story, audiences will literally and figuratively jump into the mud with the Fre to hash out the current cultural divide.”

Washington Square (Axis)

A new adaptation of the Henry James novel written and directed by Randy Sharp. (A previous adaptation is “The Heiress”)

March 18

The Plastic Bag Store (20 Times Square)

The Plastic Bag Store, a public art installation and immersive theater piece by artist and director Robin Frohardt explores the enduring effects of plastics. The “store” is stocked with thousands of original, hand-sculpted items — produce and meat, dry goods and toiletries, cakes and sushi rolls — all made from discarded plastics. At night, the store transforms into an immersive, dynamic set for free performances where “hidden worlds and inventive puppetry tell the darkly comedic, sometimes tender story of how the overabundance of plastic waste we leave behind might be misinterpreted by future generations.” Free and open to the public.

  March 19

Hangmen (John Golden)

A dark comedy by Martin McDonagh about a retired executioner who now presides over a pub, visited by a mysterious gentleman. My review Off-Broadway

March 20

Treasure Island (New Victory)

In this rendition of the classic pirate story, 12 puppeteers animate marionettes to tell the swashbuckling adventures of cabin boy Jim Hawkins.

March 21

Best Life (Jack)

In Melisa Tien’s play, a woman of color can rewind time, but only within the last five minutes. The result: her exchange with a white woman in a cafe becomes increasingly alarming

March 22

Company (Bernard B. Jacobs)

Starring Patti LuPone and Katrina Lenk, this fifth Broadway production of the Stephen Sondheim/George Furth musical about a single 35-year-old with married friends, this one is “re-gendered” so that the protagonist is now a woman, Bobbie.

  March 23

Intimate Apparel (Lincoln Center Theater)

An opera based on Lynn Nottage’s play about the life and loves of Esther, a lonely, single African-American woman in early 20th century New York who makes her living sewing beautiful corsets and ladies’ undergarments.

March 24

Sanctuary City (New York Theatre Workshop)

Much anticipated (and much delayed) play by Martyna Majak, who was the 2018 Pulitzer Prize winner for Cost of Living, about two teenagers, life-long friends, in post-9/11 America.

March 25

Lungs (BAM)

Claire Foy and Matt Smith (who played Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip in the first season of “The Crown”) reunite in this look at love in the time of climate change, written by Duncan Macmillan (People, Places & Things)

March 26

The Lehman Trilogy (Nederlander)

The history of the rise and fall of the Lehman Brothers over 164 years, starting with the arrival of the three Lehman brothers from Bavaria in the mid nineteenth century. My review of The Lehman Trilogy when it was at Park Avenue Armory in April.

March 30

Oratorio for Living Things (Ars Nova Greenwich House)

A large scale musical work by Heather Christian, staged by director Lee Sunday Evans and featuring eighteen virtuosic singers and instrumentalists.

March 31

Diana (Longacre)

Jeanna de Waal portrays Princess Diana in this musical, with Roe Hartrampf as Prince Charles,Erin Davie as Camilla Parker Bowles, Judy Kaye as Queen Elizabeth

March 2020 New York Theater Openings Below is a selection of the abundant New York theater openings in March, organized chronologically by opening date*.

[its-lifestyle]

Mid-century modern architecture. Japanese shou sugi ban wood exteriors. Wall-to-wall block-print wallpaper. Shabby chic crystal chandeliers. These aren’t features in a Los Angeles home, but the kind of amenities in some of the US city’s more elaborate chicken coops.

In a town obsessed with design and indoor-outdoor living, it makes sense that pet owners want to keep their chickens in high-style comfort. In addition to giving them a chance to personalise their living spaces, urban homesteading offers a taste of pastoral life that’s elusive in a city of over four million.

As backyard fowl continue to make news in California after recent cases of Newcastle disease, it’s worth noting that tending chickens can be traumatic. Free-ranging can be deadly. Coyotes, raccoons, hawks and mountain lions will prey on hens. And extreme heat can overwhelm them because chickens don’t sweat.

Something as simple as an avocado can be fatal to chickens too. So why do urban homesteaders endure heartache, illness and loss? Because chickens are like any other pet: They make folks happy.

“It’s extraordinary to have chickens and fresh eggs, and engage with them,” says gardening consultant Lauri Kranz, author of A Garden Can Be Anywhere: Creating Bountiful And Beautiful Edible Gardens.

“I love visiting clients with chickens. They’re so happy to see me, but I always have a serious talk with clients who want them. When you raise chickens, you’re engaging with the natural world in a whole different way. No matter how well your coop is built, it still runs the risk of predators,” says Kranz.

