#you know cause i suffer when i have to read more hamlet than should be legally allowed

[luring-lurkers-and-radio-hosts]

ah, i havent gotten to know the characters too well yet, but maybe sasha or jon?

ah the cruelty of time, i wish you the best of luck

there's quite a few movies! the basic plot is that theres this prince (hamlet) who who learns that his dad has been murdered by hamlets fathers brother, and thus must get revenge for his father's most foul, strange, and unnatural murder. to do this, he puts on a play that echos his fathers death, goes mad, contemplates to be, or not to be that is the question, whether tis nobler in tje mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outragous fortune or take arm against a sea of trouble and by opposing end them, etc etc, kills the father of the girl he said to love, causing himself to be banished and her to go mad, and then she dies, her brother, now short a father and a sister, comes back. then at the girls funeral hamlet comes back as well, says hi to a skull, get in a fight with the brother, they agree to a duel, they duel, and via some well placed poison everyone except hamlet's friend dies. the end. its a lovely play, you should watch it! i do hope i haven't spoiled too much.

i would LOVE to hear your thoughts on r&j

indeed! although the rain is not louder than my fan in my room.

here is a photo of it POURING, although its died down a bit since then

That was so terribly confusing but interesting, so if I can find a Hamlet movie on a streaming service I use, then I'll give it a watch. Maybe even read the book.

Jesus, that best be a pool that's getting all that water because, lord, that is a lot./pos.

Also, I can never sleep with the fan on or even stay in a room with a fan; I run too cold to manage.

Alright, Romeo and Juliet, what a shit show.

I mean, Romeo was three years older than Juliet, which would have been fine, if she was 23 or 20, but noooooo, she had to be 13 instead.

Also, their love wasn't even real. And what I mean by that is that they were both looking for an escape from their lives. Romeo's heart was broken by Rosaline when she said that she was going to become a nun essentially. Juliet was looking for an escape from the asshole (Paris) that she was set to marry because, apparently, her parents believe an early marriage of underdeveloped teenage girls is the best marriage (I get that this was the standard thing before, but still: ew)

Also, they threw their lives away for no reason because if Juliet had given the nurse a note or given Friar Lawrence one a few hours before did the deed, then they would have warned Romeo,: Hey bud, I'm faking my death so we can ride off to the sunset together.

And if Romeo hadn't jumped head first into killing himself for a few more minutes, then again, they could have had a happy ever after.

But I understand that this was written as a tragedy for a reason, and its worst points can be taken into consideration as it is one of the best mind-wracking tragedies I've ever read/watched.

Also, the fact that this is a story of how 2 young people have to depend on each other because the people closest to them would have hanged them if they ever knew that they (R+J) wanted to escape from their circumstances, and how that dependence turned into lust and co-dependence, is beautiful even if I still hate the damn thing.

What do you think of Romeo and Juliet?

(sorry for the rant)

[wherestoriescomefrom]

if you had to introduce yourself through four books, what books would be they be? tagged by @metamatar thank u so much and i am v sorry for taking so long with responding to this <3

i am paralized by choices fr, but i think what rhu said in their post was also true that books you read when you're a teenager stick the longest. unfortunately for me one of the major ones was harry potter from which i have relentlessly disassociated over time so now that feels like no way to introduce myself. anyway

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. look i know it's not even my favourite (yeah, shockingly, my favourite is Mansfield Park) one amongst all of the books she wrote, but this was the first one i read, the first one i thought of when i thought ✨romance✨. i shudder to call it enemies to lovers also because the dynamic is so unique and the subject of every author's envy since miss austen dropped this beat in 1813. also you guys have no idea how much of my personality is inspired by this one, i have simply invented myself through the yearning and love that austen put in me. i wrote my master's thesis on emma.

