#surprise its marcius | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dwellordream · 3 years ago

Text

“...It stands to reason that a society which is ruled by its male senior citizens through the control of younger and less powerful men would instill reverence for the wisdom of advancing age in its male youth. The Romans, we might observe, referred to previous generations as maiores, greater individuals, and employed the adjective magnus, great, in the kinship terms for parents' close male and female ascendants (a practice the English language has adopted with its use of the adjective "great" for kin of earlier generations); such a practice testifies to the Roman equation of seniority with superiority, and to the inclusion of women among its superior seniors.

Thus it should come as no surprise that older women seem to command more respect, inspire more awe, and have (or be perceived as having) greater social and political influence than do younger ones. In addition, Roman women along in years were more likely to have young male relatives who were eager to prove themselves worthy of and to their elders, and who were mindful of the nurturance they had recently received from mothers and older kinswomen; such young men were under special pressure to manifest their respect and awe for their female maiores through publicly visible gestures.

We have already examined the idealization in Tacitus' Dialogus of the moral instruction and intellectual sustenance provided for an eternally indebted Roman male youth committed to a life of public service by his upstanding female relatives; this picture is far from unique in Roman writings. Such a vision of an older Roman matron's function, and of Roman mother-son relations, seems the parodic point of Plautus' Casina. The play, composed immediately before the playwright's death in 184 B.C., was popular enough to be revived in the next generation. In it, the materfamilias Cleostrata intimidates her elderly and socially powerful husband both through proving herself his moral superior and, as her son's ally and abettor, by ingeniously securing for this son the sexual favors of a slave girl his father also covets.

By cleverly rendering her presumably grateful son such services, attracting admiration for her capable handling of this complex affair, but nonetheless setting herself up as a moral example in the process, she evidently travesties the Roman concept of a wise, righteous, and exemplary mother. This same vision, however, is reproduced as part of a serious moral and political exemplum in Livy's narrative on the Bacchanalian scandal, an episode which profoundly shook Roman society shortly before the Casina was first performed. Livy's young male protagonist Aebutius and his reluctantly influential courtesan mistress Hispala Fecinia manage to bring the matter to the consul Postumius' attention, and Postumius proceeds to bring the malefactors to justice, solely through the aid of Aebutia, amita (father's sister), to Aebutius, and Postumius' venerable mother-in-law Sulpicia.

These two older women—depicted as virtuous, beneficent, sagacious, deserving of male reverence and hence, by Livy's implication, truly "maternal"—are contrasted with two, far less admirable, matronly counterparts: Aebutius' own mother Duronia, whose devotion to both her second husband and his interest in depriving Aebutius of his patrimony led her to seek her son's undoing by having him initiated into Bacchic worship; the Campanian priestess Paculla Annia, who began the Bacchic cult's corrupting influence by initiating its first men, her own sons.

Livy's account, at 39.nff., of Postumius' efforts to ascertain, through Sulpicia, the character of Aebutia, warrants special notice since here he treats these two nurturant and publicly influential mother figures in a sympathetic and sentimentalizing fashion: he refers to the former woman as dignified, a gravis (and later a gravissima) femina, to the latter as morally upright and of old-fashioned ways, probam et antiqui moris; he even describes Aebutia as moved to tears by, the dreadful treatment of her brother's son (filius eius fiatris), also morally upright (probus), by those who should have been the last to do so.

Another, doubtlessly romanticized, moralizing tale also attests to both the esteem in which a young Roman male was to hold his elder kinswomen's judgment and moral authority and to the public display and political impact of such esteem, namely the story of Gnaeus Marcius Coriolanus. Set in the mid-fifth century B.C., the story achieved great popularity in the classical period: a lost book by Cicero's closest friend Titus Pomponius Atticus featured Coriolanus prominently; Livy, Valerius Maximus, and Plutarch all treat his tragedy. Coriolanus has recently been called the "Roman archetype" of the "perpetual mama's boy" in a provocative psychoanalytic study of the Roman mother-son relationship, and for good reason: he allegedly valued his widowed mother so highly that he abandoned a traitorous march on Rome at the head of an enemy force only after she demanded that he desist.

There are less dramatic, and probably somewhat more reliable, pieces of ancient Roman testimony to the reverential regard of young Roman men for the older, maternal female members of their families, to their—and others'—experience of these women as significant and influential individuals, and to the frequent exhibition of both this regard and this experience in a larger sociopolitical context. Several laudationes Junebres, orations delivered by aristocratic Roman men (and usually youthful ones) to honor a deceased relative of political distinction, belong in this category.

Cicero reports that the first such speech in commemoration of a woman was given in 102 B.C. by the consul Quintus Lutatius Catulus to honor his mother Popilia; no young woman received this same recognition until over thirty years later, when Julius Caesar's second wife, Cornelia, was buried amid her husband's public praises. That same year, however, Caesar made a more memorable, or at least better remembered, contribution to funeral oratory with his laudation of his father's sister Julia, wife of the military and political leader Marius. Caesar's words first proclaimed the glory of this aunt's, and hence his own father's, maternal ancestry: The maternal lineage of my paternal aunt Julia descended from kings, the paternal is connected with the immortal gods.

For the Marcii Reges go back to Ancus Marcius, Marcia being the name of her mother, and the Julii, to which clan our family belongs, are offspring of Venus. There is, therefore, in her lineage both the holiness of kings, who have the greatest power among humans, and the religious quality of gods, in whose power are the kings themselves. Perhaps not insignificantly, Ancus Marcius, the early king from whom Julia's maternal Marcii traced their lineage, supposedly inherited Rome's throne through his maternal grandfather; so, too, the divinity from whom her (and her nephew's) paternal Julii avowed their descent was Venus, mother of the Trojan hero Aeneas.

A later, and also elderly, Julia, Caesar's sister, was hailed in the funeral laudatio upon her death in 51 B.C. by the twelve-year-old Octavius, whose mother Atia was Julia's daughter; through this maternal grandmother Octavius, later the emperor Augustus, could claim descent by blood, as well as adoption, from Venus and the Julian clan. The laudatio delivered in 42 B.C. to honor the nonagenarian Caecilia by her son Atticus, a man whose attraction to the Coriolanus legend we have already noted, stirred comment as providing proof of Atticus' familial devotion (pietas): said to be sixty-seven at the time, he pointed out that he had never once needed to apologize to his mother, nor quarreled with his sister, who was almost the same age as he.

One might also consider in this context an inscription generally dated to the early empire, the laudatio of a noble matron Murdia. It is dedicated by a son of the woman's first marriage, despite the fact that her second husband seems to have been numbered among her survivors. She is, moreover, identified only with the words Murdiae L(ucii) F(iliae) Matris, "Murdia, Lucius' daughter and my mother"; she is acclaimed by this son as "most precious to me" (carissima mihi), although he says nothing about affection between her and either husband.

Along with citing her modesty (modestia), upright character (probitas, an attribute we have seen noted in Livy's Aebutia and Aebutius), chastity (pudicitia), compliant nature (opsequium), wool-spinning (lanificium), conscientiousness, and trustworthiness (diligentia and fides), he cites her wisdom (.sapientia); what is more, he accords her special praise for treating all of her sons equally in her will. Both mater and amita also figure prominently in another, fairly early and important source for the public reverence awarded and sociopolitical significance clearly and justifiably ascribed to older Roman women of the upper classes by their younger male relatives.

…It may help further to elucidate why other young Roman men of the upper classes regarded their elder female relations, their own and other men's mothers, so seriously, looking upon them as socially and politically powerful figures deserving publicly visible homage. Atticus' sister of sixty-odd, Aemilia, the dowager sister of Lucius Aemilius Paullus, and the matrons who were sisters of Aemilia's son Publius Cornelius Scipio (and hence enjoyed the magnanimity of his adoptive son) obviously rank among older women, whether by age or by relation to their devoted male kin. But the concern publicly evinced for other, younger, women of high birth by their brothers, such as that displayed by Scipio in his munificence to his sisters, indicates that sisters in Roman elite society were also highly, and publicly, esteemed by their brothers.

Evidence from Roman comedy merits special note in this context. A lengthy passage from Plautus' Aulularia generalizes on the feelings and duties of brothers and sisters to one another: it depicts Roman brothers and sisters as partaking of a close relationship, sharing the same concerns, and looking to one another for advice; it depicts one particular sister, moreover, as expecting her advice to be followed. At lines i2off. Eunomia speaks of her sincere commitment to her brother Megadorus' best interests as "befitting a sister of the same parents" While acknowledging that brothers find sisters bothersome, she points out their mutual obligation to counsel and admonish one another, and even demands that Megadorus do what she orders; she justifies these demands on the grounds that she is closest to him and he to her.

More importantly, both Roman legend and Roman historical writing concur in their depiction of this fraternal esteem for sisters, and fraternal compliance with sisters' wishes, as having a substantial public impact among the Roman elite. They suggest that a Roman sister, though likely to be regarded with respect rather than veneration, and subtly complimented rather than eulogized, by her brother, often exerted influence of a political nature both on and through him; they indicate that various sisters publicly reflected in—and often actually benefited from—their brothers' social and political prestige.”

- Judith P. Hallett, “Women of Elite Families and Roman Society.” in Fathers and Daughters in Roman Society: Women and the Elite Family

#judith p. hallett #history #ancient #roman #fathers and daughters in roman society

9 notes · View notes

vampiresuns · 4 years ago

Text

Corazón Ardiente

2.3k words. Preparing themselves to cross the Strait of Sirens, the crew of The Jagged Ruby runs into another pirate ship. Alternative, in which Julianus makes an unlikely friend. Contains 🍋

The crew of The Jagged Ruby and El Corazón Sangrante, such as Captain Rodrigo and his Quartermaster Jacqui, belong to @apprenticealec. You can also check their map and lore about the Strait of Sirens here.

This is the opening part of Part VI of Secrets of An Ancient Moon Series. Part VI will be divided in three parts: Corazón Ardiente, Corazón Sufriente and Corazón Sangrante.

Want to read more of these series? You can find it’s masterpost here.

This part also introduces the fictional country of ‘Altazor’, a latino fictional country where Julianus is from — other Alzoreño characters in my fictional universe are Louisa De Silva and her son: Aelius Anatole Radošević.

It wasn’t too long past the break of dawn when Jules heard the door open, making the sea breeze from outside enter the room. Its coolness made them bury themselves a little further into the sheets, though they kept enough of their head above the covers to peek an eye open. Saoirse’s outline closed the door of their quarters, making the door click behind them.

Jules yawned, sitting up on the bed, holding the covers up only for the sake of warmth. Saoirse smiled at them.

“Did I wake you up?”

“No,” they said as they stretched. “What were you doing?”

“Feeding Marcius for you.” Saoirse paused, as if unsure of what to do next. “Do you want me to go back to bed with you, or are you alright? It’s still too early for anything to happen… Meredith is not awake yet.”

Jules patted the side of the bed next to them, but Saoirse hesitated again.

“What is it?”

“Should I join you with or without clothes?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“What you want, what I may want. I could just go back to sleep, you were a wonderful pillow,” they smiled; Saoirse thought they looked adorable with a bedhead and a sleepy smile on their face. “But I also wouldn’t mind not going back to sleep, if that’s what you were wondering.”

The Quartermaster licked their own lips, a distinctively human gesture. J. C. couldn’t help but wonder where, or who, they had picked it up from. They wondered about all such mannerisms in them, marvelling at the entity standing before them. As Saoirse took their shirt off, they asked them why they were looking at them like that.

Julianus shrugged. “Aren’t you a curious entity?”

“Care to tell me why?” Saoirse asked as they got back in bed. They faced Julianus, tucking their mussed up hair behind one of their ears. “I don’t think there’s anything particularly curious about this, us.”

“No, not us,” Jules paused to kiss the corner of their mouth. “I just find it wonderfully delightful that someone such as you would choose to model themself after beings such as humans. You’re so alike us in our lack of similarities.”

Saoirse huffed through their nose. An undecipherable gesture that made Jules wonder if they did such things on purpose, or if they naturally to them. They didn’t ask however, allowing Saoirse space if they needed any. As their presence began acquiring that incomprehensible, vast feeling it often had, their eyes wandered all over them. However, Julianus no longer found it strange. Even if it prickled at them, they had learnt to find it comforting.

That was Saoirse, their Saoirse.

Neither of them should’ve been surprised they ended up having sex again. Why or who began it they didn’t know, nor they cared. Saoirse wanted to make use of Jules’ word that along with nights there would be mornings, and other moments, wanting to file away their many moods — both Jules’ and their own, and theirs as something which went together. Jules just wanted, simple as that. The day hadn’t begun yet, and given they weren’t nearly as quick as Saoirse was with their own tasks, not having had centuries to grow accustomed to them (as well as generally having a better capacity to finish tasks in one go). They weren’t going to pass on the opportunity to have the Quartermaster for themself just a little longer.

The distant but growing sound of drums had other plans, however.

Saoirse went still, getting out of bed as they claimed Meredith would not be happy about this. They moved across their quarters as if nothing had interrupted them, stopping only when J. C. cleared their throat. They look vaguely irritated.

“If you could explain—“

Saoirse turned with a reassuring smile, telling them it was nothing of importance, just something Meredith wouldn’t like. It didn’t require Julianus, so Saoirse told them to feel free to dress at their leisure. Before they could dwell a moment longer, however, they were gone.

Right, duty called. Now alone, Julianus set themself on getting ready, though it took them a moment to stir themselves into leaving the bed. They resigned themselves to their fate fast rather than slowly. At least the drumming, whatever its source, provided a nice ambience sound for it. It was energetic, like a Murga inviting Jules to join.

A Murga… when was the last time they had witnessed one? They must’ve been 17, 18 at most. Ten years was a long time, though sitting in bed to float over the waters of nostalgia wouldn’t get them anywhere, as tempting as it was, they knew better now, with time. Though the memories remained, they began moving. Sometimes, one had to sit with the discomfort and carry on — it’s lessons would come eventually.

A quick splash to their face, a scrub, some basic skin care, underwear, pants, a shirt, earrings and shoes. Only which ones? Meredith being otherwise occupied meant they had a little more time to dwell on their appearance, and Julianus used every extra moment they had. They didn’t have any breakfast duties that week, they could indulge. They settled on a pair of knee high lace ups, standing on one foot to adjust them.

As they tried to keep their balance, a soft knock came from the other side of the door. They stumbled forward, clinging onto a small table in order not to fall. With the rattle, the person behind the door opened it.

“Saoirse?”

“Uh, not precisely.”

The person was tall, tall enough to have to duck their head into Saoirse’s quarters, even if they lingered by the door. Jules did not have a good eye for measuring by estimation, but they knew they were definitely taller than Saoirse. They assumed that if they were specifically looking for them, they must know them.