“They’re more than cute, sweet and fun. It’s a huge responsibility,” she says. So, here are six urban homesteaders and how they personalised their coops in budgets from US$750 (RM3,140) to US$14,000 (RM58,640).

Mid-century Modern

Ellen Marie Bennett and “the ladies” of Echo Park.

Inspired by the clean lines of mid-century modern architecture, Casey Caplowe and Ellen Marie Bennett wanted a coop that would complement the lines of their home in Echo Park. “We wanted an Eames-inspired coop,” says Bennett, founder of the culinary goods brand Hedley & Bennett.

In a nod to the 1950s, Caplowe, co-founder of Good magazine, built a slant-roof coop and painted it a vibrant yellow. The colour palette augments the home’s animated interior, highlighted by a yellow Bertazzoni range, aquamarine heath tile and an orange sliding barn door.

At the bottom of a terraced yard filled with drought-tolerant plants, edibles and decomposed granite pathways, the midcentury-style hen house is home to a group of silkies that Bennett refers to as “the ladies”.

Olive Oil is the sole survivor of a flock that died during a heat wave in 2018. She now chooses to live in a backyard tree, visiting the coop for meals when not socialising with Oliver, the family’s 90kg pig, on the upper deck.

“Olive Oil has laid eggs in his pig hut,” says Bennett, a former chef. “I like the idea that when people come over, they can go outside and enjoy the ladies. It’s fun to show people where their food comes from.”

Urban modern

Irwin Miller’s coop befits its Bel Air address.

As a design director at Gensler, the largest architectural firm in the US, Irwin Miller has overseen everything from Eataly marketplace in Century City to TV producer Shonda Rhimes’ new office across from Paramount Studios in Hollywood.

So, it’s not surprising that Miller’s coop is a distinctive structure on a property steeped in Hollywood lore (Apocalypse Now screenwriter John Milius lived here). The lush compound at Beverly Crest is home to several small structures: a 84sqm main house, a 37sqm studio, a detached “man cave” for Miller’s two sons, and a “she shed” for wife Heidi.

Miller built the coop in an enclosed patio underneath an enormous grapefruit tree. The emerald green coop has a mathematical sensibility, incorporating a triangle theme that continues throughout the compound’s dwellings.

At night, the family can sit outside and enjoy the four silver-laced cochins, their sweet labrador Olive, and a nearby hot tub. A surplus of vines keeps the coop cool, and a motorised door that Miller detailed with red and green stripes opens and closes automatically when the family isn’t around.

Miller also hung a sparkling, shabby chic-style chandelier from the centre of the coop. “The crystal is a nice touch,” he says with a wink. “It exudes good energy.”

Farmhouse

Kate Richards with Princess Vespa.

For Kate Richards, whose Drinking With Chickens website encourages readers to interact with their birds while enjoying a “garden-to-glass” cocktail, living well means ending the day outdoors with husband Jonathon Ragsdale, their 10 fowls, and a lavender-infused tequila sunrise on their Sierra Madre property.

In eight years of keeping the flock, Richards has designed seven coops. Her latest, a fully insulated enclosure she built with Ragsdale and her father Rich Richards, is stylishly decorated with planters, pink and coral painted stripes, and vinyl peel-and-stick botanical block-print wallpaper.

The wallpaper (by Sarah Treu for Spoonflower) may seem extravagant, but Kate says it “camouflages poop on the wall and is easy to wipe down”.

She originally wanted her hens – which average 10 eggs a day – to roam free, but after they foraged everything in her yard, she installed the coop in a 4.5m by 7.6m enclosed garden at the back of her property.

There, they can exercise in a run made of pressure-treated wood, while vines and shrubs protect them from hawks and owls. The run rests on 30cm-deep permeable pebbles, so Kate can sweep and hose the path when necessary. Meanwhile, a comfortable seating area, outfitted with lounge chairs and custom iron wine-glass holders, and an adjacent cocktail bar provide ample room for guests and entertaining.

“It’s very tranquil out here,” says Kate, whose book Drinking With Chickens is due in 2020. “Chickens are funny and entertaining creatures. They’re filled with joy. All I’m doing is encouraging people to take a moment to enjoy them.”

Bohemian

Trish and Roe Sie have an AC installed for their fowls.

Since launching their homesteading store, the King’s Roost, five years ago in Silver Lake, Trish and Roe Sie have offered goods and classes suited to LA’s DIY culture. So when it was time for their own coop, they got a Western red cedar roll-top walk-in structure from Urban Coop (starting at US$4,700/RM19,700).