Uprooted by Naomi Novik. this book saved my life during my master's. i had just gone through three years of undergraduate, and anyone who has studied literature will tell you that studying literature kind of sucks the life out of it. to discover it again takes something, and naomi novik entered my life, looked me in the eye, and said, "you're gonna fuckin love this. enemies to lovers, beauty and the beast, language based magic system, everything you love." and i fuckin fell for it, i was changed dramatically, i read all of the new age fantasy fiction of the fantasy renaissance. as u can see im just a romance gal.

Milk Teeth by Amrita Mahale. i hesitate to put this because i only read it this year, but since it's been living rent free in my mind since, i suppose we will just have say it's one of Those Ones. im not even sure if this one is as well written as it could have been but there were so many moments that made me feel like the author was crawling into my own skin, so, you know. the protagonist of the story was so interesting, the premise was so interesting, the dilemma and the political decision was so well framed,,,,, it is simply living in my mind since then.

The House that BJ Built by Anuja Chauhan. its basic and i know everyone's favourite is Those Pricey Thakur Girls but this one also happened to me and it just ushered in new kinds of reading for me. i know this is an unpopular opinion but loving delhi is such a central part of me that it just feels good to read about someone who falls in love in this city. also the protagonist is my absolute favourite, Bonu has my whole heart. i know she has like problems, i remember @whatdoesthefuturebehold and i had like a chat about it, but i can't help it, it's just my jam,,,,

The Truth by Terry Pratchett. sorry for cheating a little but i love this one so much. it's just got the best of pratchett in it, everything i love. meditations on the social contract, a printing press, fun romps with newspapers and the state of our reading public. plus that standard terry pratchett flair of just. militant decency. i know it makes sense as a standalone, but, holy shit, i'd have loved a sequel. i also struggled so much between putting this or tiffany aching, but i think i covered loving witches in Uprooted so you know, figured i'd throw in my love for print cultures.

shoutout to the Book of Indian Folk Tales of which i cannot remember the author. it's lying in my home in lucknow somewhere, i may post about it later. anyway thats me <3. let me tag @readingthenight @half-past-late @infantisimo and @khlur

[problematicfavesareproblematic]

Forgiveness is Divine

Ron Speirs x Reader One Shot

Requested by the effervescent @hbo-monster-bob​ (my first ever request oh my lordy!)

Summary: you get hurt and Ron loses his cool in front of the wrong people. Now he fears he may have truly lost you. 

Warnings: mention of injury, potty words, a bit more angst than initially intended, some good ole RemorsefulButTryingHisVeryBest!Ron Speirs, some shitty dialogue i probably should’ve spent more time on

~ ~ ~ ~

He��d really fucked up. 

Even as he had ranted at you, he’d known how badly he was fucking things up.

But you...you’d made him worry. You’d scared him.

While helping Malarkey and Bull drag a wounded NCO into a trench, a bullet had ricocheted off of someone’s helmet and buried itself deep into your left bicep. The shock of it had made you drop, unable to catch yourself between your unresponsive arm and your death grip on the NCO’s vest.

Ron had thought you’d died.

He’d been sure that he’d just watched you die in front of him and then he was being fired at and he’d gone numb and gotten himself and his men out of the line of fire.

Hours later, he’d caught sight of you at the med station with one of the medics fishing around in your bicep for the fragments of the bullet that had stained your jacket beyond use with your blood.

You’d initially given him the soft smile you’d always saved for him when he stormed in, the fact that you were alive and safe eclipsed by his rage that you’d made him worry so badly.

His mother had once compared his temper to a tsunami- wild and destructive and overwhelming to those foolish enough to cross its path.

“The only difference between you and your father is that you stick around long enough to see the carnage you’ve created. My only wish for you, my sweetheart, is that you learn to own your mistakes and make them right again…..”

Ron had disappointed both of you with what he’d done next.

He’d let you have it.

He’d shouted and scolded and criticized you for your ‘carelessness’, tearing into you for abandoning your position of relative safety in favor of ‘playing a hero’. 