The stranger acted with a gentle poise to them, somehow all amused, awkward and trying not to alarm Jules. It was nice of them, even if they didn’t know them, and by all means, from their perspective, the stranger in a friend’s room was Jules, not them.

“I can see that. Unless Saoirse decided they wanted a change of look.”

Jules frowned, letting their mouth run loose. “Would they? I mean, we’re talking about someone who isn’t precisely pressed about appearances.”

They both stared at each other in silence for a couple of moments, Jules adjusting their boots after a soft-spoken ‘excuse me’.

“If you keep balancing yourself on one foot, you’ll fall again— pardon me, but are you—?”

Saoirse’s voice came from behind the stranger, a smile audible in it. “I tell them that all the time. Hi, Jacqui. Were you looking for me?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It turned out the drums came from the same place Jacqui, whom Jules knew only by the letters from him that Saoirse had shared with them, came from: Captain Rodrigo Aguilar’s El Corazón Sangrante, from the Sea of Persepia. Some business or the other had taken the Captain and his ship away from their sea, now making their return to it, as the quinquennial Pirate Meeting approached.

Jacqui, Rodrigo’s Quartermaster and Saoirse’s friend, had seen The Jagged Ruby from afar and convinced Rodrigo it would be better to join them in the cross of the Strait of Seals into Hinode. Winds weren’t favourable, and while it wasn’t a feeding season, another phenomenon Jules didn’t quite manage to understand made it desirable to have the most amount of aid possible crossing the strait.

“We should just be thankful Inuwashi isn’t near.”

“Is that Syd’s ship?” Jules asked. “Is there any particular reason for that or—?”

Saoirse was the one to reply: “The Sirens hate the ship,” they said with a shrug, “it makes it harder to cross after.”

“But the Sirens,” Jacqui said, giving Rodrigo a look, “like your songs.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Rodrigo said, rolling his eyes. “Whatever works: I don’t wanna become fish food, and I assume neither do you, Mere,—”

“Don’t call me that,” Meredith snarled at him.

Julianus made a mental note to ask Saoirse what was up with those two, and why they hated each other, or rather, why Meredith hated Rodrigo so much. Because from what Julianus could see, Rodrigo seemed too busy trying to flirt with her. He put a hand on her shoulder, and Meredith looked like she was ready to bite his hand off. Jacqui and Saoirse gave out equally long-suffering sighs.

Jules suddenly understood why —among all the other reasons Saoirse had given— they were friends. What they failed to notice, however, was Rodrigo looking at them.

“But now,” he said, with his Nopali accented common tongue, “you. You I haven’t met.”

Jacqui cursed.

“Me?”

“Drigo leave them out of this… what are you even doing here, Sanlaurento?”

“Legal counsel should be present at all times?”

Meredith rolled her eyes at them. “Scatter off.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The time to get to know Jacqui would come later, after both crews had disembarked in Hinode to stay the night there. They would not make it out of the Strait in one day with the weather and wind conditions, so it would be safer to stay the night on land if they planned to sleep without the risk of sleepwalking into the water, and becoming a tasty midnight snack for the beings luring said waters.

He was surprisingly gentle, incredibly soft spoken and very, very smart. He was very observant, prone to retreating into himself while being simultaneously aware of what was going on around him. He was also very, very aware of where Rodrigo was at all times.

They had begun talking about Saoirse’s language and their individual journeys to learn it, eventually moving into other topics. Julianus had asked how Jacqui met Saoirse —since they had never asked Saoirse themselves because, per their own admission, they forgot to ask— and Jacqui asked how Jules had ended up in Meredith’s ship.

They also talked briefly about Altazor, Jules home country.

It was located in the furthest, western end of the Bulan Range, with the City of Altazor as its capital. It was the southernmost of the West Bulan countries and had its own convoluted history. Originally coexisting in relative harmony with the indigenous populations of the area, a military regime had risen out of an old power dispute a couple of decades before Julianus was born. They had been born during the first years of the transition back into civilian hands, but the damage dealt was already done. What the tyrants had done to the Country was, to Julianus and anyone else with half a mind to it, unspeakable and unforgivable.

Of course, not everyone thought like that, but that was another story.

Julianus had lived in Altazor until their 20th birthday — having begun their legal studies there, they were transferred to Sirenia on a special request. They described the choice as ‘something’; whether the right or wrong something they didn’t know, and they told Jacqui as much.

“I applied to the Sea Palace as well, I was forced to, because you know,” the paused to take a drink, “there’s certain… charm about the endless escalating capacity of the Petite Bourgeoisie. Nothing like the dog eats dog tradition of it and the class it seeks to imitate. Needless to say, the Sea Palace said I was, how was it? ‘A low-pedigree, insubstantial applicant, with more enthusiasm than talent’. I, however, said I preferred to die on the side street than study with grave robbers and gatekeepers. My mother wasn’t happy, but she also wasn’t happy about what the Scholars called me, so...”

They smiled against their glass, Jacqui’s laughter as their companion.

“You’re lucky.”

“Meh, but thank you, I suppose.”

Their talk about the Sea Palace and those places they both had left behind at some point (even if neither of them talked openly about those) carried onto politics, international news, the state of the world; places they wanted to visit, authors they had read. Both of them talked animatedly about this or that, exchanging points of views and debating ideas like nothing else pressed them in the world. They acquired a lightness to them, finding themselves less weighed down by the things they did not talk of.

If only for a night, both of them could be what a part of them had always desired they were: two travelling scholars. Only that. Two people had all the time in the world to dissect it and pick it up again, ever-marvelling at everything it may have to offer.

Two people for whom the horizon was a goal, not an impossibility.

The conversation paused when Saoirse offered to go get them drinks again, leaving both of the newly found friends in comfortable silence, with the sounds of the Koizumi Inn surrounding them.

“You’re nice to talk to,” Jules said with a smile. “It’s hard to find people who simply understand.”

Jacqui looked at them like they had grown a second head. “I don’t know how to take that. I don’t even know what that means.”

“As a compliment because it was one.” They paused to nurse their glass, taking a sip of their drink. “You don’t have to tell me anything, and I do apologise if I’m overstepping but you kind of have the energy of someone who everything which they are, which matters the most to them, did not come easy. Saoirse has it, in their own way, Meredith has it for sure, you do. I think it takes a lot of guts to look in the eye of everyone who ever expected something of you and say ‘No, I will not sacrifice myself for this’.”

#the arcana #the arcana oc #my writing #secrets of an ancient moon series #jc sanlaurento #saoirse #meredith #captain rodrigo #jacqui #joirse #the janiverse #lemon

13 notes · View notes

insanityclause · 4 years ago

Link

Ah, Tom Hiddleston, how I have loved thee from afar all my life. Well, not all my life, just from the first Thor movie. From that first moment I saw Loki’s villainous visage, I was a goner. However, it isn’t my love for Hiddleston that has me so enraptured by this production (though that is a factor) of Coriolanus, it is the minimalist set, the contemporary costumes despite the Shakespearean dialogue, and the wonderful performances by everyone involved.

Coriolanus isn’t one of Shakespeare’s famous plays. His political plays have never gained as much traction as his tragedies, and even among the political ones, people mostly remember King Richard III. I studied Coriolanus back in university, and while I remember it, it certainly didn’t make the impact it has on me now.

The production relies on a very minimalist set, a small square of space, with chairs, ladders, bodies and other props evoking the space we are supposed to be in. They create a space of war with a ladder, sound effects, and an immersive sword fight between Hiddleston’s Caius Marcius and Hadley Fraser’s Tullus Aufidius; daughter-in-law and mother-in-law sewing together immediately evokes the home space – this production is proof that you don’t need an elaborate set to stage a Shakespearean play, even one about war. We still get the theatrics of war, like after Marcius’ ravaging of the Volscian army, Hiddleston emerges with blood dripping down his face and we are forced to witness his wounds as he strips and waters pours down from above him – we see the toll war wreaks on a man.

Despite his contributions to Rome, the citizens of Rome are angry that he doesn’t seem to want to do what they need him to, feeling that he makes fun of them and doesn’t take their traditions seriously. Marcius reveals his fatal flaw here, for while he is a tremendous general and warrior, he is not adept at politics. He doesn’t know how to speak to the people, his contempt leaking into his tone as he addresses them, and through the instigation of the tribunes Brutus and Sicinius (who are deliciously villainous), he is banished from Rome. Despite the attempts of Menenius Agrippa and Cominius to convince the people to change their minds, the path is set, and Marcius is forced to leave a country that he has loved and defended his whole life, a space which contains the people he has loved his whole life.

A special appreciation needs to be given for Mark Gatiss, who plays Menenius. Gatiss conveys Shakespeare’s dialogue in such a modern and easeful way. While many actors get caught up in yelling his words for dramatic effect, Gatiss makes his gestures, mannerisms count. I was watching the play with subtitles because you can often get lost on the Shakespearean dialogue train, but Gatiss made it easy for me to comprehend. Tom Hiddleston was of course stellar, as per usual. He had to toggle with the emotional poignancy required of his role, as well as channel the ferocious zeal of a warrior, and he did so with aplomb. Hadley Fraser was perhaps the most surprising one of the lot. The last I saw Fraser, he was playing Raoul in Phantom of the Opera, and he is simply unrecognisable in this as Aufidius, the general of the Volscian army.

His relationship with Marcius is a compelling one. Every single time he has met the man on the battlefield he has longed to kill him, yet when Marcius visits his home, Aufidius calls him “thou noble thing” and admits when he sees him that his “rapt heart” dances. There is a spiritual love shared between the two men, because in all the world, they are the ones who truly understand each other due to being in spaces of war. Aufidius allows Marcius to become general in his stead, in order to take revenge on the people of Rome for having banished him. But after a visit from his mother and family, Marcius changes his mind, choosing the route of peace instead of laying siege to Rome like he was supposed to.

Aufidius calls him out for treason and hangs his body in chains, and we actually see Hiddleston’s body hoisted up into the air, dangling from the chains, being gutted in front of us. And on the other side of the stage, we see his mother with flower petals strewn all around her – it is a mother’s triumph and a loss, for she convinced him to save his countrymen, but lost him in the process. Rome’s treatment of Marcius made me think of the way a country treats its soldiers: we want them to fight our wars for us, but when they return to civilian spaces and cannot adapt accordingly, we cast them off and abandon them.

Marcius aka Coriolanus didn’t need to suffer such a fate, and even though it’s his feelings for his mother and family that led to his death, it is a testament that war isn’t the only thing a man breathes. There is a complexity here in how the play portrays the identity of men, that there is more for them than the masculine spaces they are told to inhabit. Coriolanus’ tragedy is the result of him not being what everyone else wanted him to be, to offer sweet words when he does not mean them, to parade his wounds around like some clown at a party. But quite a bit of this comes from hubris and a sense of entitlement, the sense that he does not need to care about the opinions of the citizens because he belongs to a class of men who are born to rule. There is a commentary here about democracy and the state, and Coriolanus’ failure to see that war is not the only thing that defines a country.

This, for me, is the true art and impact of theatre, with National Theatre showing us that you can take a play from the 16th century and make it a relevant viewing for modern day audiences. What a feat, what a triumph.

24 notes · View notes

seanfiction · 5 years ago

Text

Bad Days

Title: Bad Days

Fandom: Ties of Lapis

Pairing: Marcius/Vitus (very slight Hilarius//Vitus)

Warnings: infidelity; Dom/sub themes

Rating: NSFW

Wordcount: ~2100

Summary: Marcius and Vitus have good and bad days between them. These are not among the better ones...

It was one of their worse days.

“...then I would press you up against that door, right there where you stand.”

“Sir!” His protest wasn't as strong as it should have been, all things considered.

“You wouldn't fight me.” A sly grin. “But if you did–“

Vitus did, decidedly, not moan.

“But if you did,” Marcius went on, “I'd hold you down. Take your wrists, maybe, use my height to my advantage. You wouldn't stand a chance.”

“By the gods,” Vitus muttered in despair. He should just leave, but his legs simply wouldn't move. Marcius was at the other end of the room, by the window, but he might as well have been standing right next to Vitus, measured by the effect he had on him. It was the middle of the day, neither of them was drunk, there really was no excuse for what they were doing.

“Would you fight me, Vitus?”

He shook his head weakly, looking at his feet to avoid Marcius' eyes.

“That's what I thought.”

Vitus hated how soft Marcius' voice was, hated how its low rumble went right to his dick within seconds and there was nothing he could do. His breeches were getting awfully tight and Vitus knew it had to show, knew that Marcius was observing him closely and that he was very much aware of Vitus' reactions.

“Sir, please...”

“I know what you need.”

Vitus did not doubt that. That was the problem. He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to distract himself from what was happening. That was a mistake. The next thing he felt was warm breath on his face, his neck, the warmth of a body so close to his they only just almost touched.

“I would put my hands all over you. I'd put my mouth on you...” Vitus gasped when Marcius' beard scrapped over his own smooth skin for just a moment. “...oh Vitus, the pleasure I could bring you, you have no idea. Dibella be my witness, it'd be out of this world...!”

Marcius' words rang so true in his ears, so full of conviction, of devotion to the virtues of his goddess. Vitus opened his eyes and finally met Marcius' piercing gaze. He opened his mouth to answer, unsure what he even wanted to say. “I love him so much.” His voice sounded broken even to himself. “So much, sir, I really do.”

Both of Marcius' fists slammed against the wall left and right of Vitus' head and he didn't even have the grace to flinch. He'd expected it.

“Do you now.”

“Yes.”

The hand between his legs, too, was expected, and surprising nonetheless. Vitus should push Marcius away, he should leave, he should shout at him to stop.

He did none of those things.

Instead he bucked his hips forward to seek out that forbidden touch and bit his lips to hold back any sounds. And he was rewarded by a firm grip, a stroke through his pants that felt so unbelievably good.

Then everything stopped and in the blink of an eye Marcius was gone and Vitus felt oddly cold.

“Leave, then,” Marcius said from a step away. “Leave now or I won't let you.”

He sounded so earnest it was heartbreaking.

“Yes, sir,” Vitus whispered and rushed out the door, praying to all the gods that the corridors would be empty.

They had good days of absolute professionalism.

This wasn't one of them.

Sometimes Vitus could tell what caused one of them to snap but not always.

Maybe it was the timbre of Marcius' voice, accustomed to command in a way that called on Vitus' inherent need to follow, to obey. Or it might have been the way his hands directed Vitus without a word because they knew each other so well. Or maybe it was the way the light had been reflected in Marcius' eyes during morning drill.

It could have been anything, really. One moment Vitus had himself under control, the next he felt the irresistible urge to drop to his knees in front of Marcius. He had to hold whatever he was doing, put down his work and ball his hands to fists.

“Sir, I'm sorry...” he murmured. He raked his fingers through his short hair. He felt hot, despite the cold season.

Marcius was next to him in an instant, making things worse. “Vitus? Are you alright?”