Designed for 20 chickens, the coop arrived in 12 flats and took them a week to assemble on their Los Feliz property. They also personalised it with framed photos of roosters above the roost area, along with an image of a lone hen.

When the temperature hit 40.5°C last summer, they added a generator and an AC unit. Flowering trumpet vines, which shade the roof, also help cool the coop. The couple judiciously prune the vines, which are poisonous.

“Trish is the rooster,” Roe adds with a laugh. “She’s the only person I’ve ever known who has had a flock of chickens name her.”

Outside the door to the coop, a wooden dust bath filled with clean ash wards off parasites. And when a neighbour greets the family over the fence, Trish emphasises the need to be respectful of their community.

“We make sure our neighbours are OK,” says Trish, director of the film Pitch Perfect 3 and the forthcoming The Sleepover. “We’re tidy. We share our eggs. We made sure the coop is the legal limit from the house.”

Abundant seating and electrical outlets allow the family to work outdoors and be near their pets. Ruby, their Rhode Island Red, even watches casting tapes with Trish. “The worst thing about travelling for work is not being with them and my family,” says Trish. “I’ve thought about having them as companion pets.”

Minimalist

Alison Hersel with her kids (Abby, Nellie and Nathan).

At Plumcot Farm, Alison Hersel’s 2.8ha property in Malibu, everything is small batch, from the honey to the more than 100 types of edible medicinal crops she’s grown on the organic farm. She added chickens five years ago because she wanted to demonstrate regenerative farming to her three kids in a hands-on way.

The 9.3sqm wooden coop is a large, minimal structure that provides the chickens room to roam while allowing Hersel the chance to share information with the public. “Recently, in a cooking class, one of the kids cracked a fertilised egg,” Hersel says. “Chickens prompt you to have conversations about the cycle of life.”

The structure is lined with 1.6 sq cm chicken wire that goes down almost 1m deep and surrounds the perimeter. The coop also features an interior space for egg boxes, and an exterior where the birds can meander in a protected environment (Hersel allows them to free-range outside the coop under supervision).

Shou Sugi Ban

Meeno Peluce, Ilse Ackerman, daughter Mette Peluce and chicken Maeve.

When Ilse Ackermann describes herself as a “chicken consultant to the stars”, her tone is tongue-in-cheek. But she has the non-disclosure agreements to prove it.

Her job, which involves 24-hour “fowl consultations” for anxious clients with broody birds, stems from her years living on Skyfarm, an urban farm in Lincoln Heights which she shares with her husband, photographer Meeno Peluce, their two daughters and 25 animals.

She may design custom coops for Hollywood’s A-list, but her own is more modest, built of inexpensive wood and a galvanised roof from Home Depot that she estimates around US$1,000 (RM4,195). By contrast, the coop’s black charred exterior stands out in an orchard filled with colourful plants and edibles.

“Shou sugi ban style is super chic and you don’t have to do anything to it,” Ackermann says of the ancient Japanese technique. “It’s great because it’s bug- and weather-resistant.” – Los Angeles Times/Tribune News Service

from Family – Star2.com https://ift.tt/2BtLg5S

[hollywoodjuliorivas]

NONFICTION

‘She Said’ Recounts How Two Times Reporters Broke the Harvey Weinstein Story

ImageJodi Kantor and Megan Twohey

Jodi Kantor and Megan TwoheyCreditCreditMartin Schoeller

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By Susan Faludi

Sept. 8, 2019

SHE SAID

Breaking the Sexual Harassment Story That Helped Ignite a Movement

By Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey

Tell the truth: Do you really need to hear more about Harvey Weinstein? The open bathrobe, the hotel hot tubs, the syringes of erectile-dysfunction drugs delivered by cowed assistants, the transparent requests for “a massage,” the ejaculatory exhibitions — it’s not just indictable, it’s … ick, simultaneously pathological and pathetic.

Which explains the reluctance I felt sitting down to read “She Said: Breaking the Sexual Harassment Story That Helped Ignite a Movement,” wherein the New York Times reporters Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey revisit at book length their investigative reporting on Weinstein, promising a “substantial amount” of new information. New information? More than 80 women have come forward to recount their encounters with the Oscar-award-monopolizer-and-patron-of-progressive-causes-turned-Tinseltown’s-über-ogre, the beast whose fleshy unshaven headshot every famous Hollywood beauty knows to hate, and whose trial has now been rescheduled for January to allow for additional testimony against him. What new gruesome details do we need?