Ron had called you incompetent and reckless and questioned your sanity. Your smile had slipped from your face and he’d watched as you began to close yourself off to him, eyes becoming cold and detached despite the pain you must be feeling as the medic tweezed the deeply embedded shrapnel from your bicep. 

If you had been alone he knew you would’ve snapped right back at him or (at the very least) told him to calm down and find you when he’d remembered how to behave like a grown-up.

This brought him to his second fuckup, he’d done it in front of people. 

No, it was worse than that.  

He’d questioned your competence in front of three of your superiors (and several NCOs….and six of the medics).

When he’d finally run out of steam, you’d stared at him with a cool indifference that he’d only seen you slip into when you were dealing with something/someone you loathed. 

It was a look he’d never had cast his way before. And now that it was?

Ron felt about two inches tall. He hated it.

After making him suffer your silent and baleful glare for an agonizing two minutes, you’d turned to the (incredibly uncomfortable) medic and let your hateful expression melt into your regular, relaxed one.

“Any instructions for me, Doc?” you’d asked politely, and when the man had given you some gauze to repack the wound later you’d popped down off the table you’d been sitting on and walked past him like he was little more than furniture.

His outburst had gotten you taken off of the frontlines- away from the action and away from him.

When he’d asked Nixon where they’d put you, the other man had scoffed and given him an answer along the lines of “somewhere where her ‘incompetence won’t put others at risk’. Jackass.”

Welsh was significantly more helpful, telling Ron they’d sent you to Battalion for some extended desk duty (after scoffing at him, of course. Ron hadn’t realized just how quickly word had spread about his outburst).

Not that knowing where you were made much of a difference. 

He could be sitting right next to you and you’d still carry on as if you were alone, and when you did look at him it was so detached that all of his words of remorse died in his throat.

It was horrible.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

After reclaiming a hamlet on the airborne’s way to Germany, Ron had realized that you weren’t going to budge or relent in your indifference. 

Your willpower was clearly steadfast- you wouldn’t have made it this far if you weren’t at least a little bullheaded.

He was going to have to come to you. 

He had to try to make things right, even if you hated him for it...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Ron had knocked and not received an answer, he’d decided to come in anyway.

You didn’t look up at him as he closed the door behind him, keeping your eyes firmly trained on the typewriter in front of you as your fingers flew across the keys. 

A neat stack of (what he assumed to be) freshly typed reports for Sink rested beside your still-smoking cigarette on the table, and from the slope of your shoulders Ron could only assume that you’d been at this task for hours.

Clearing his throat, he tried to ease you into conversation.

“Want me to take those to Battalion for you—?”

“No. I don’t.”

Well, at least that was more than you’d said to him in the past week. 

Ron had never imagined he would ever be the sappy type to miss the sound of someone's voice. Of course, that was before he met you. Before he’d started to care for you in the way a man cares for a woman, rather than the care a CO has for his fellow officers.

Not that he’d told you that. Not yet.

And now he may never get to- considering you’d refused to speak to him for the last three weeks about anything other than urgent work matters…..

You brought your cigarette to your lips and pulled from it deeply as you read over all that you had typed so far, the angry tick of your clenched jaw the only sign that you knew he was still there.

Even as you despised him, Ron still found you beautiful. A vengeful divinity with a glare that could cut glass and a stubbornness that rivaled his own.

He walked over to stand behind you, reading over your shoulder and realizing that it wasn’t reports that you had been working on….but death notices

You’d once told him it was your least favorite thing to do, that you’d gladly take latrine duty for the rest of your life if it meant you never had to write another.

“Soul sucking,” you’d called it, a night when the two of you shared a cigarette while on patrol. Your nose had been red from the cold and your eyes a little glassy from unshed tears, but you’d given him a sad smile when you’d noticed the grim look he was giving you. “I can’t remember the last time I wrote something that didn’t begin with ‘We deeply regret to inform you…’

Ron used to know how you felt about everything, and if he were being honest with himself he liked knowing how you felt about things- good or bad. For all the men you were the consummate professional, bright and even-tempered and nurturing.