He must have looked sick and true enough, he did feel a bit feverish. It was nothing that needed a healer though.

“I'm quite alright, sir. My apologies.”

“Are you sure?”

And he was about to say “yes” but then Marcius' hand was on his neck, softly kneading the skin there, and his mouth betrayed him with a deep groan that spoke of nothing but the illicit attraction he felt.

“Ah. I see,” Marcius said but didn't take his hand away. “Do you need a moment?”

Vitus nodded. “Just... just a moment, sir.” It was as close to begging as he could get.

“Alright. I've got you.”

And so with a sigh of relief Vitus sank to his knees, even daring to press his face against Marcius' crotch. Eyes closed against the tears he was afraid to show Vitus breathed against the hardness beneath the fabric, taking it all in, while Marcius held so perfectly still, with his hand on the back of his neck that held him in place.

He felt so very save, so protected. “I've got you,” Marcius had said and Vitus knew it was a promise. Marcius would let him have this and never let them go too far, never let them take that last damning step. Right now, Marcius was in control because Vitus couldn't be.

“Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.

Marcius just hummed in reply.

They had good and bad days between them. There were the kind of days where Marcius showed Vitus just how much he wanted him, or those where Vitus did not have the strength to hide what he desired. And on their good days they were both glad that so far they had not failed each other, that Vitus' bad days were good days for Marcius and vice versa.

Probability dictated that it couldn't last. One might say that in a way Dibella herself made sure of it.

At night Vitus lay in Hilarius' arms, afraid of the day where neither Marcius not him would be able to hold back and it would be the day where they both betrayed Hilarius in ways he would never be able to forgive.

Sometimes his fear kept him up at night.

“What is it?” Hilarius asked with a sleepy voice.

Vitus shook his head. “Nothing. Just... trouble sleeping.”

“Hmm,” Hilarius made and turned so he could kiss him. Vitus couldn't help but smile into the kiss and return it.

They made out lazily for a while before they both drifted off to sleep; and if Vitus' sleep was a little lighter, a little less peaceful, well, it couldn't be helped.

Fear was not what he felt when it happened.

It was the worst and best of days.

Finally, finally Marcius was flush against him, head to toe, mouthing open mouthed kisses against Vitus' lips.

“Tell me to stop!” he all but demanded and many times in the past Vitus had heeded the command. But not today. He knew he had to, he knew what to say, how to make it all stop, but he couldn't find it in him. He didn't love Hilarius any less during the very moment he betrayed his trust but it changed nothing.

“No!” he answered. “Don't... don't stop, please, sir!”

There wasn't even a moment of confusion or uncertainty for Marcius. With both hands he ripped Vitus' shirt open, hungry to let them taste Vitus' naked skin.

“You want this,” he said, making sure but also full of conviction already. Vitus nodding was entirely unnecessary at this point. And then: “We want this.”

“Yes!”

It all fell into place from there, naturally, as if this was simply how it should be. They sank down on a bed of blankets and cloaks and just for this moment Vitus refused to let guilt cast a shadow over their union. Remorse would come soon enough.

Marcius' hand in Vitus' hair guided their kiss, deep and passionate and full of all the unspoken, unspeakable things between them. But they were both impatient and Vitus relished the moment that he was finally naked under Marcius' inquisitive gaze.

“Will you have me, sir?” he asked although the answer was obvious.

Marcius took Vitus' face in hands and kissed him once more, let his tongue do positively filthy things that left Vitus a hot, disheveled mess. “In all the ways a man can have another man,” he confirmed, grinning. “How do you want it?”

Vitus swallowed. It wasn't merely a question of position. “I'd like to abide by your command, sir, if I may?” Vitus knew what he wanted. Looking back, he had always known.

“You may,” Marcius said with a kiss to Vitus' cheek, his jaw and throat.

As was often the case between them, their communication required very little words. A gentle push here, a guiding hand there was all that was needed for Marcius to tell Vitus how he wanted him. On his knees and elbows, his head hung low in complete trust. Marcius' tongue and fingers send him practically flying and his voice sang out without restraint.

“Sir...!” he eventually grunted, a low warning that he was close.

Marcius made a sound of satisfaction. “Don't come. I need you to wait. Understood?” It was the kindest of commands and Vitus' breathless “yes, sir” the sweetest reply.

He thought that Marcius would grant him a moment or two to calm down but no, he kept expertly manipulating Vitus' body until all he could do was beg for mercy.

“Sir! Please, sir, I'm so, so close...!”

“Bear it for me.”

A wordless curse and a long moan and Vitus had to take hold of his dick to keep himself from coming. Only then did Marcius wait, withdrawing his fingers to pet Vitus' back.

“You're doing so well. Can you go on?”

Vitus took a deep breath, then nodded shakily.

Marcius leaned over him, covering him entirely. “I've been wanting to have you like this for too long...” he muttered. “It can't be over too soon. If I can only have this once...”

A sob escaped Vitus and he knew his cheeks were wet with tears.

“It's alright,” Marcius said, obviously trying to sound calm though his voice was heavy with arousal.

This time he gave Vitus a little time to come down from the edge before he moved to push inside the pliant, waiting body before him. Vitus moaned sweetly, open to Marcius in every way. And so they moved together as if Dibella had made the world for this moment alone. With every thrust Vitus felt a divine kind of pleasure run through his body and he might have given in to her joyful embrace had Marcius' command not held him back.

As if he knew Marcius slowed, a warning, comforting hand on Vitus' lower back, and he groaned with frustration.

“Do you need to come?”

A part of Vitus wanted nothing but to scream “yes, yes, I do!” but he remembered how he had asked for Marcius' command himself and so he shook his head almost violently. “Only when you tell me to,” he answered voicelessly.

“Very well.” And Vitus could hear Marcius' smile, his pride in Vitus' obedience and it made something swell in his chest. “Almost there.”

To Vitus, everything from then on was a blur. He remembered the feeling of Marcius inside him, of his hands on him, and his mouth, how he was flying so close to the edge and how Marcius kept pulling them both back so it could last just a little longer. He was gone one moment and the next Marcius came deep inside him.

Then he was on his back, looking up at Marcius through eyes heavy with tears. Please, he mouthed, too exhausted for actual words. It was enough.

“You may,” Marcius said and with a hand on Vitus' dick brought him to completion. It only took a few strokes.

They lay together afterwards, quietly, among their cloaks and all the things they could never undo.

#my writing #ties of lapis #marcius #vitus #I just realized I apparently never uploaded this here #I actually really like this fic #there are some parts where I am very happy with the language #and the general theme just hurts me in all the good ways #my precious OTP #how you make me suffer #even when I get what I want #dibella be my witness #I love to imagine Marcius using these exact words #dibella had made the world for this moment alone #among their cloaks and all the things they could never undo #that last one is my fav #good thing this isn't canon

2 notes · View notes

zer0pm · 7 years ago

Photo

A/N: Sorry for the wait, Part 4 has arrived.

Part 4/?: Set Ablaze

Previous: Beyond Understanding

Here, the part is shorter as I wanted to ease the strain of reading long works (aaaand admittedly Ardyn makes a very, very important discovery next part where I felt that it needed to have its own post :p). I love long works myself such as from the lovely @valkyrieofardyn, @yugioh779, and @captain-wender who have just finished the newest installations of their fantastic stories. Give ‘em a read when you get the chance~

Anyways, this one focuses on the first real interaction between Ardyn and the Seeker, they don’t exactly start off on the right foot. Without further ado, please enjoy this next piece.

Disclaimer: I do not own any Final Fantasy series or Square Enix works, only the original characters. Gif isn’t mine either.

Word Count: 1,841

He feels a pull on his mind, a tugging sensation that didn’t feel like pain but an ache that rouses him awake. Slowly and surely as this happens, the rest of his body regains some feeling. Now the ache is starting to hurt.

“G…p!”

Ardyn hears a voice. Please tell me that I’m not in that strange place again, he groans to himself. As he tries to pick up the voice he assumes to be calling out to him, it was deafened by a stinging ring before fading, and the voice is clearer.

“Get up. Wake up, Caelum!”

A female voice, judging by the sharp tone, it’s the Seeker. Ardyn feels someone shaking his body back and forth, but try as he might, his eyes are too heavy and only a small groan escapes him. Listen to her, Ardyn. Wake up, you twit!

The Seeker must have gotten frustrated as she released an exasperated huff before removing her hands from him. “We do not have time for this!”

The unmistakable shuffling of feet, people running around him – the sense of urgency was palpable. Several bodies are close by, surrounding his lying form. “My lady, here they come!” There’s ‘My lady’ again, who is this Seeker? Who is coming?

“Memorians, to me! Our enemy will not know victory today!”

His senses are fading to black again, but Ardyn holds on to conscious for as long as he could muster the willpower. I need to wake up, he thought. Someone slap me. Something, anything to bring him back to the awakened world. The blank spaces cloud his mind. How much time has passed? He can only make out bits and pieces of what is going on as he tries to come to. To his horror, he hears screaming in his ears, and a foul taste in his mouth. The air is different around him, almost charred.

“Protect him! Protect the Chosen!”

The Seeker shouts, at this Ardyn fully opens his eyes. Chosen?! Hearing that word jolted him back to his senses. A pair of black leather boots is the first thing he sees. Beyond that, several others, he makes out dark garments and a dissipating black mist. What was that? The boots nearest to him turn and point towards him then he is met with a knee on the ground, the other bent upwards to balance a folded arm. Another arm moves his body to make him face upwards, the push was a little too harsh on his chest in his opinion. “Finally coming to?”

Ardyn’s golden eyes meet a pair of silver ones and immediately he tensed at how cold they felt. From the voice, he knew this was the Seeker. This is the first time he’s seen her face without the shadows obscuring the details. He was surprised. In contrast to the persona he surmises her to possess, the Seeker has…gentle features. Her black hood is down, the red scarf with the yellow geometric design around her slender neck no longer covered the bottom half of her face and instead draped loosely. While the other Memorian warriors had tan to bronze skin, hers was fair, a feature Ardyn immediately assumes to have stemmed from her genetics and upbringing. Her pale cheeks covered by long, thick black locks. He can make out a faded scar across the right side of her face almost hidden by her hair which only brought further attention to her piercing eyes.

I am in deep trouble, Ardyn thought. All feeling of awe for this woman vanished when she grabbed fistfuls of his tunic in both of her hands and pulled back harshly, forcing Ardyn to his feet. The movement made his head spin for a moment and the ache throughout his body prominent. He groans at the discomfort and nearly stumbles over if not for the woman before him keeping him steady.

“On your feet,” she commanded, “There is much to be done.”

“What is happening?”

“Look around.”

He almost wished he didn’t. Honey eyes took in the world around him and to his horror, everything was set ablaze. When he awoke this morning, he predicted an uneventful and peaceful night, but no star can be seen. Instead, dancing colors of red and orange fill the streets of his beloved home, and from it, black smoke rises and swirls to the sky. He sees debris scattered from fallen buildings, his people scattered. There’s so much screaming. When Ardyn thought it could not be any worse, he hears what sounds like a great cry echoing around him and shortly after a hulking mass of fire hurls over laying another structure next to them to waste. The Seeker pulls Ardyn out of the way of the collapsing debris that threatened to crush him. He turns his head over to where the shout came from and spots a giant, horned being standing high and looking down upon the city. His appearance similar to that of a young man, with long dark hair and the most intense glare, a glare nearly as frightening as the blazing sword he held in his hands and speaking in tongues unfamiliar to the prince that shook the very air. This giant….

“Ifrit, the Infernian?! Why is the god of fire attacking the empire?”

The Seeker keeps an eye on their surroundings, moving herself and Ardyn along with her men through the burning city-streets. “It seems to be for Man's hubris, believing themselves to be better than the gods who created them.”

The prince eyed her incredulously. Solheim worshipped the god, it was because of him that this small civilization grew to become the greatest superpower in all of Eos. It was his compassion that garnered the love of the Glacian and their subjects. It didn’t make sense to Ardyn.

“What? What blasphemy is this?” He grabs her shoulder, forcing her to turn to him. If the Infernian doesn’t kill him, her glare will. Still, he wanted to know, “How come by you this claim?!”

She seemed…taken off-guard by his question, her head tilted to the side slightly. The calculating glint in her eyes somehow felt more imposing than he initially thought, as if she didn’t believe him a single bit. “Can you not…?” she trails off, silver challenges gold and within those eyes, the Seeker felt a genuine warmth in his honesty, in his incredulity. Another moment passes, and she tears away from the staredown and Ardyn hears another sigh escape her lips. He gathers that the woman does that when she’s annoyed….which apparently happens often.

“This seems to be more a test of patience than a test of faith,” she finally speaks after the uncomfortable silence before waving her arm forward, as signal for all to keep moving. “And I am ever losing both.”

“Speak not in riddles! Explain to me what is going on?” He was running now, alongside the Seeker and her men. The Memorians were moving about in a way that suggests that they were keeping an eye out for an ambush. What else is after them? Ardyn was not only confused, he was getting anxious. He noticed something very important as they sprinted through the burning streets and further away from the Infernian. “Where is Marcius?”

“Unconscious but alive. My men are tending to him further ahead.”

Ardyn sighs in relief. “And Sir Monitus?” There is an unmistakable grave tone in her silence. He couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t need to. “Forgi-”

“Save your sympathies for after we have survived this,” she quickly cuts him off.

Considering everything that’s going on at the moment, the suggestion was sound and he decided not to press further. “Right. There are airships on the northern side. We can use those to escape.”

The Seeker shouts directions to her fellow Memorians. “You heard him. We make way to the northern side.”

As they were running, Ardyn spotted several citizens frantically running about. So many injured and in fear. Men, women, children.

“What about my people? They must know where to go.”

“Your safety is our only concern.” Ardyn stops running entirely, forcing the Seeker and the rest of the Memorians to halt as well. She narrows her eyes at his action.

He meets her glare, bringing his body closer to hers, using his larger frame to his advantage to appear opposing and challenging. “Wait,” he said, “We cannot just leave them. For what reason do you have to weigh a prince above his people? If lives are lost for my sake then my life means nothing!”

Despite being smaller than him, she steps up to him as well. “Then you truly know nothing of what is at stake. Now, move.”

His brow raises, she must have a habit of ordering around others – a noblewoman? A general? It would explain the late Sero Monitus' address to her although he didn’t call her as such. It takes two to powerplay. “Or what? You’ll kill me?”

Before he can press further, he feels something cold…and rather sharp against his neck. The unmistakable edge of a blade. The Seeker must have unsheathed it from beneath his cloak without his notice. At some point, she and her men retrieved their weapons once chaos broke loose. He nearly had to strain his neck to avoid the sharp edge himself, then he hears the Seeker say...

“Putting you back to sleep would be an effortless feat.”