But “She Said” isn’t retailing extra helpings of warmed-over salacity. The authors’ new information is less about the man and more about his surround-sound “complicity machine” of board members and lawyers, human resource officers and P.R. flaks, tabloid publishers and entertainment reporters who kept him rampaging with impunity years after his behavior had become an open secret. Kantor and Twohey instinctively understand the dangers of the Harvey-as-Monster story line — and the importance of refocusing our attention on structures of power. When they at last confront Weinstein, in a Times conference room and later on speakerphone, he’s the mouse that roared, the Great and Powerful Oz turned puny humbug, swerving from incoherent rants to self-pitying whimpers (“I’m already dead”) to sycophantic claims of just being one of them. (“If I wasn’t making movies, I would’ve been a journalist.”) He’s loathsome and self-serving, but his psychology is not the story they want to tell. The drama they chronicle instead is more complex and subtle, a narrative in which they are ultimately not mere observers but, essential to its moral message, protagonists themselves.

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[ This book was one of our most anticipated titles of September. See the full list. ]

Kantor and Twohey broke the Weinstein story. Their 3,300-word Times article on Oct. 5, 2017, aired allegations against him that had been piling up as whispers and rumors for 30 years. That report, and the ones to follow, were grounded in scores of interviews with actresses and current and former employees, supplemented by legal filings, corporate records and internal company communications that documented a thick web of cover-ups, bullying tactics and confidential settlements. It was bravura journalism.

“We watched with astonishment as a dam wall broke,” Kantor and Twohey write of the response to that first article. A day after it was published, so many women phoned The Times to report allegations of sexual harassment and assault against Weinstein that the paper had to assign additional reporters to handle the calls. On Oct. 10, another round of women, including marquee names like Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie and Rosanna Arquette, went public in a second article in The Times. Three weeks later, a third article detailed still more accounts of sexual abuse by Weinstein, spanning the globe and dating back to the 1970s. “This has haunted me my entire life,” said 62-year-old Hope Exiner d’Amore, who recounted being raped by Weinstein when she was in her early 20s.

This series of articles in many ways ignited the #MeToo movement, already smoldering in the atmosphere of frustration after reports of Donald Trump’s alleged sexual predations (a story that Twohey broke with another reporter) and the release of the “Access Hollywood” tape failed to slow the reality star’s march to the White House. Their reporting, Kantor and Twohey recall in “She Said,” seemed to operate as a “solvent for secrecy, pushing women all over the world to speak up about similar experiences.”

And a solvent for the structures that enforced that secrecy. A day after the first story came out, a third of the (all-male) board of the Weinstein Company resigned and the remaining members put Weinstein on leave. Two days later, he was fired. Within a year, his corporation declared bankruptcy — and, as part of the Chapter 11 filing, released employees from nondisclosure agreements.

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What explains the company’s decades of inaction? Answering that question, and parsing the ways that such entities and their centurions functioned as Weinstein’s shield, is the prime focus of “She Said.” The guardians the authors unmask aren’t only the obvious ones. Yes, Weinstein’s board members looked the other way long after they knew; yes, The National Enquirer and Black Cube security snoops deep-sixed damaging accounts and shut down whistle-blowers. Yes, Weinstein’s brother, Bob, the company’s co-founder, kept mum beyond all reason — even after Harvey had punched him in the face. But there was also the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, which often kept its settlements secret. And David Boies, the lawyer admired for championing gay marriage before the Supreme Court, who served as Weinstein’s personal consigliere and tried to squash every threat of bad press. And Linda Fairstein, the celebrated Manhattan sex crimes prosecutor, who, after an Italian model reported to the New York City police that Weinstein had groped her, brokered connections between Weinstein’s legal team and the lead prosecutor and tried to discredit the woman’s allegation to Twohey.

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[ “She Said” names some of the people who helped Harvey Weinstein evade scrutiny. ]

And then there was Gloria Allred, the crusading feminist lawyer, whose law firm, in 2004, negotiated a nondisclosure agreement for one of Weinstein’s victims; the firm pocketed 40 percent of the settlement. “While the attorney cultivated a reputation for giving female victims a voice,” Kantor and Twohey write, “some of her work and revenue was in negotiating secret settlements that silenced them and buried allegations of sexual harassment and assault.” Allred went on to do the same with women who had been abused by the Fox News host Bill O’Reilly and the Olympics gymnastics doctor Larry Nassar. In 2017, after a group of lawyers in California persuaded a state legislator to consider a bill that would ban confidentiality clauses muzzling sexual harassment victims, Allred denounced the move and threatened to go on the attack. The legislator, Connie Leyva, quickly shelved the idea. (A year later, Leyva introduced such a bill and it was signed into law.)

Maybe the most appalling figure in this constellation of collaborators and enablers is Lisa Bloom, Allred’s daughter. A lawyer likewise known for winning sexual-harassment settlements with nondisclosure agreements, Bloom was retained by Weinstein (who had also bought the movie rights to her book). In a jaw-dropping memo to Weinstein, Bloom itemized her game plan: Initiate “counterops online campaigns,” place articles in the press painting one of his accusers as a “pathological liar,” start a Weinstein Foundation “on gender equality” and hire a “reputation management company” to suppress negative articles on Google. Oh, and this gem: “You and I come out publicly in a pre-emptive interview where you talk about evolving on women’s issues, prompted by death of your mother, Trump pussy grab tape and, maybe, nasty unfounded hurtful rumors about you. … You should be the hero of the story, not the villain. This is very doable.”

“She Said” contains a second story of what’s doable against great odds: how two reporters with no connections in Hollywood and with almost no one willing to go on the record were able to penetrate this omertà and expose what lay behind it to public scrutiny. This is the book’s deeper level, the story of getting a story, signaled in the choice of chapter titles like “The First Phone Call” and “‘Who Else Is on the Record?’” Kantor and Twohey have crafted their news dispatches into a seamless and suspenseful account of their reportorial journey, a gripping blow-by-blow of how they managed, “working in the blank spaces between the words,” to corroborate allegations that had been chased and abandoned by multiple journalists before them. “She Said” reads a bit like a feminist “All the President’s Men.”

Kantor and Twohey take us through the time-consuming, meticulous and often go-nowhere grunt work that’s intrinsic to gathering evidence, winning the trust of gun-shy victims and maneuvering past barricades that block the path to a publishable article. Along the way, we witness how much institutional support such a protracted effort requires. Kantor and Twohey make a point throughout the book of stressing their reliance on a multilayered editorial team, from rigorous young research assistants like Grace Ashford, who combs through government employment data and tracks down a key former assistant from the late 1980s at Miramax, Weinstein’s film production company, to seasoned elder hands like the Times investigative editor Rebecca Corbett. “Sixtysomething, skeptical, scrupulous and allergic to flashiness or exaggeration,” Kantor and Twohey write of her, “but so low profile that she barely surfaced in Google search results. Her ambition was journalistic, not personal.” The night before the first article ran, Corbett remained in the newsroom until dawn, weighing and reweighing every word.

In this way, “She Said” is a dead-on description of what makes so-called “legacy” journalism so powerful. Ironically, the #MeToo movement that Kantor and Twohey’s articles about Weinstein helped launch promulgates an opposite message: that the best way to bring injustice to light is to get rid of the “gatekeepers” and let rip on Twitter, that we’ll only get to the “truth” when the Establishment is brought down and no one is in charge.

[ Read: “I’m Harvey Weinstein — you know what I can do.” ]

It may be, as the political writer Lee Smith argued in The Weekly Standard, that some journalists had protected Weinstein partly out of a craven illusion that the Hollywood rainmaker would someday make rain for them, buying their articles for high-grossing films. And no doubt the #MeToo movement has prompted the mainstream media to take these stories more seriously. Would Vanity Fair’s editor today omit allegations of sexual assault from a profile of Jeffrey Epstein, as happened in 2003? Nonetheless, the big-league sexual predators who have been brought to justice in the #MeToo era have been brought there not by internet whisper campaigns but by good old-fashioned reporting: O’Reilly by The Times, Nassar by The Indianapolis Star, Epstein by The Miami Herald, Roy Moore by The Washington Post, Weinstein by The Times and The New Yorker. “The Weinstein story had impact,” the authors note, “in part because it had achieved something that, in 2018, seemed rare and precious: broad consensus on the facts.”

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There’s an implication here: The answer to institutionally protected predation isn’t the anti-institutionalism of social media and viral tweets, but a powerful counter-institution capable of mounting a rigorous investigation, run by, yes, gatekeepers. Not spelled out but amply evident in Kantor and Twohey’s reckoning is the importance that those gatekeepers be female as well as male. In 2013, Jill Abramson, then The Times’s executive editor, promoted Corbett and another woman to the paper’s senior editorial staff, making the masthead 50 percent female for the first time in history. What happens when you get that kind of sisterhood is familiar to any spectator of the Women’s World Cup. Watching Kantor and Twohey pursue their goal while guarding each other’s back is as exhilarating as watching Megan Rapinoe and Crystal Dunn on the pitch.