This struck a nerve with Ardyn. Did this mean that this woman was the one who knocked him out in the first place? Is it possible…that she put him in that strange place? Was it even real? What happened in that carriage? Perhaps she also knew how to read minds as she spoke up once again.

“You want answers,” she said, withdrawing her dagger back beneath the shadows of her long cloak. “I understand. But there is no time. Not if you wish to survive this and save your loved ones.”

Her words forced Ardyn to think of his mother, his father…Somnus…Marcius. Although he loathed his mind for thinking so, on instinct his body pushed onward. The unbearable heat from all around him, the anxiety of having foreign bodyguards, namely the Seeker, bent on keeping him alive, a raging god he once idolized himself in his youth for his benevolence and power now destroying his beloved home, the very real and grave possibility that he may not see his family and friends again – it all left a sinking feeling in his chest making it more than the smoke that made it hard for him to breathe.

He almost wished that it was all just a mad dream, but Ardyn looks down upon his own hand. The ring sitting on his finger was proof of it, the crystal glinting off of the bright flames dancing furiously around them. This is real. He wanted to know how it all came to be, what this trinket was, and if by the end of it all, he’ll live to see to see the smoke clear.

#ardyn #ardyn lucis caelum #ardyn izunia #ardyn's past #solheim #memories of the forgotten #my story #my writing #ifrit #ifrit the infernian #seeker

26 notes · View notes

ulyssesredux · 8 years ago

Text

Aeolous

HELLO THERE, ESQUIRE, ESQUIRE, BELIEF.

—And yet he died without having entered the land of Egypt and into the office behind, parting the vent of his present portance, which of you but counterfeit? Return to the Telegraph.

―I know.

―After he'll see.

—But, ladies and gentlemen, had he bowed his will and bowed his will and bowed his head and bowed his head firmly.

―Crawford said, helping himself.

SHORT BUT TO THE RAW.

-We were always loyal to lost causes, the editor cried in Mr Bloom's face: talking in the peerless panorama of Ireland's portfolio, unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions, for his thoughts, would you have, though, I charge thee, 'Twas empire charmed thy heart. He went down the manner of his neck, Simon Dedalus says.

ITHACANS VOW PEN.

Besides, if it be to God. He wants two keys at the foot of Nelson's pillar to take in many sorts of music that will put you to hear, their mutinies and revolts, wherein they show'd most valour, spoke not for idle markets, sir?

―They went under. Mark'd you his absolute 'shall?

―I must get a drink after that.says she; 'be opposite with a bit in the heat of their power are forth already, sir.

Another newsboy shot past them to the successful. -Taylor had come there, of great estate, years, when youth with comeliness plucked all gaze his way towards Nannetti's reading closet.

Feathered his nest well anyhow. No, sooth, thou most excellent devil of wit!

―My valour's poison'd with only suffering stain by him; I saw it, Myles Crawford said.

―He ceased and looked at them, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.

―Myles Crawford said. -Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford and said: Gentlemen, Stephen said.

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

The palm of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.

―

-Who wants a par to call me fool. —'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee, captain; and your cry! An Irishman saved his life I gave him that which they have had you put a false conclusion: I mean. A spirit I am now so far my son Were in Arabia, and made what work I pleas'd; 'tis well; a wrack past hope he was beset: where, if I lov'd my little should be so,—hear me speak: I would not answer to; fresh embassies and suits well for Rome. —That will do, Lenehan said. I could be corrupted. Yes, Red Murray said earnestly, a straw hat awry on his shoulder.

―Now am I going to tram it out. Stephen said, waving the cigarettecase aside.

Here: what's the matter? Johnny, make out for him. Holohan told me. Dead noise.

-I can see them. Don't you forget that! This ad, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―The tissues rustled up in the Star.

―—show themselves; which were inshell'd when Marcius stood for, what? Where's Monks?

Davy Stephens, minute in a minute. Nay, an you had done the deed. Double four.

We haven't got the chance of a doit.

WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT!

―And so is now in some commerce with my speech; he did not mock us.

He lifted his voice. J J O'Molloy said.

Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mailvans, private broughams, aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.

―

You don't say so?

―Feathered his nest well anyhow.

Mr Patrick Dignam. You're looking extra. Lay on, Sandymount Green, Rathmines, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross. We have ever glorified my friends of noble touch, when for a coward and a madman: one would think his face rapidly with the shears and whispered: The moon, shouting their emulation.

So, your kinsman; but from her birth had number'd thirteen years. See it in for July, Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the small of the land of Egypt and that I may proceed in my master's griefs.

SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON THE CANVASSER AT WORK.

He strode on jerkily. Where, good fellow. He closed his long lips. —B is parkgate. I beguil'd! Enough of the outlaw. Thumping. The bloodiest old tartar God ever made. This double worship, where manners ne'er were preach'd. On the brewery float. Sot, didst see Dick surgeon, sot!

SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR OLD MAN OF THE CROZIER AND REASONS.

Vagrants and daylabourers are you now like John Philpot Curran?

Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford and said quietly to Stephen: He wants it copied if it's not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the hallway. Mr Crawford? Yet, welcome! A Hungarian it was follow'd, May give you any commission from your lord: I mean, to the successful. Racing special! His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating. It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it? I see what you mean. House of keys. Poor papa with his lord, I pray you, a speedy infirmity, for the racing special, sir, my masters! J O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up his cutting. —Bloom is at the top. Sure, my noble heart a root of ancient envy. Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. Go not home. Well, I will, then; and in his blood. The world is before you. Rows of cast steel. —The Rose of Castile. That's copy. What's thy name? Keyes just now. Let there be life. —Come in. But Mario was said to be trouble there one day. Most pertinent question, the vicechancellor, is his blood.

He raised his head. I say? Have you ere now denied the asker? There is no more to say he'll turn your current in a man now at a poor man's house; be that I may pass this doing. What, what then?

―Lady, you know, councillor, just what he wants it changed.

Where shall I feast him? Reads it backwards first.

All off for a fellow O' the air and against the mantelshelf, had the foot and mouth disease and no mistake! You know how he made his way towards Nannetti's reading closet.

―If Bloom were here, he said.

Nay then, know me.

―J J O'Molloy said quietly and slowly: Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, hurrying out.

―Wellread fellow. Madam, I'm Adam.

―He forgot Hamlet. —There it is, Red Murray whispered.

―How! -What was he doing in Irishtown?

I stood in his sleep.

Ah! Out of my fancy: only that name remains to the window. Florence MacCabe.

WE SEE THE DISSOLUTION OF PEACE.

Child, man, Whom with a reflective glance at his toecaps.

―-Did you? -What is it? Mistress Mall's picture?

Johnny, make I as patient as the sea.

―But I do live at peace.

X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street.

―Be good to us shall have a heart of stone. Alexander Keyes, you know? What did Ignatius Gallaher used to be her wooer. 'Under the canopy.

Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. -the-Goat. He's poor in, and such a confirmed countenance. That's press. Right.

Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mailvans, private broughams, aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.

―J O'Molloy said, taking out a cigarettecase in murmuring meditation, but they always fell.

O'Rourke, prince of Breffni.

-O! We'll call thee? The air blue scrawls and under the table, read on: no; though therein you can imagine the style of his worth as I could not with such words that are in arms. Mr Bloom laid his cutting. Worth six on him. Do you hear the belly's answer.

-When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply.

HIS NATIVE DORIC.

―-Ossory. To be seen? Peace! You sooth'd not, never trust me. They save up three and tenpence in a red tin letterbox moneybox. -Help!

I am a foul way out.

―We charge you, when it spit forth blood at Grecian swords, contemning. I heard the voice of occupation and the butcher. He'll never hear him speak, our general? Ireland my country.

What cause, not an imperium, that for his death written this long time perhaps.

―Let him die for 't. Three merry men be we. Hard after them Myles Crawford and said quietly to Stephen. Mr Bloom said. If you will. —And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge.

A lie! Prithee, Virgilia, turn thy solemness out O' favour with my reason that persuades me to my nature where my bones shall be so. -the—Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.

―They were nature's gentlemen, had he bowed his head. Owing to a lost cause.

―The bloodiest old tartar God ever made. You can do it, the dayfather. Bemock the modest limits of order. —lingering—Is the boss? -I have much, much to learn. We pray the gods, i'd with thee awhile: determine on some course, if he had. Thy reason, Sir Andrew, would they were in Tiber! The nethermost deck of the inflated windbag! What's that?

Stephen turned in surprise.

―Shite and onions! He began: Where do you know, from a girl at the college historical society.

Been walking in muck somewhere. -I see, the professor said. Will you join us, Myles Crawford said with a great eater of beef, and be rul'd; although I know your drift: speak what?

Better not. Want to fix it up. He would never have spoken with the shears and whispered: They went forth to battle, Mr O'Madden Burke, following close, said: It is spoke, she may command where I know him, uncovered as he ran: Skin-the—North Cork militia! He were bitterer against others or against himself. Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a country far away from them towards the window. All very fine to jeer at it! Israel Adonai Elohenu.

Nightmare from which you will not hear thee speak. -Yes, Evening Telegraph here Hello? Entertainments. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! —Knee, Lenehan said to be on, Macduff! Law, the professor said. But listen to this, to mourn for your voices might be curses to yourselves?

-Who? Speaking about me? Thank you. And yourself? —Like fellows who had blown up the gage. Ay, a mouthorgan, echoed in the armpit of his newspaper. He offered a cigarette to the editor cried in scornful invective. I must say.

LOST CAUSES, CENTRAL!

—You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said, going.

―Believe me, councillor, Hynes said moving off. -Hello? Ned Lambert agreed. Nay, but it goes down like hot cake that stuff.

With a proud heart he wore his humble weeds.

―-I'll answer it, damn its soul. M A P.

―Inspiration of genius. -Hello?

―

Is the boss? -Throw him out perhaps.

―He made a sign to a brother, who have all Great cause to work with him.

―

―Thank you.

As for my brandnew riddle! He has it, O dear! Right outside the viceregal lodge, imagine! Learn a lot teaching others. Look sharp and you'll catch him. He's a bear.

A DAYFATHER.

—Yes? Sober serious man with a reflective glance at his toecaps. -He is sitting with a word: I see what I cannot get him. Ah, bloody nonsense. Lord Jesus? —from—Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an instant but, I may be abhorr'd further than seen,—both day and night did we all joy and honour! Fetch him off, gives manhood more approbation than ever she bestowed upon me; the volsces are in arms. What is 'pourquoi? To unbuild the city I am.

Briefly, as well as I do? His name is Keyes. By your leave, and I'll take it round to hear any more of this; your true love's coming, madam, pardon me; gave him that which he set his foot on our shore he never stood to ease his breast forges, that striking of that Egyptian highpriest raised in a gown of humility mark his first approach before my lady has a most war-like. Have you got that? Like that, your news? Let us build an altar to Jehovah. Stephen said. I'll show you. -Eh? Mouth, south; and for an instant and making a treaty find i' the way how did he find that out? —Thanky vous, Lenehan said, Bushe K C, for the day is the steed, and 'tis poetical. What did he find that out? As Hercules Did shake down mellow fruit. —Of course, if you fail in the air with noise. But make you ready? You have no cities nor no wealth: our cities are hives of humanity and our watchful friend The Skibbereen Eagle. Right. Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? Passing out he whispered to J J O'Molloy. Thou worthiest Marcius! J J O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the statue of the file.

Peace! Now am I beguil'd! True, the sophist. Lenehan wept with a bite in it. Glory be to God. Sayst thou that, Mr Bloom said, holding out a hand. They went forth to battle, Mr Bloom said, his eyes to sweat compassion. Penelope.

WITH THE WINNER.

Let us construct a watercloset. He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a hanging to you. And with a bite in it. -What was their civilisation? I could myself take up the gage.

Give them something with a wave graced echo and fall. I may proceed in my soul disputes well with my reason that persuades me to-morrow; to cure this cause. —Come on, Macduff! He got paralysed there and no mistake! Welts of flesh behind on him.

Lazy idle little schemer. Kyrie eleison! But O! O, my lord by me! Hail fellow well met the next. Owing to a lost cause.

Magennis was speaking to me. Faith, I'll not meddle with my niece till his brains. I had children's voices? Same as Citron's house. Was he short taken?

If you see.

OMINOUS—-YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?

―The editor came from the top of Nelson's pillar to take in a child's frock.

Red Murray's long shears sliced out the advertisement from the inner office.

―J O'Molloy, about this ad of Keyes's.

Used to get some wind off my chest first.

―Prithee now, mistress, I said banish him that none could tell if he would have found issue. Two old trickies, what talk you of your bragg'd progeny, Thou know'st, great son, the editor cried. Thy friend no less: therefore get you home. Out of this present hour, and for Rome's good.

―If you are mad indeed?

You should have said when he did.

―—Mr Crawford? My Ohio! His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.

―They went under with the tune of your conversation would infect my brain, and taking the cutting from his pocket pulling out the soap and stowed it away, tearing away.

―—Bingbang, bangbang. I point at, saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a politician.

I heard his words deftly into the pauses of the empire of the Weekly Freeman of 17 March?

Lukewarm glue in Thom's next door when I was there. Quicker, darlint! Miles of ears of porches. Better not teach him his own shadow this half-hour. Seems to be on, raised an outspanned hand to the gentleman at the junior bar he used to be a fool that the precipitation might down stretch below the first that ever anywhere wherever was. A perfect cretic! Pop in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside, like silvertongued O'Hagan. Clank it. —Wait. Same as Citron's house. Alas! —T is viceregal lodge. He set off again to walk by Stephen's side. Calmly, I would be sorry, sir,—he dropp'd it for him. You bloody old pedagogue!

―I did Contend against thy valour.

―Alack! Dublin's prime favourite.

―-Most pertinent question, the professor and took his trophy, saying: My dear Myles, J J O'Molloy said gently. O Jupiter!

THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME.

―Alleluia. With a heart and hand.

―Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe takes a crubeen and a passy-measures pavin. My Ohio!

―The vent of his resonant unwashed teeth.

―What say you will, put up your swords. You must not.

And with a start.

―-He's pretty well on, Macduff!

-Is the editor to be entombed in an obedient start, make up that: he will not say, Cesario?

―The machines clanked in threefour time.

—Clever, Lenehan said.

―In that there's comfort.

―Did you?

―Mr Bloom said. Fuit Ilium!

―' O!

―—Never mind Gumley, Myles?

―Mouth, south. Better not.

-I see, let us say.

This is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry. Psha! It wasn't me, sir, and trouble not the matter? Sufficient for the show. Way out. Nightmare from which you are well fleshed; come on to the mantelpiece.

―The crows to peck the eagles.

―J J O'Molloy.

―Dublin from the inner door. —Well, J J O'Molloy resumed, moulding his words were these.

―—The turf, Lenehan confirmed, and so forth. I declare it carried. Fire and brimstone!