Toward the end of the book, Kantor and Twohey devote two chapters to Christine Blasey Ford and her decision to air her sexual-assault allegations against the Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh. This, and the book’s finale, “The Gathering,” seem appended, an anticlimactic climax. In “The Gathering,” the reporters assemble 12 of the sexual abuse victims they interviewed (including a McDonald’s worker, Kim Lawson, who helped organize a nationwide strike over the fast-food franchise’s failure to address sexual harassment) at Gwyneth Paltrow’s Brentwood mansion to talk, over gourmet Japanese cuisine, about what they’ve endured since going public with their charges. The testimonials inevitably descend into platitudes about personal “growth” and getting “some sense of myself back.” At one point, Paltrow starts crying over the way Weinstein had invoked his support for her career to get women to submit to his advances, and Lawson’s friend (a McDonald’s labor organizer who came with her so she wouldn’t feel alone in a room full of movie stars) hands the actress a box of tissues.

These therapeutic scenes paste a pat conclusion onto a book that otherwise keeps the focus not on individual behavior or personal feelings but on the apparatuses of politics and power. At the least, though, the contrast throws into relief how un-pat, instructive and necessary “She Said” is. It turns out we did need to hear more about Weinstein — and the “more” that Kantor and Twohey give us draws an important distinction between the trendy ethic of hashtag justice and the disciplined professionalism and institutional heft that actually got the job done.

Susan Faludi is the author of “Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women” and, most recently, “In the Darkroom.”

SHE SAID

Breaking the Sexual Harassment Story That Helped Ignite a Movement

By Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey

310 pp. Penguin Press. $28.

[rebeccahpedersen]

Ban “Double-Ending?” Or Introduce “Designated Representation?”

TorontoRealtyBlog

The choice is yours, folks!

Oh wait, nevermind, it’s actually up to a wing of government who is going to tell us what’s best for us…

Talk of banning multiple representation, or “double-ending,” has been going on for the better part of 2017, but the Ontario Real Estate Association has proposed the introduction of “designated representation” as a compromise.

Comments on online newspapers are inherently negative, but I’m curious to know what my readers think about this…

I double-ended a property last week.

Or I should say, I double-ended a sale.

That’s where the term “double-ending” comes from; it’s a sales term.

In real estate, brokerages track how many “ends” their agents produce.  Each transaction has two ends: a buy-end, and a sale-end.

And thus the term “double-ender” for management and brokers to fawn over when their agents strike gold.

That’s how the public wants to see it, right?

It’s all about the agents, their ends, and their money.

And this is why I’m somewhat frustrated, because the issue of “double-ending” isn’t about the ends, it’s about representation.

The mere fact that the media uses the term “double-ending” instead of “multiple representation” shows the angle they’re taking with their stories.

The sexy story is real estate agents, how much money they make, how many sales they do, and (fingers crossed!) them screwing over either their buyer, or seller, or both.

If newspaper headlines talked about “multiple representation,” it just wouldn’t have the same spin.

Last week, two of my clients found themselves in “multiple representation;” one on the buy-side, and one on the sell-side.

I had a listing coming to market, one that I knew about for a few weeks.

I also had clients that were looking for a property; something they could downsize to in a few years, but where their daughter could stay as she did her Masters degree at U of T, perhaps renting the other bedroom to a friend.

My buyers were looking for something with space: maybe 1,200 square feet or more, but space in terms of functionality – something you don’t find in today’s new micro-condos.  So after showing them units in King West that were the right square footage, and with the outdoor space they coveted (something 300 sqft+, where you could barbecue), they found that the style of newer-builds and the layouts they offered just weren’t going to work.

I told them about the listing I had coming up, and they sounded interested.

This happens a lot in my business; you always have somebody looking, and something coming up, but rarely do the two connect.

In this case, my buyers loved the description of the unit, and they much preferred the east side.

So a few days before the listing was scheduled to come to market, I showed it to my buyers.

They didn’t jump; they took their time.

But when I brought the unit to market, they said, “Okay, you know what?  We want it.  Let’s buy it.”

So how did I represent both sides?

It sounds cliché, folks, but it’s the truth: honesty.

I told my buyers that we had priced the unit slightly above fair market value, since we did.

And I told them that one of two scenarios could play out.

The unit could sit on the market for two weeks, and they might be able to get it for, say, $20-$30K under the list price.

But the unit might also garner significant attention, result in multiple offers, and sell $20-$30K over the list price.

In fact, the amount that properties sell for over list is usually substantially higher than the amount properties sell under list price, in this market.  I don’t think anybody would dispute that.

So I told my clients, “If you want to tie up this property today, you’d have to offer the full list price.  However, that doesn’t preclude you from instructing me to draw up an offer with ANY price of your choosing.  As your agent, I could offer $1 on your behalf; it’s up to you.”

In the end, they simply said, “We don’t want to mess around.”

This property was going to represent their retirement, and the bottom line was: they weren’t all that price-sensitive.  If they paid $950,000,  or $980,000, or $930,000, it wasn’t going to make or break this decision for them.

They wanted the property, they thought the list price was reasonable, and  they didn’t want to take the downside risk, that other offers materialized, in exchange for upside reward, that the property sits on the market, and they could get it for less.

The sellers were ecstatic with the sale price, and relieved that they didn’t have to stay out of the condo for two weeks.

The buyers were as happy as can be with their purchase, and can’t wait to take possession.

Tell me I’m wrong in my approach here, and tell me what I did was unfair.

Tell me that there was potential for a conflict of interest, and I won’t disagree.

But not every potential for a conflict of interest, results in a conflict of interest.  Let alone one party’s interest being put above and beyond the other.

I’ve heard a lot of metaphors and comparisons for multiple representation in real estate.

“A lawyer can’t represent both the defendant and the plaintiff.”

“A baseball player can’t call his own balls and strikes.”

I’m sure you could come up with a few beauties yourselves.

The comparison to a lawyer representing both plaintiff and defendant might seem to have some similarities, except in that case only one of them can win.  It’s a zero sum game, and one person’s loss equals the other person’s gain.  Representing both buyer and seller in real estate, as I’ve shown in the example above, does allow both parties to win.

As for calling your own balls and strikes, well, I don’t think this really applies.  That’s essentially saying you are your own moral authority, determining what is right and what is wrong.  But RECO is the moral authority, and ultimately so too will be your clients.

And that’s really what it all comes down to, in my opinion.

I really don’t want to sound like an anti-government nut, based on my blog from Monday and now following it up with this, but I really, truly don’t think it’s the government’s place to decide who can work with whom in the real estate market.

It should be entirely up to the consumer.

I’m not in favour of taking choice away from the consumer.

I understand why the government has made it illegal to not wear a seat-belt, but then again, the government has allowed consumer to decide if they want to smoke cigarettes, eat fatty meats, and come next year, smoke weed.

So why is it up to the government to decide on behalf of the consumer whether or not a real estate agent can work for both buyer and seller?

I have a very simple solution, and this is more simple than what OREA is proposing.

A buyer signs a “Buyer Representation Agreement.”

A seller signs a “Listing Agreement.”

Let’s create new forms that have a section pertaining to multiple representation, but at BOTH the brokerage level, and the agent level.  Because by definition, “Multiple Representation” refers to the same brokerage representing buyer and seller, not the same agent.

When it comes to the debate about “double-ending,” that’s directly referring to the same agent representing both buyer and seller, so let’s not confuse the two.

Now, as for the Buyer Representation Agreement and Listing Agreement, let’s have check-boxes, where the client must initial for the following:

1) I hereby give my consent for my agent to engage in multiple representation at the brokerage level.

YES  ________        NO  ________

2) I hereby give my consent for my agent to engage in multiple representation at the agent level.

YES  ________        NO  ________

Every buyer and seller, via the Buyer Representation Agreement and Listing Agreement, must specify whether or not they would allow their agent to either “double-end” their deal, or, have anybody from their brokerage work on the transaction.

Now here’s the kicker, folks, and agents will not like when I suggest this.

There should be a clause in the Buyer Representation Agreement that specifically states if the buyer agent happens to have a property listed for sale, as a listing agent, and the buyer under contract did NOT consent to multiple representation at the agent level, then that buyer is free to pursue that property, and only that property, with another agent.

Is that fair?

It allows a buyer to work under contract with an agent, but if that agent has a property listed that interests the buyer, and the buyer does not feel comfortable working with an agent “double-ending,” then the buyer has an out.

I welcome your thoughts on this, since again, to reiterate, I really, truly believe that the decision should be left to the consumer, and not forced upon the market by the government.

Also keep in mind that nine times out of ten, any issues arising from multiple representation, specifically “double-ending,” are on the buy-side.

Show me a seller who will toss away an offer from a buyer, who happens to be represented by the seller’s agent.

In competition, if there were ten offers, does the seller really care who “wins?”