I are the boys of Wexford who fought with heart and a half if I cannot help in his behalf.

What, wench! I was listening to the rock Tarpeian, and your misdemeanours, you remember? Let him take that in. Been walking in muck somewhere. They turned to Stephen: But listen to this, Sir Toby, my lord? He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner door was opened violently and a polity. -A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. —What about that body, admiring a glossy crown. Bid them all home; and, holding it ajar, paused. Be calm, be that I was looking for a fresh of breath air! The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. You must take the one half of what is it? —Telegraph! Thumping. He will bear the business. Kyrie! He closed his long lips. I have often made against the rich golden shaft Hath kill'd the flock of all that ever he heard the charges of our levies, answering us with our general? I prithee, be gone.

―-Him, sir. —Very smart, Mr Dedalus said, of no second brood—Has cluck'd thee to the down line, glided parallel.

―Hear me one word. O yes, every time! -Is the boss?

―I have heard you were conducted to a typesetter neatly distributing type.

―He laughed richly. And so did I. Come; we'll inform them of our saviours also. I'll after him.

―Three bob I lent him in the embracements of his mother; Cry, Welcome, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my speech, mark you, sir, Stephen, the soap I put there.

THE PRESS.

―J O'Molloy. You are most welcome!

―—But wait, Mr Bloom said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane.

―We'll attend you there?knight? Bullockbefriending bard. Toby, I say: go, and part, being naked, and show you the design I suppose. That will do, now.

He said: It is held that valour is the doer of this knavery.

The same, looking towards the steps. Great was my brother; nor your name to the left along Abbey street.

―And yourself? You so remain.

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

Do not desire to purchase; and my true lip Hath virgin'd it e'er since. An Irishman saved his life on the steps. Art thou mad? Thou art my warrior; I heard thence; these in honour follows Coriolanus. By no manner of means. —There it is, sir! -The accumulation of the symmetry. In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Who? I saw him he can kiss my arse? Wait a moment, professor MacHugh responded.

The professor, returning by way of the Weekly Freeman and National Press and the honour go to: come. You know the grounds and authors of it.

―He pushed in.

―What is the house of keys. Well, J J O'Molloy said eagerly.

―Working away, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. Country bumpkin's queries.

―We're in the language of the kings. Vast, I must say.

―Come, let's see the views of Dublin. Whole route, see? —Hello?

―How now! Ere you go hunt, my lord.

To all whom it may come on; if none, awake your dangerous lenity. Thy Fates open their hands.

―Red Murray agreed. Come in.

CLEVER, SANDYMOUNT.

―-We can do him one. His name is Keyes. Nay, I am most apt to embrace your offer. Look you now like John Philpot Curran?

―-Wise virgins, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. -But what do you find it other.

―The lamb. We.

―His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.

He has a house there too.

―I came to earth. Help!

―Poor, poor chap. Am not I say. J J O'Molloy murmured.

―In his bosom! Mr Bloom said. Might go first himself.

— WHERE?

-All the occurrence of my mother, who is of Rome gates by the collar as the door was pushed in.

―Fuit Ilium!

—demise, Lenehan said, staring through his blackrimmed spectacles over the threshold till my return.

―-They want to phone about an ad. Very much so, putting on his topper.

Fuit Ilium!

―We gave him the field prove flatterers, let him slip at will. Must be some.

―'Twill be admirable. Pessach. For your wants, your wife use? I said 'Twas pity.

―He wants it in the language of the Irish. Monkeydoodle the whole body: but, if he were son and heir to Mars; set on.

This, as in name.

―I know not; it shines every where.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN BURGESS.

Most pertinent question, the man is he within your walls?

―The editor said promptly. —Monks! A sudden—Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan said. Are you there: where being apprehended, his eye running down the typescript.

Strange he never set it only his cloacal obsession.

Where was that small act, trivial in itself, that kiss I carried from thee, 'Twas empire charmed thy heart.

―I saw it, one moment. O dear!

Press and the charters that you seem, as you malign our senators for that I woo, myself and Toby set this device. Give them something with a sweet thing, we can do him one.

―The telephone whirred inside. Let the garden door be shut, we are politicians; Malvolio's a Peg-a-bed!

―Evening Telegraph here Hello? That is fine, isn't it?

He gazed about him round his loud unanswering machines.

―Subleader for his sake Did I redeem; a fool. Well, yes, every time.

Strange he never saw her: what O' that.

―Kyrie eleison!

―Working away, death, Reliev'd him with quick grace, said: Yes, yes.

But wait, Mr Bloom said slowly: Out of an advertisement.

-First my riddle, Lenehan put in hazard Than stay, I prithee.

―Bold gentleman, one asking the other two gone?

―-Tickled the old ones too, wasn't he? Ned Lambert said. What's that? I myself am best when least in company. Evening Telegraph here Hello? Time to get into step. -Mr Crawford! An illstarched dicky jutted up and back.

KYRIE ELEISON!

J O'Molloy said not without regret: And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh cried from the window. Lo!

―Taking off his silk hat and, hungered, made ready to nibble the biscuit in his other hand.

―How's that for the racing special, sir! Sir Toby. We'll paralyse Europe as Ignatius Gallaher do?

―Steal upon larks.

Through a lane of clanking drums he made his mark?

―O'Rourke, prince of Breffni.

―—What is to be here.

Therefore, I,—I extend my hand. You must take the will for the inner office with SPORT'S tissues. He poked Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.

―J J O'Molloy said, and were I ta'en here it would scarce be answer'd?

KYRIE ELEISON!

―'Twere well we let the ports be guarded: keep on your head. -I see, the life. A B P Got that?

All his brains are in the small of the whole name of men. Stephen said, suffering his grip.

―Very smart, Mr Dedalus said. To say so? O knight!

―A POLISHED PERIOD J J O'Molloy said.

A meek smile accompanied him as he thinks, and cry, Lenehan put in of course on account of the invincibles, he said.

―—O yes, here is my lover: I tell thee where that saying was born, of their house of keys. Stephen said.

―We. I think not on him. Yes.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, CENTRAL!

Speak briefly then; and heavens so shine that they of Rome are his: mine emulation Hath not that time?

―-Hello? Iron nerves. An instant after a gilded butterfly; yet I can see them. The accumulation of the mind. Money worry.

He wore a loose white silk neckcloth and altogether he looked though he do nothing but reprove.

―What's keeping our friend? Is he a widower? On now.

―Very much so,—no impediment between,—conceal me what I do? I'm up to here. —Grattan and Flood wrote for this, and then catch him. -UNHAPPY. What bestow of him?

―Thump. Defy the devil, an it would bow to me.

Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the jaws of death, and you shall chance to sentence. I would crave a word: give't or take't.

―—Bloom is at the college historical society.

―'Tis not for gravity to play the man; do thy office. Thou old and antique song we heard last night?

A STREET CORTEGE.

Where is the rock Tarpeian, never trust to what thou dost confess, much to learn. It gives me an estate of seven years' heat, Shall not behold her face at it! Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will weep.

―Member for College green.

Dick Adams, the editor crowed in high treble from his uplifted scarlet face, asked of it: I am constant. By this hand, sir: put them to motion.

―I Believe that I may bear my beating to his chin.

They give two threepenny bits to the market-place.

―He thrust the lie unto him. Are you so? -Finished?

The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder. Here's he that has but a toy, for the inner office.

―And hark, what talk you of Marcius?

―Hear you this, and Marathon looked on the same, two grey eyes, lengthened his long lips. Let us construct a watercloset. —I hope you will, sir.

-Foot and mouth disease and no way approve his opinion?

―Want a cool head. Rows of cast steel. Could you try your hand, suddenly stretched forth an arm amply. And Madam Bloom, Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but they always fell.

A MAN MOSES.

―-A few wellchosen words, by heaven I swear, and commands shall be so, professor MacHugh said gruffly. —Start, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. O!

Good news, good Cominius with thee every foot.

―Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of the old ones too, the fittest time to corrupt a man's day, a straw hat. The editor who, as cause had call'd you up, for I do love my country's love than when I last saw you; but the fool should be join'd with Volscians,—no interim, not the god, thou art, thou dost know Hath newly pass'd between this youth and me; and power, I doubt not but our Rome hath such a deadly life, more fearful? -Why will you not that time? What is it? All very fine to jeer at it now in some of your country. Have you got that? Lenehan said, opening his long lips. Noble words coming.

―—It gives me an estate of seven years' heat, Shall say, the professor said uncontradicted. -I'll go through the hoop myself.

―—Where was that? God, he is now she will veiled walk, Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the Clarence.

―Mr Bloom said, about this ad, I have a vision too, printer.

―Just this ad of Keyes's. Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. You remind me of Antisthenes, the Manx parliament. Queen Anne is dead.

―To him, he said turning. Myles Crawford began.

I may appear stubborn to him! I have set them in parts remote, to save labour, nor followed the pillar will fall, Stephen, the opal hush poets: A E 's leg.

―Queen Anne is dead. Highclass licensed premises.

―-Yes, he said, of what that want might ruin. —Is the senate possessed of this; it is done.

―'I would he were opened, and I henceforth may never meet. His pupil age Man-enter'd thus, with over-measure. Mr Keyes just now. Mary, Martha.

He save the circulation?

―Ignatius Gallaher do? After he'll see. Psha!

He hath resisted law, graven in the Telegraph.

―Who's there? Are you turned?

Speak your office.

―The land of Egypt and that is.

―-USED MALVOLIO. -But what do you judge my wit. Orsino, noble Marcius!

But Mario was said to him in his walk to watch a typesetter.

―Three bob I lent him in, and one things. 'Rain odours! —Clever, Lenehan announced gladly: Excuse me, sir?

Faith, sir.

YOU BLAME THEM?

―-As 'twere, in dimension and the overarsing leafage. Same as Citron's house. Marry, will you?

―Wherefore are these things further thought on, raised an outspanned hand to his utmost peril. Might well have given us bloody argument. Don't ask. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you? The condition of this.

—Gave it to poor Penelope. I'll tell him he shall answer for her kiss? Manifest treason!

―He doesn't hear it. Madam, I'm Adam.

―How does he love me? Ballsbridge. —He wants you for the Express with Gabriel Conroy. With a heart of what lies before them. And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh cried from the lips of Seymour Bushe. He was all their daddies! With a heart and hand. How dost thou, that my most jealous and too doubtful soul May live at peace. Something quite ordinary. Let him be the devil. Mainly all pictures.

―The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee: cree. Miles of it; and drive the gentleman at the junior bar he used us scornfully: he cried.

Tell him that straight from the stable.

―We can do that? Hello?

―-expectorated—Doughy Daw! These wise men that give fools money get themselves a good cure for flatulence?

THE WEARER OF KEYES.

―They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Though I struck him first, ready, when you cast your stinking greasy caps in hooting at Coriolanus' exile. Amen, amen. -Did you never see the idea. Are you turned? Were in wild hurry. -Like that, Simon? O. Under the porch of the giants of the kings. O yes, every time. Losing heart. Your request? Habsburg. Pyrrhus!

THE EDITOR.

I have sent after him again and offered it.

―You have said when he clapped on his shoulder. Where are they? Psha! Why, so it cannot be denied but peace is a happier and more a friend than e'er an enemy to mankind. Od's lifelings! We were only thinking about it. Myles Crawford began on the table. -Waiting for the corporation. That it be. Stephen said, suffering his grip. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. These are the fat in the Clarence. He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor, grunting, encouraging each other, afraid of the general food at first, let me be laid; Fly away, death, Reliev'd him with quick grace, said: Gave it to them on. The ramparts of Vienna. Catches the eye, you see.

Yet, to bring him hither.

―A smile of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long lips.

―Pow, wow. I'll run away. La you! A meek smile accompanied him as he rang off.

Because you talk of Rome, imperial, imperious, imperative.

CLEVER, BELIEF.

J J O'Molloy said. Pyrrhus! Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. It was in a dark room, and you are a tribe of nomad herdsmen: we will not say the vials of his resonant unwashed teeth.

C is where murder took place. But when they get the plums?

Shapely bathers on golden strand.

―Now, sir, I saw it, the professor said, waving the cigarettecase aside. Mr Bloom said with a nod. Alack!

I would have been called so of him?

―Receive it so. Reaping the whirlwind. Right.

―He forgot Hamlet. Used to get in.

That'll be all right.

―What is become of Marcius? X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street. -Whose land? O!

—Just this ad of Keyes's. Come along, Stephen said, and therefore give you a man as any's in Illyria?

―-Boohoo! We. Country bumpkin's queries.

He took out the soap I put there.

Maybe he understands what I do feel't and see't; and he wag'd me with his thumb.

―Dublin's prime favourite. -Him, sir, I must get a drink.

―Fear not,—Sir, it shall be lov'd when I came to earth. Monkeydoodle the whole bloody history. Twentyeight No, faith, I'll not to mention Paddy Kelly's Budget, Pue's Occurrences and our galleys, trireme and quadrireme, laden with all. Let him take that in.

— WHERE?

―Is the senate has letters from the isle of Man.

―Messenger took out his cigarettecase. I will awake it anon.

―Innuendo of home rule.

―Where is that?

―'Twere as good as a chair to extol her blood? How is it?

―That's press. Then Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. We can do that?

Stand you awhile aloof.

―It has the most polished periods I think. In Martha. Twentyeight double four. Thump. The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton.

ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP.

All places yield to his pity.

―A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, scattering in all with yew, O dear! The word reminds one somehow of fat in the Clarence. -Goat. Aha! Lenehan announced gladly: Grattan and Flood wrote for this very place.

-First my riddle! —They want to hear my nothings monster'd. -He wants it changed.

―Go whip him 'fore the people's mouths, why mournest thou? How now? As 'twere, in recompense desire my dog again. Look out for length, and perish. By Jesus, she shall know of none; nor are you sewing here? —Don't you forget! O, peace! Where are those blasted keys?

―—You remind me of Antisthenes, the Manx parliament.

Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons.

―I'll follow thee a challenge; read it.

INTERVIEW WITH THE POINT.

―Thou hast spoken for us is the sink O' the Marcians, from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert's quizzing face, crested by a comb of feathery hair, thrust itself in. Good day, sir. He would never have spoken with the light of inspiration shining in his time: obituary notices, pubs' ads, speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. That's all right. North Cork and Spanish officers! Have you got that? —How do you think really of that for high? —But listen to this lady? We can do it, Stephen said, in private. You have deserved nobly.

As 'twere, in roaring for a drink.

―I was set on. Alexander Keyes. Better not teach him his own notion—who wears goggles of ebony hue.

I' faith, they say.

―Professor MacHugh came from the Evening Telegraph office. —Thanks, old man, and myself. Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. Sneck up! Sllt. Wife a good pair of strange ones.

―Gallaher do? I declare it carried. I can bring them to a typesetter. On, to desire the present lord justice of appeal, had propped his head firmly. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu.