Well, even though I’m seeking to make a point, let me combat the point with an example…

A few years ago, I brought an offer on behalf of my buyer clients on a property listed by Bosley Real Estate.

There were three offers, and I was told by the listing agent, “You’re the highest, but…”

Do you know what that “but” referred to?

You’ll never believe it.

The seller didn’t want to work with a Bosley-represented offer.

I couldn’t believe it!

The sellers told their listing agent, “We don’t like the optics of this.  We feel it might not be well-received, and if it’s up to us, we’d simply rather work with one of the other two offers.”

Of course, the other two offers were lower!  So now the sellers really had to put their money where their mouth was, literally, and decide if they wanted to accept a lower offer, that wasn’t from Bosley.

They gave both the other bidders a chance to improve, and not us, which you will argue is “unfair” or “against the rules,” but those so-called rules aren’t written anywhere, other than many generic sections in REBBA and the CREA Code of Ethics about “fairness in dealings.”

In the end, one buyer stuck, the other improved, but not enough, and we got the property.

But imagine my explanation to my buyers if we didn’t?

Earlier this week, an article appeared in the Globe & Mail entitled, “Realtors Realtors Lobby For Revised ‘Double-Ending’ Ban”

The article quotes Phil Soper, CEO of Royal LePage, who said the following:

“It is better to make it the law to need independent representation, but allow the consumer the ability to contract out of that with clear disclosure and high penalties for those who don’t follow the rules.  You put it in the hands of people who are actually paying the fees, rather than making it very difficult for them in the rare circumstances where it makes sense for them.”

Sooooo………pretty much what I’ve been saying?

On July 23rd, 2017, the Ontario Real Estate Association, who has effectively become a Realtor-lobbyist now that the education programs have been taken away from them, released a 44-page report, sent as a “letter” to Tracy MacCharles, the Minister of Government and Consumer Services.

The author(s) of the report waste no time, with the first page of the report showing “KEY OREA RECOMMENDATION” in big letters, and then the following:

Multiple representation under REBBA was established in 2002 and modernization is needed to ensure it is in line with best practices in other jurisdictions. The real estate market, consumers’ expectations and industry practices have change signifi cantly in the past 15 years. That is why OREA worked hard to convince the province to reform REBBA, including addressing practices like multiple representation. Specifically, OREA is calling for multiple representation to be reformed in favour of the highest national standard that maintains consumer choice in a real estate transaction.

To that end, OREA supports mandatory designated representation (MDR) and strongly recommends that MDR include the ability for consumers and registrants to enter into “transactional representation” with their REALTOR® in order to protect informed consumer choice.

–

OREA gives the following cheezy example of Mandatory Designated Representation:

John and Cynthia have been working with David, their REALTOR®, for 6 months as they search for their fi rst home. They signed a Buyer Representation Agreement (BRA) with David making them a client. John and Cynthia really like David. He provides great service and has showed them dozens of properties. They trust David and have built a good relationship with him. John and Cynthia have also shared with David the maximum price they qualified for through their bank and their income. David lists a property that fi ts the criteria that John and Cynthia were searching for.  John and Cynthia attend a showing and decide to put an off er on David’s listing. Under a mandatory designated representation model, David would have to choose between representing John and Cynthia or the seller since both parties are his clients. David decides to keep his seller clients and refers John and Cynthia to two registrants in his office. They are reluctant to work with a complete stranger who they have just met and are angry they can’t work with David. It’s his listing after all. Who knows more about the property than David? In this example, what is in John’s and Cynthia’s best interests as consumers?

–

Now I’m confused.

OREA supports Mandatory Designated Representation, but then gives us an example, and asks us, somewhat rhetorically, “What is in John and Cynthia’s best interests as consumers?”

Perhaps they haven’t worked it out either.

In any event, I could go on about “Transactional Representation,” but I feel as though you’re already skimming this, and scrolling to the comments section to provide your two cents.

So let’s do that then.

I won’t be offended if you say that all real estate agents are snake-oil salesmen, who should die in a fiery car-wreck, somewhat ironically caused by highly flammable snake-oil that was already pre-sold.

My only requests:

1) If you are against multiple representation, then distinguish between the brokerage level and the agent level, because REBBA currently does not, and I think that’s where this conversation starts.

2) If you’re against it, you have to provide an alternative.

I welcome your thoughts.

The post Ban “Double-Ending?” Or Introduce “Designated Representation?” appeared first on Toronto Real Estate Property Sales & Investments | Toronto Realty Blog by David Fleming.

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