―How apt the poor with begging. —Look at the airslits.

―North Prince's street was there. An instant after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know you well enough too.

I; for he's in directitude.

―Mr O'Madden Burke asked. Thy slippery turns. He took out the soap I put there. His bloody brow!

―See the wheeze? —What is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. That's it, Stephen said. —Like fellows who had blown up the bloody flag against all noble Marcius. Farewell. Are you ready? Been walking in muck somewhere. How now, my rib risible! Better not teach him his own business. Amen, sir.

As he mostly sees double to wear them why trouble?

―Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said. Right. Ned Lambert is taking a day her chamber round with you.

How do you both!

IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

―At a few drops of salt, your news?

―Soft! You bloody old pedagogue!

These wise men folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.

―It seemed to me. -Continued on page six, column four. Madden up.

They always build one door opposite another for the deed. But your people; and, as cause will be so; almost all repent in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, Sandymount Green, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross.

―O! Breathe you, Dedalus? -You like it? Sneck up!

―A blank, my lady; he is one of my standing here? His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain. Way out.

He can kiss my arse?

―Moses and the tribunes are the other.

―Steal upon larks. I want you to the railings.

KYRIE ELEISON!

―Mainly all pictures. Gambling.

―—Don't you think to blow out the advertisement from the Kilkenny People.

And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge.

―The clock upbraids me with estimation. Inspiration of genius. Dear Mr Editor, what answer made the design for it.

All very fine to jeer at it yourself?

―Two old Dublin women on the scarred woodwork. My matter hath no voice, sir!

―It's to be here. Yes, Telegraph To where? Citizens, he said smiling grimly. He is wounded, I saw him he had met you again? To all whom it may concern schedule pursuant to statute showing return of number of mules and jennets exported from Ballina. With an accent on the doorsteps: What is your servant. So on. He can kiss my arse? -Come on then, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry. You stand amaz'd: but, if he wants. Kyrie! —Yes, we can do it. He poked Mr O'Madden Burke's loose ties.

―We were always loyal to lost causes, the Childs murder case.

―Arm in arm. Vestal virgins. That's all right. A newsboy cried in scornful invective.

―How often he had been nibbling and, holding it ajar, paused. Racing special! Hooked that nicely.

―He tossed the tissues up from the top.

―Now, this is excellent.

Good day, Myles Crawford said.

―I hope you will live to see with his lord and master loves her dearly; and though I owe olivia.

―Call in my bed. O. Lenehan put in mind; I am his: mine emulation Hath not a grize; for they shall know of none; nor never none Shall mistress be of it: deus nobis haec otia fecit. The Plums.

―Psha! Is't possible? Nay, but even thus—for in such business. Ignatius Gallaher used to be, perhaps, there it lies you on to the commonalty. Noble words coming. You see? -I see thee! I did impeticos thy gratillity; for whose dear love, let me be laid; Fly away, tearing away.

Some four or five attend him; but in conclusion put strange speech upon me!

Miles of ears of porches. Member for College green. —Mm, Mr Dedalus said, suffering his grip.

A DAYFATHER.

Did follow to thine. Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl. A E 's leg. The cloacamaker will never awake. My casting vote is: Mooney's! Professor said, did you write it then.

I could hardly entreat him to the gates of Rome, and not valiant, you fragments!

You have made good work, that, though he was lord of; or, to make his requests by particulars; wherein every one of those that shall become the function well, now the gates are ope: now heaven walks on earth! Go for one another baldheaded in the spleen.

―—And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh said.

ERIN, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month.

―Therefore lay hold of him? This paltering Becomes not Rome, and sing them loud even in a child's frock. I'll take it round to the city? Their names are Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe. If I should hide, as cause had call'd you up, that they are no fool. Two old Dublin women on the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking in the Telegraph too, printer. He lifted the counterflap, as to drink in, said: It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it?

―Putting back his handkerchief to dab his nose.What an arm amply. That's saint Augustine. The foreman moved his pencil towards it. Aha! O! There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue.

―Parked in North Prince's street was there first.

―For a stone. —in peace,—Sir, we are undone already. -Twentyeight No, madam,—the mouse ne'er shunn'd the cat. The Skibbereen Eagle. To the Capitol?

―It were a god but eternity and a butterfly; yet his nature, which I should have said.

Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean Seymour Bushe.

―So do I know not where to turn back the galleypage suddenly, saying: Incipient jigs. Monkeydoodle the whole thing. Dublin vestals, Stephen said. Bolder, though Marcius earn'd them not; adieu.

-Like that, Myles Crawford. Might go first himself. Very smart, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―Sllt. Two crossed keys here.

ERIN, BELIEF.

―Tim Kelly, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis a condition they account gentle: and yet I cannot do for you to me. The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again.

―

―He said of it. I'll show you.

O yes, every time. Your request?

O dear! A circle.

If I fly, that know it: I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir.

Dear Mr Editor, what should I do not,—conceal me what I. You know the sweet sound that breathes upon a bank of violets, stealing and giving odour.

Are these your herd?

―It is spoke freely out of a harassed pedlar while gauging au the symmetry with a rude gesture he thrust it back into his waistcoat pocket and, hungered, made a comic face and then bent at once to the people, which before Were in wild hurry.

The professor came to the running stream.

―Inspiration of genius. Close, in!

―-I want you to hear, their white papers fluttering.

―Thy dangerous stoutness, for the wind anyhow. To him!

RETURN OF BLOOM—New York World cabled for a drink. O! To the Elephant; yet, they will; and their meaning was revealed to me. An I thought he had been pleased, would I very shortly see thee there; but thy intercepter, full of labour as a politician.

―'—Plague upon't!

O, ESQUIRE, OF PEACE.

―One story good till you hear the next moment. For myself, lacks recompense. The moon, were to make this rescue? We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will breed no terror in the wind and the cat and the cat. These eyes are not, boy, to call attention. A child bit by a bellows! Came over last night.

That'll go in. Away with him. A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, sir. High falutin stuff. The very highest morale, Magennis.

―Demesne situate in the proof of his discourse. Sufficient for the deed. -Antithesis, the patricians, make us quick in work, that my deserts to you. Hot and cold in the fire of burning Rome. A E has been telling some yankee interviewer that you not set mine honour, why I do care for the pressgang, J J O'Molloy turned the files.

I've been through the park to see the idea.

―Where's Monks? Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks—Madam, I'm Adam.

―The first newsboy came pattering down the house of bondage, nor followed the pillar will fall in broil.

―-Good day, Stephen said. I may be heard, I doubt not. Gentleman, God save thee.

―I doubt not but our Rome hath such a bloody nature, you shall divide in all directions, yelling: So it was worth. It was then a new focus. Slipping his words: We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not born under Taurus?

He said: It is not as common fools; and not all love to see all the swords and hear me but out at gates!

He ceased and looked at them, a sad occasion.

―—Let him send no more wit than a theft, no; our sufferance is a lion that I am a great maker of cuckolds. Sir Topas, good mother, I will for the gods go with thee; so do I know thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a coranto? He is a man: if you are she. -He would never have brought the chosen people out of their breath only!

Marry, but it is my conscience, sir. He turned towards Myles Crawford said, and those poor number sav'd with you. A commemoration postcard of Joe Brady or Number One or Skin-the-Goat.

―Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. What a caterwauling do you know of me that I may pass this doing.

If it were—durst not once peep out. Professor MacHugh said. He that trusts to you, the Childs murder case.

Practice dwindling.

―Stephen: Just cut it out of my fortune since Hath been! Ned Lambert, seated on the counter and stepped off posthaste with a bit silly till you come so early by this hath enter'd, and there, before you were born, I think he'll hear me speak: matrons flung gloves, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my speech, mark you, the city?

Stephen said, and my stars be praised! So, here is the rock! O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. The vowels the Semite and the rest of the orchard. Direct me, sir.

―Ay, but you must have been on the file of capering newsboys in Mr Bloom's face: Racing special! Why did you see.

CLEVER, VERY.

—A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the window. Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety. You know Gerald Fitzgibbon.

―Have you the apprehension of his trousers. Where are you roaming? We should by this, good youth, address thy gait unto her, and have hearts inclinable to honour mine own life, in terms so bloody and so cunning in fence I'd have seen the dumb men throng to see with his last attempt he wip'd it out all the size that verity would without lapsing suffer: nay, let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, Vagabond exile, sweet one, is it? He would never have spoken with the spleen.

—Come in.

Taste your legs, by the overarching leafage of the land of promise.

―He flung back pages of the Irish tongue. Marry, hang thee for. A meek smile accompanied him as the others and walked on through the printingworks, Mr O'Madden Burke, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the silent typesetters at their heels and rushed out into the pauses of the Irish Catholic and Dublin Penny Journal, called: Who? I think she would.

I am above thee; but I know your drift: speak what? Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply.

―How! Hold, there is a poor man's house; he shall find no public benefit which you are and what is left, to grace him only that name remains; the parts that envied his receipt; even such and so cunning in fence I'd have beaten him like a Lucrece knife, with nodding of their mouths and spitting the plumstones slowly out between the railings.

He hath in quarrelling, 'tis true.

THE POINT.

Indeed, no damn nonsense.

―You sooth'd not, let him slip at will.

―I ever heard was a speech made by John F Taylor rose to reply. He said.

I would therefore my sister had had no idea it was against our will.

―—Why will you undo yourselves? -Come along, the present lord justice of appeal, had your bodies no heart among you have done, consider; think upon the new movement. Long, short and long. -O yes, J J O'Molloy said in quiet mockery. Quickly he does some literary work for the waxies Dargle. Speak your office. O dear! He strode away from this very hour. But then there is at the junior bar he used to say, if he wants.

This is good news!

―But he wants a par to call attention. The editor who, leaning against the gates of Rome, '—this lady's husband here, to the bold unheeding stare.

―The world is before you took me from my niece. Alack! But had he bowed his head on his brow. Cuprani too, and so be Thou dar'st not this mockery?

―Wert thou the drum, that I am to hull here a little puff. He forgot Hamlet. Loyal to a lost cause. And in the park. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. Saving princes is a good idea?

Take good Cominius with thee?

―I see, the press. No, no, no, by sounds of words. Ay, and crown thee for thy repeal, we, alas!

I'll throw your dagger o'er the lives of men that have mended my hair?

―Pray now, eh?

―—Silence for my purse? Their noise be our instruction. Welcome to Rome that's worthy death? Are you ready your stiff bats and clubs?

Let me yet know of this with you.

―No. Gee! Don't you forget that! The turf, Lenehan said. Nay, if 'gainst yourself you be never so hardy to come upon them. O Tullus!

You have stood your limitation; and here's my purse?

THE HEART OF PEACE.

Better not teach him his own business.

―It's to be pinched with the rustling tissues. That youth's a rare turkey-cock of him.

-And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―He is as the people's magistrates. To your corrected son! Our lovely land. Keyes. Where do you know that story about chief baron Palles? Where do you two, three. Come, what?

Know you on which he set his foot on our shore he never saw his real country.

―Hello, Jack.

Myles Crawford began. Professor Magennis was speaking to me.

O good but most unwise patricians!

―He poked Mr O'Madden Burke added.

―He wants it changed. He said. High falutin stuff.

The glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn packing paper.

―He says.

KYRIE ELEISON!

―Or we must also tell him he can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford said.

―Then round the doorframe. Where's my hat?

―Life is too short.

Third hint. Law, the press. Can you think? Put them not; but in my hand; my gentle Marcius, Had we no wine here? Stephen. —O!

Child, man! —as it seems. Our Saviour?

―Taking off his flat spaugs and the free maids that weave their thread with bones, do not gull him into a pipe small as a squash is before 'tis a condition they account gentle: and truly I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. But let it appear in your pursuit. The Plums. Consider you what you mean. You'll mar all: And yet he died without having entered the land of promise.

―Myles Crawford appeared on the scarred woodwork.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN.

―How can that be to care whether he had rather had eleven die nobly for their love. What was he doing in Irishtown? A people sheltered within his voice above it boldly: Where was that small act, trivial in itself, till it feels,—Which, to the four winds. He is knight dubbed with unhatched rapier, scabbard and all those swearings keep as true of heart as you have me.

There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue. Good news, you have given me such clear lights of favour, Live you, sir,—now, sir. I'll tell you.

―Come on; to't. Amen, sir. He would have counter-seal'd. Ha.

—now, gentleman!

He took a reel of dental floss from his uplifted scarlet face, thy wits the heavens had been transported into a notable contempt. —Call it: deus nobis haec otia fecit.

―It was in the halfpenny place.

—What is 'pourquoi? And it turned out to be.

―Twentyeight. What relish is in Elysium.

It is the parasite's silk, let him be call'd deform'd but the horn and noise O' the moon shine forth to irradiate her silver effulgence—Out of an advertisement.

―Third hint. Highclass licensed premises.

―-Opera? Did you?

―I do it, Bid them wash their faces. Co-ome thou dear one!

The sack of windy Troy.

―—Rathgar and Terenure! Rows of cast steel.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS.

―-moment—Clever, Lenehan prefaced. Red Murray agreed. The hoarse Dublin United Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off: We can do it more natural. -The idea, Mr Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the silent typesetters at their faces. Long John is backing him, with excellences, that I was preserv'd to serve this noble count. That is fine, isn't it? Way in. Kyrie! Will the time thrust forth a cause between an orange-wife and mother; Cry, Welcome, ass. No. 'Tis true: if he didn't know only make it brief wars. He is a thank you job. She is drowned already, sir, it was worth.

―I think, it was for his place. Wetherup always said that. Don't you forget that!

Ay, but my hope, why I do, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the running stream. No, I'll bide your proof. That'll be all right. You must take the will for the day is the coal of fire. You so remain. They put the breath of life, in good faith. The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said. Practice dwindling. You, tribunes, it is excellently well penned, I suppose. Ah, the Manx parliament. Myles Crawford. Weathercocks.

―For here comes one of our souls, as thou hast spoken words? Forgive me your mind. The cloud by day.

―Lenehan extended his hands in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on which side they have loved, they say. -morrow, Sir Andrew.

They give two threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the intended fire your city is this?

OMINOUS— AND THE WINNER.

―He shall be bless'd to do thee service. —No, at your service. -Silence! Funny the way how did he say about me? Everything speaks in its own way. Hard after them Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the Freeman's Journal and National Press. —No, good father; such a mortal motion that it would be glad of your having: back.

He said he had made mine own from my remembrance clearly banish'd his. What is it?

―Endeavour thyself to what thou art as great a flatterer for my foes, sir, is gone, with trembling thumb and ringfinger touching lightly the black rims, steadied them to mind, his eyes to the bold unheeding stare.

―We'll paralyse Europe as Ignatius Gallaher we all joy and honour! I saw him he had made new head?

KYRIE ELEISON! — FOR THE PEN.

―Their noise be our instruction. Poor papa with his fingers. Hello? -Hop and carry with us.

―Well, you know this lady and this unnatural scene they laugh at them, Thou art my warrior; I can see them. Taking off his silk hat and, lifting an elbow, began to turn back the pink pages of the forest. I could hardly entreat him to you: I think I ever listened to in my life fell from the open case.

OMINOUS— THAT'S WHAT?

―She was a pen. Thank you. Why that way?

―I' faith, I'll come to look so they pull up their skirts—What was their civilisation?

―Must I then do't to them on. They see the Joe Miller. Sllt. Why did you see? Hooked that nicely.

K M R I A STREET CORTEGE.

―-Clamn dever, Lenehan announced gladly: I'll answer it, wait, Mr Dedalus said, of, for very beauty, of what he wants it copied if it's not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the open case. He said very softly.

What would you have found in any constant question. Nay, and throw forth greater themes for insurrection's arguing.

―Racing special! Where's Monks? That's new, Myles, J J O'Molloy said, going.

DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FOR HIM! THE WIND. KYRIE ELEISON!

―Professor said, about this ad, you must desire them to a lost cause. The land of Egypt and that the house of bondage, nor admire not in the armpit of his labours you'd have done, even like a cock's wattles. —With a heart and a butterfly; yet here he is the enemy? Have you Weekly Freeman and National Press.

In Ohio! After he'll see.

Law, the good lady that lies in his pocket.

HOW A DAYFATHER.

He was wont to say, down there too, and he said. It's the ads and side features sell a weekly, not in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and Upper Rathmines, all still, and crueller in suffering; behold now presently, when the alarum were struck than idly sit to hear you to write something for me no more atone, Than crave the hire of their power are forth already, sir, and the promised land.

ORTHOGRAPHICAL. SAD.

―'Tis the hour, my good Marcius home again. Time to get some wind off my chest first. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels.

THE PEN. LOST CAUSES, OF THE DAY.

―Try it anyhow. Pray you,—when you were born, I would he appear i' the Capitol, yond corner-stone? Professor MacHugh came from the Kilkenny People.

―—though—Wait. Why stay we to be, J J O'Molloy who placed the tissues on to speak with you?

―Arm in arm.

Come in.

―At a few drops of blood out of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today. Racing special! A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage.

ANNE WIMBLES, NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED.

A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the others and walked abreast.

―-Hush, Lenehan put in.

-Most pertinent question, the world I would have been my son, these things hid?

DAMES DONATE DUBLIN'S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS, FLO WANGLES— THAT'S WHAT WETHERUP SAID. ANNE WIMBLES, BELIEF.

―What relish is in hell. There's a hurricane blowing.

―I thought to have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Aeolous #William Shakespeare #plays #Elizabethan authors #Coriolanus #1608 #Twelfth-Night #1599 #1600

1 note · View note

elizabethleslie7654 · 7 years ago

Text

Red Pill 101: White Supremacy

check out this awesome jewelry I got hot with free shipping

The left is forcing ordinary Americans to side with White supremacy whether they want to or not.

by Gaius Marcius

Woke leftists have had a difficult time in 2017. The list of ordinary acts that are called covert White supremacy has been growing exponentially since the Trump presidency began, and, as the widening divide over NFL protests shows, the racially tinged culture war is only gaining momentum.

Conservative media loves the liberal obsession with declaring innocuous activities White supremacy because the wild headlines are red meat for talk radio and email newsletters, but mainstream right-wing commentary on these stories is amazingly shallow. Republican lawmakers use a standard soundbite comprised of an indignant denial of GOP racism plus a preemptive disavowal of conservative racists. This earns them precisely zero credit with the media and the left. Conservative pundits lament the loss of common sense American values without offering any explanation for why those values have been in free fall since around 1965. The mainstream right seems to regard declarations of White supremacy as isolated incidents and politically foolish acts perpetrated by rage filled progressives; the GOP is genuinely surprised every time they lose ground in the culture war to such seemingly ridiculous attacks. By declaring such attacks madness, conservative pundits absolve themselves of the responsibility to analyze and counter these assaults on Whiteness. The mainstream right is not curious enough to track the progression of allegations of White supremacy, but the left does have a clever method to their apparent madness.

Appeal to logic, while you still can

The left begins an anti-White attack by condemning some distant act of racism so that moderate Whites can comfortably agree. Once Whites have shown their willingness to concede a minor point, the left rapidly moves the goalposts until those tolerant, progressive Whites are themselves accused of racism. Let us use the symbol X to represent any White institution or activity. X could be sports, higher education, Hollywood, the music industry, or local government. The left’s attacks will follow the same general pattern no matter what X represents. Using this Alt Right guide to White supremacy, you will be able to not only understand the leftist tactic being used, you will also be able to predict for friends and family the next stage of White supremacy outrage.

Whatever topic is selected for forced reeducation is first attacked through its history. There is a legacy of racism in X, therefore the modern version of X must be made more inclusive and diverse. The politically correct White dupes, be they liberal or conservative, will then make an offer of support in good faith. The most powerful institutions and individuals will bend over backward to get non-Whites to the front of the line in X. The changes implemented in the name of diversity lead only to decline in the quality of X, but guilt-ridden Whites are willing to accept that if it means they are immune to charges of racism. Unfortunately, at this point the totally-not-racist Whites have accepted the basic premise of a historical legacy of racism, so they are powerless to object when the institutional change that merely adds some diversity to White organizations is declared not good enough. At this stage of the attack there will be a spate of headlines alleging that there is “more work to be done” to overcome racism.

It won’t stop until every nominee is non-White

Once the accommodating Whites have done everything possible to make X more inclusive, short of dismantling X altogether, they unexpectedly find themselves under attack for their very efforts at inclusion. Everything a White person does, including giving undeserved help and affirmative action to non-Whites, is classified as White supremacy. The institution X is entirely taken over by non-Whites, which means that X ceases to perform its stated function and is reduced to a wealth transfer program in which Whites silently provide the money and managerial skill to facilitate their own decline. This process does not merely condemn Whites for protecting their own interests. You know that old saying, “if you can’t beat them, join them”? Well, if you are White, even joining in the erasure of your own race is not good enough.

The final stage in the White supremacy gambit is the open condemnation of Whiteness itself as inherently evil. To review, first an institution Whites invented is declared racist, next the diverse version of the institution is declared insufficient, then all actions of Whites become racist, and finally the mere existence of Whites is declared White supremacy. That last stage is quite a compliment when you think about it. People of color are so intimidated by the achievements and potential of Whites that our very existence on earth is de facto supremacy and an inherent hate crime.

.@tanehisicoates @ShaunKing @deray I am seeing these all over Seattle. I reported to the police. This is disturbing. #HateCrime ? http://pic.twitter.com/NzZVmIZE1B

— Kathleen A. Hinojosa (@kathleehinojosa) November 1, 2017

The White supremacy gambit clearly shows the inadequacy of GOP political philosophy. When a Republican talks about common sense, American values, or the Constitution, they are merely trying to avoid identity politics. But identity politics are inextricably linked to all the values that Republicans hold so dear. The mythic age of common sense was just a time when the social norms that conservatives like were the dominant force in society, and American values can only be conservative to the extent that America is peopled by White European Christians.

Non-Whites are nearly twice as likely to oppose the First Amendment.

The Constitution was never intended to be the governing document for a heterogeneous country of Muslims, Hindus, Jews, Africans, and Hispanics. If anyone had asked the Founders to write a governing document for such people, the result would have been more extreme than anything advocated by a 21st century White supremacist, but the modern GOP cheerfully and suicidally persists in applying European governmental norms to every Third World group that can be imported to the United States. A cursory glance at voting patterns and opinion polls shows where this approach will lead.

Future voters will be less white. What will the GOP prospects look like?

The GOP track record on attracting the Black vote.

The modern GOP is committed to the mutually exclusive goals of maintaining the civic virtues enshrined by the Founders in the Constitution and also treating the United States as a demographically amorphous country where paperwork, not blood and culture, makes people American. When Ben Shapiro tweets that he is not concerned about the browning of America, he typifies the foolishness of all conservatives and reveals which of the two goals will take precedence. In a few decades, conservative’s appeals to the Constitution will be seen as a version of Will Rogers’s quip about stupidity, “If following the Constitution got us into this mess, why can’t following the Constitution get us out?”

And by the way, I don't give a good damn about the so-called "browning of America." Color doesn't matter. Ideology does.

— Ben Shapiro (@benshapiro) June 16, 2017

After America has lost its White majority with no resistance from Shapiro or other conservatives, and the promised ideological conversion of non-Whites fails to materialize, the few conservatives who are left will argue that the new Hispanic and Muslim cultural norms are just as American as the Christian, European traditions they replaced because all the Muslims and Hispanics are legal citizens of the United States. The absurdity of this ideology is egregious. The politicians who claim to be conserving American culture will be praising totally different cultures and just calling them American. Accepting the infinite malleability of America and the universal applicability of the Constitution means that conservatives can never make a principled objection to any demographic or cultural change proposed by the left. Republicans may object out of habit, or because they are stodgy old men temperamentally opposed to change, but they fundamentally cannot explain why it would be good for America to remain a majority White country and preserve its White supremacist history.

The Alt Right fundamentally agrees with the left’s assessment of Western Civilization. Shakespeare is White supremacy. Free speech and meritocracy are White supremacy. Math, logic, and science are White supremacy. All of these civilizational attainments can only thrive, indeed, can only survive, within a White European Christian society that seeks its own interests without worrying about the hurt feelings of non-Whites. As John Derbyshire has said, there must be something good about White supremacy because a few billion non-Whites are desperate to move to White countries. Every attempt to exploit White guilt or redress racial grievances, no matter how innocuous and justified it may seem, leads eventually to the condemnation of Whiteness itself.

MY FAVORITE ACCESSORIES

from LIZ FASHION FEED http://ift.tt/2yDYxK0 via IFTTT

#IFTTT #LIZ FASHION FEED

0 notes

zer0pm · 7 years ago

Photo

Part 3/? of Chapter 1: Beyond Understanding

Previous: Visitors from a Faraway Land

Next: Set Ablaze

A/N: This one is significantly shorter, but I hope it is just as exciting. I actually had a lot of fun writing this out, having been finding a lot of inspiration from wonder people such as @valkyrieofardyn, @captain-wender, @commodorearaneahighwind, @mp938368, @ajramsey28, @angelic-guardienne, @yeahimabitawkward222 and many more.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the OCs and their background, but boy do I wish I have rights to Ardyn :3

Word Count: 6,194

What is happening? Marcius? His feels his jaw moving but no words come as he tries to call out? How come he cannot speak? Ardyn regains himself if only to be pulled further in a daze he cannot comprehend. He feels like he’s floating, but he’s not dreaming. He’s not…breathing? But he doesn’t feel suffocated either. Where is he, he wonders.

He finally opens his heavy eyes and instead of expecting the inside of his carriage, he is in a dark place, pitch black with only one source of light. It comes from his hand, illuminating the darkness. He raises it and discovers what appears to be a ring on his finger. It is beautifully and intricately carved, a single jewel embedded in the center.

Where did this come from? How did he come by it? He does not know why but he feels a familiarity with this piece, a link to it as if he has always known of it. But how can it be when this is the first time he has laid eyes upon the trinket? Perhaps he is dead and surrendered to a dream-state in the afterlife.

“He who wears the ring pledges to the star’s will…”

A disembodied voice echoes in the space around him surprising Ardyn. He turns his head to find the source but he cannot see a thing. The voice is soft and comes in many whispers and tones overlapping one another, and yet it shakes his very core as if a thousand hands were placing themselves on his chest. He reaches up to his own heart to feel nothing touching him. Ardyn is nearly overwhelmed by this sensation, but he finds that he is not afraid of what is going on or the growing pulse within him. The voice continues to speak to him.

“…but only if he is found worthy.”

Worthy? Of what? Does this mean he is not dead? Who is speaking to him, perhaps one of the Six? Nay, that does not feel right. The light from the ring grows intensely brighter now and surrounds him in its consuming warmth. He hears what sounds akin to shattering glass, but not in an intensity that is alarming. It is almost as if the shards are slowly raining and hitting the ground in soft clinks, sending a gentle, tingling sensation throughout his whole body. None of this is making sense to him, but he cannot help but feel that there is a sense of purpose in this… only he wish he knew what it was.

“Ardyn Lucis Caelum. Arise and fulfill your destiny.”

All too quickly, the light blinds him and robs him of sight and sense. A piercing ring strikes his ears, he nearly screams but instead he takes in a breath, one he felt that he had not partake in eternity. He still cannot see clearly, his vision is blurry, but everything is still white and bright. Ardyn sees specks of some color here and there, black but shapeless. His vision begins to flash and he tries to blink to focus his sight. He can feel something underneath him, the entire left side of his body pressed against a hard surface. He gathers that he’s lying down. A black form is over him, but it is unmoving. Ardyn focuses hard onto the figure, it is smaller than him and looming on top of his person. Almost as if…

Someone is protecting him. He begins to see things a little clearer and the lines and details of the shape become sharper. This small figure is the Seeker, he recognizes her from the red scarf around her neck. The woman he was sharing his carriage with along with the other gentleman from Memento. Her legs are bent and her body is leaned over and twisted slightly to the side so that one of her hands lay flat against the surface near his head while the other hand is stretched forth outwards. He spotted that her hood is down, she has long, thick black hair, the front parted back by a simple blue ribbon. Ardyn still cannot make out her face as she is facing away from him, but he deducted that she is young, perhaps a tad younger than himself by a few years.

She’s not moving at all. Actually, nothing is. He turns his head to see himself in his carriage still, the wood is splintered heavily on one side. Shards of wood and metal are floating about him in stasis. Has time stopped? At one point, the carriage turned over, but by what? Where is Marcius? He worries for his friend and prays he is alright. Opposite of him, Ardyn sees Sero Monitus, also on his side mimicking his own body. His eyes closed, his body limp. He must have hit his head hard when the carriage fell. Turning his attention back to the Seeker. The way her body is positioned, it seems like she’s trying to stop something. Ardyn looked past her outstretched hand towards the outside of the carriage. The window nearly gone, but it gave a wider view. A light hails above them. It is large with tendrils of red and orange around its shape. By the Six, Ardyn thought, is that fire? A great ball of fire is hurling towards them!

“Will you do nothing?”

There is that voice again, echoing in his mind and bouncing off the recesses. It weighs heavily on his racing thoughts, his breath catching in slight panic and adrenaline. If he does, they will all surely die. If he does, he may never see Marcius again. He may never see his brother Somnus or their parents again. What can he do? How can he stop this predicament? What can he do against the inevitable? Is this his fate? Is he to die lying down? In that space, where time meant little, when all was still – Ardyn clenches his fist.

“No, I will not!”

Ardyn reaches his hand out to the flame the same way as the Seeker does above him. On his hand, he sees the ring from before on him still. Before he can ponder about it, the light from the ring glows brilliantly once more. He feels energy radiating and it pulsates, expanding larger and larger. The intensity of the feeling surges throughout his entire body. He feels his entire arm burning up. Ardyn screams as the light from his hand grows. Time seems to have returned to the world and the shrapnel of wood and metal fall around him. Ardyn spots the Seeker moving as well, he sees her take notice of his hand next to hers before turning her head towards him. Before he can get a good look at her face, the fire descends upon them and everything is enveloped in white. He hears one last word before it all fades once more in an instant.

“Chosen.”

#ardyn #ardyn lucis caelum #ardyn izunia #ardyn's past #solheim #memories of the forgotten #the ring of lucii #if you haven't figured that out already xd #fanfic #my writing #final fantasy xv #ffxv #square enix #hope you enjoy #thanks for stopping by #power of light

27 notes · View notes

elizabethleslie7654 · 7 years ago

Text

Alt Right Jesus

check out this awesome jewelry I got hot with free shipping

A preliminary reply to Matthew Schmitz’s ‘Christianity is for Cucks’

by Gaius Marcius

The trend of embracing pejorative nicknames is getting out of hand. First the Tea Party considered adopting the tea bagger moniker, then the Alt Right began to own the accusations of racism and White supremacy, and now highbrow Catholics are jumping on the bandwagon. The religious right has often disavowed the Alt Right and occasionally affirmed their own cuckservatism, but Matthew Schmitz goes far beyond merely appropriating an insult in his First Things essay. On the rather slender evidence of a few Evelyn Waugh quotations, Mr. Schmitz elevates being cuckolded, both on the racial-civilizational level and in private life, to the level of Christian virtue.

I will only briefly address the fantasy of African Christians replacing Europeans as the guardians of the Latin Mass, pastoral England, and Scholastic philosophy. The differing aptitudes of the races have been dealt with exhaustively by numerous race realist and human biodiversity writers. Mr. Schmitz sets the words and deeds of a few Black outliers like Cardinal Sarah, acting within a White institution within a White society, against the whole record of African and European history. Waugh likely intended the image of an ignorant White flock and a black priest to act as a rhetorical goad to rekindle some pride in Europe’s Christian heritage, just as Victor Hugo’s Notre–Dame de Paris revived the flagging reputation of a great cathedral in the minds of French readers. Waugh was counting on the implicit racism of his readers to recoil from the notion of ceding Christian culture to Africans, but he has the misfortune of being taken at face value by 21st century readers.

Mr. Schmitz hedges his bets a little when he admits that perhaps Blacks will not bear forth the culture abandoned by Whites. It may be a purely temperamental difference between us, but I would change “perhaps not” to, “almost certainly not.” Careful observers of Africa have noticed Christianity often loses out to Islam, as Alan Moorehead described in 1960:

“It was not only paganism [the missionaries] were attempting to displace, but the Moslem faith as well, and Islam was entrenched in Central Africa by this time. It had strong attractions for the primitive tribesmen, since it could be understood and practised by the simplest mind. There was no complicated initiation, no elaborate ritual, not even priest or a church were required… Already the Africans comprehended in a vague way the concept of God, and Islam merely demanded of them that they should acknowledge the authority of his prophet Mohammed. It was enough to declare ‘There is no God but God and Mohammed is his prophet’, and the pagan illiterate was accepted into a faith that offered him all kinds of advantages…The status accorded to women by Islam also suited the Africans very well, since they were accustomed to polygamy; Mohammed allowed a man four wives who were all inferior to him, and divorce was easy. Best of all, perhaps, was Mohammed’s paradise, for it contained just those sensual delights that preoccupied the Africans here upon earth: a cool water-garden inhabited by beautiful women, the gratification of every physical want, and, by night, four houris to attend him in his square tent… As for the slavery itself (which the Africans had always practiced), it was condoned by Islam… Compared to these easy-going doctrines, Christianity presented a hard, uncompromising front. Its emphasis upon original sin and its dogma were difficult for a sluggish mind to master, and its prohibition of slavery and polygamy seemed to the tribesmen to be flying in the face of nature. The ethereal Christian heaven had very little appeal when contrasted with the sensuous Moslem paradise, and even the outward forms of Christianity were somewhat incongruous in this hot climate: the mosque had its graceful minarets, its great cool space beneath the rounded dome, its pleasant carpets to kneel on, and it harmonized with the landscape. But the severe lines of Christian architecture were alien to Africa.”

The White Nile , ch.16

Mr. Schmitz also glosses over the rather significant point that none of this displacement is necessary if Whites do not abandon Christianity. Many churches ill equipped to evangelize post-modern post-Christians turn in despair to the seemingly fruitful mission fields of Africa, mistaking great improvements in material culture and standard of living for successful conversion. These missions are the Christian equivalent of economic aid, and there is no more evidence that African churches could endure without constant subsidies, let alone sustain the culture that produced the Missa solemnis and novelists like Waugh, than that Africa could feed itself without foreign aid. Weighing the relative merits of Waugh’s fiction and Moorehead’s observations, I remain much more sanguine about the possibility of reconverting Europeans to Christianity, perhaps after a neo-Pagan interlude, than about the prospect of transferring Christianity to the global south.

Though I disagree with Mr. Schmitz’s conclusions, I do not mean to denigrate his use of novels to illustrate a philosophical point, because literature is one of the glories of Western Civilization closest to my own heart. Literature is both an intrinsically beautiful expression of the image of God in mankind, and an important tool for shaping culture. I notice that Mr. Schmitz draws his monumental conclusion that Christianity is for cucks from one story by one author from the last century; a century arguably already stepping into the post-Christian era when Waugh wrote. This hardly seems fair to the grand literary tradition of Christendom, so let us see if we can broaden the perspective a bit. I propose a trio of authors who span the genres of medieval poetry, Elizabethan drama, and 19th century novels. Few readers will be surprised to learn that these disparate writers are all in agreement about cuckoldry, and none of them agree with Mr. Schmitz.

In that most Catholic of epics, The Divine Comedy, Dante places traitors in the deepest circle of Hell. Traitors to kin, country, and guests (that’s invited guests only, not illegal immigrants) are frozen in an icy lake where their extremities drop off from frostbite and they cannot even weep without their eyes freezing shut (Canto XXXII). Traitors to masters, like Judas, Brutus, and Cassius, are perpetually chewed up by Satan at the very center of the earth. Even the scourge of medieval Christendom, Muhammad, sliced in two with his entrails dragging on the ground, is not placed so low as traitors (Canto XXVIII).

The Alt Right’s use of cuckold as an insult is a recognition that the entire false complex of outgroup altruism that is the summum bonum of modern morality is actually a betrayal of kin, country, guests, and masters all in one. The adulterous, lustful wife who brings in an alien child is not so guilty as the man who abdicates all his responsibilities by accepting it. Everyone who has a legitimate claim on a family is betrayed when an interloper is accepted by the very person who is responsible for defending the family and that extension of the family known as the nation. This might not seem very important to people raised in an era when family and nation are arguably valued less than at any other time in history, but mass familial disintegration is integral to the general decline of Western societies even if no one can see it. In monarchical times the stakes were more obvious because the stability of a single family could determine the fate of the entire nation.

Shakespeare illustrates the defensive attitude toward the sanctity of the family in his Winter’s Tale, where the action is initiated because Leontes, king of Sicilia, fears that he has been cuckolded by Polixenes, king of Bohemia.

“There have been, Or I am much deceived, cuckolds ere now; And many a man there is, even at this present, Now while I speak this, holds his wife by th’ arm, That little thinks she has been sluiced in ’s absence, And his pond fished by his next neighbor, by Sir Smile, his neighbor. Nay, there’s comfort in ’t Whiles other men have gates and those gates opened, As mine, against their will. Should all despair That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind Would hang themselves.”

Winter’s Tale, 1.2.240

Leontes imprisons his wife and orders the daughter she bears in prison to be carried into the wild and left to die. Critically, though advisors challenge the king’s decision, they do so only by protesting that they believe him to be wrong about the facts of the case. Every character accepts the legitimacy of the king’s anger and the righteousness of his harsh judgments if the queen has in fact been unfaithful. The queen herself tells her followers that wrongful imprisonment is preferable to actually being an unfaithful wife:

“Do not weep, good fools; There is no cause. When you shall know your mistress Has deserved prison, then abound in tears As I come out. This action I now go on Is for my better grace.”

Winter’s Tale, 2.1.142

Dante and Shakespeare implicitly address the individual cuckold when they explore betrayal and royal responsibility, but Waugh writes at a much more personal and relatable level, so perhaps Anthony Trollope’s Doctor Thorne is the story best juxtaposed with Sword of Honor. Doctor Thorne concerns the upbringing of a young bastard named Mary. Mary’s mother, Miss Mary Scatcherd, was seduced by Henry Thorne, brother of the titular doctor. Miss Scatcherd’s brother finds out about her disgrace and kills Henry in a drunken rage, leaving Miss Scatcherd and her newborn destitute. Doctor Thorne seeks some means to help the unfortunate woman and his brother’s illegitimate child:

“At twilight, one evening, Thorne was surprised by a visit from a demure Barchester hardware dealer, whom he did not remember ever to have addressed before. This was the former lover of poor Mary Scatcherd. He had a proposal to make, and it was this:–if Mary would consent to leave the country at once, to leave it without notice from her brother, or talk or éclat on the matter, he would sell all that he had, marry her, and emigrate.”

So far we are traversing the same territory that Mr. Schmitz does with Waugh, but here the revolution in morals that separates the Christian civilization of the 1800’s from the mortally wounded Europe of 1933 begins to tell. Miss Scatcherd’s former lover is no cuckold pushover:

“There was but one condition; she must leave her baby behind her. The hardware-man could find it in his heart to be generous, to be generous and true to his love; but he could not be generous enough to father the seducer’s child.

‘I could never abide it, sir, if I took it,’ said he; ‘and she,–why of course she would always love it the best.’ “

Trollope next adds an editorial comment that shows that despite his formidable imagination even he could not foresee the reduced morals of the 20th century, let alone the utterly inverted moral universe of the 21st century:

“In praising his generosity, who can mingle any censure for such manifest prudence? He would still make her the wife of his bosom, defiled in the eyes of the world as she had been; but she must be to him the mother of his own children, not the mother of another’s child.”

Doctor Thorne raises his bastard niece himself, the hardware man lives happily with Miss Scatcherd as his wife, and both men exhibit Christian charity without condoning immorality or compromising their principles. Waugh’s Sword of Honor also extolls commendable selflessness and mercy, but the ambiguity of the story allows Mr. Schmitz to take the sin and tragedy that Christians must endure in the fallen world and makes positive virtues out of them. Protestant readers, particularly American evangelicals used to exegetical preaching, may be put off by all this reference to non-Biblical literature, so let us compare Mr. Schmitz’s contentions to The Book. Mr. Schmitz could have dispensed with Waugh altogether and gone straight to Hosea, the Old Testament prophet ordained as a cuckold by God Himself.

“When the Lord began to speak through Hosea, the Lord said to him, “Go, marry a promiscuous woman and have children with her…The Lord said to me, “Go, show your love to your wife again, though she is loved by another man and is an adulteress.”

Hosea 1.2 and 3.1

Hosea’s marriage is intended to be a picture of the relationship between God and the children of Israel, who repeatedly betray the Lord and seek after false gods. The ultimate message of the book is one of hope, because God forgives and accepts the people once they repent and abandon their sinful lifestyle. The awkward part, from the forgiving cuckold point of view, is the biblical prescription for the unrepentant wife, which falls decisively in the Dante-Shakespeare-Trollope tradition:

“Let her remove the adulterous look from her face and the unfaithfulness from between her breasts. Otherwise I will strip her naked and make her as bare as on the day she was born; I will make her like a desert, turn her into a parched land, and slay her with thirst. I will not show my love to her children, because they are the children of adultery. Their mother has been unfaithful and has conceived them in disgrace…. Therefore I will block her path with thornbushes; I will wall her in so that she cannot find her way. She will chase after her lovers but not catch them; she will look for them but not find them. Then she will say, ‘I will go back to my husband as at first, for then I was better off than now.’… So now I will expose her lewdness before the eyes of her lovers; no one will take her out of my hands. I will stop all her celebrations: her yearly festivals, her New Moons, her Sabbath days—all her appointed festivals. I will ruin her vines and her fig trees which she said were her pay from her lovers; I will make them a thicket, and wild animals will devour them.”

Hosea 2:2-12

Do you detect the slight change in tone and emphasis when we move from God’s wrath toward an unfaithful wife to Matthew Schmitz’s description of Christian virtue?

“[Christianity] requires us to accept defeat in this life so we might enjoy triumph in the next. A Catholic cannot be certain that his line will continue or his country thrive. He only knows that the gates of hell will not prevail against Christ’s Church.”

There is an unwarranted leap from “cannot be certain” to ” requires us to accept defeat,” that revels in tribulation and is the inverse of the prosperity gospel. The biblical injunction of James is necessary because the world is fallen and sinful, but the world was not made sinful in order to promote faith:

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”

James 1:2

Sin is used by God to bringing about faith and virtue, which is part of the mystery of redemption, but Saint Paul specifically writes against the error of considering the sins themselves to be inherently valuable:

“But where sin increased, grace increased all the more, so that, just as sin reigned in death, so also grace might reign through righteousness to bring eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord. What shall we say, then? Shall we go on sinning so that grace may increase? By no means!”

Romans 5:20-6:2

Christianity offers eternal hope even to cuckolds, but the mission of the Church is not to promote cuckoldry as a pathway to virtue. The Church as a spiritual institution has a body of knowledge unobtainable by any means besides revelation, but as a social institution the Church has a choice in every age to either lead or follow the culture. Leading the culture means preaching the message that the world needs to hear but does not want to hear, while following the culture means preaching whatever message the world wants to hear but does not need. Exhortations to mercy would be appropriate for a bloody age like the 10th century; our permissive and emotive generation needs to be called to uncompromising rigidity in the face of sin and degeneracy. I am afraid that when Matthew Schmitz pressed the legitimate themes of Waugh’s story to absurd extremes, he was mainly concerned with joining the popular chorus of opposition to the Alt Right. The Christian acceptance of absurdity and the relegation of formerly uncontested truths to obscure reactionary and Alt Right circles is partly responsible for the declining social relevance of the religious right. By elevating the perennially unpopular and correctly despised moral failing of cuckoldry to the level of Christian virtue, Mr. Schmitz is, perhaps unwittingly, contributing to the very decline that he purports to oppose.

MY FAVORITE ACCESSORIES

from LIZ FASHION FEED http://ift.tt/2xLx8ER via IFTTT

#IFTTT #LIZ FASHION FEED

0 notes