But with Ron, you let yourself be a person. 

A brilliant, passionate, driven person whose complicated thoughts and feelings complimented his own so well he’d briefly considered changing his stance on the concept of soul-mates.

With a grim weight in his chest, he realized that all of those feelings toward you may have to be changed to the past tense.

Stubbing out the cigarette with ink-stained fingers, you pulled the letter from the typewriter and added it to the pile. He watched as you picked up a pen and began crossing names off a list he hadn’t seen before. You’d gotten through three of the five pages and it was already two in the morning.

Guilt flooded him when he realized that you’d been having to do this for at least month. 

If he hadn’t understood your anger towards him before, he certainly did now.

“Y/N…” he began, not surprised when you sniffed and made to get more paper for your next batch of death letters as if he hadn’t spoken. “It’s late, you should rest.”

Silence as you secured another sheet of paper in place and centered it.

Ron waited a few more seconds before he took another step closer to you, hand hovering over your shoulder hesitantly.

I owe my mother a few apologies if this is how she was ever made to feel with my father.

When he placed his hand on your shoulder you immediately stiffened, fingers freezing where they rested over the keys like you’d turned to stone.

He’d expected as much, yet it still stung.

Ron says your name again, more softly than he thinks he’s ever spoken to another person in his life.

“You need to rest—”

“Are you issuing an order, Lieutenant?” Your voice was sulfa powder on an open wound- searing and sharp. 

Your head has turned minutely in the direction of his hand on your shoulder, and if a glare could cause burns he’s sure his hand would’ve been ash by now.

He shakes his head. “No, no I’m not.”

You seem to nod in acknowledgment, only stopping when his thumb kneads into one of the tight knots along your trapezius. Ron sees your jaw tighten again, but he doesn’t take his hand away.

Surprisingly, you’re allowing it to linger where it is as well.

“Good, Sink’s commands outrank yours anyway. Besides, it’s not as if I have to be anywhere in the morning. You made sure of that—”

You cut yourself off when Ron steps up beside you and crouches down, eyes trained forward so all he can see if your profile. 

“Please,” he whispers, moving his hand from your shoulder in favor of taking one of yours in between his calloused palms.

With an awful surge of hope, he decides to put it all out there, knowing just how easily you could reject him and leave him alone again.

Maybe I don't want to be alone, not like I used to.

“I thought you were dead, Y/n.”

You sigh ruefully at that, closing your eyes with a grimace.

“Hey, look at me—”

For the longest time you don’t, but just when he thinks you’ve shut him out again you let your eyes open and allow your doubtful glaze to fall on him.

You may as well have embraced him, considering the overwhelming relief he felt as he looked into your eyes.

“It, it was….I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did—”

“You didn’t speak to me at all.” You nearly hiss, the deep breath you took the only display of just how furious you were beneath the surface of civility. Ron’s chest tightened uncomfortably when he caught your lip quiver, yet when he made as if to comfort you, you gave him a look that shut him right up.

You weren’t finished yet.

“You were out of line, Speirs. You had no right to speak to me like that—”

“I know...”

“You fucking humiliated me! In front of Winters, Moose, and Sink- not to mention every single goddamned man in that tent—”

‘I know—”

“What in the fuck were you thinking? Do you have any idea how hard it’s been getting them to see me as anything other than something to fuck or mock? Years, Ronald! All gone like that—!”

You cut yourself off again when you start to cry, biting the inside of your cheek in an attempt to regain composure.

You were right, he hadn’t been thinking about that at all. 

He’d never thought much about the immature comments he’d overheard from the NCOs and replacements, never considered that any of those childish innuendos had ever been said to you directly.

“I didn’t intend to…..when you got shot I wasn't able to do anything—”

You furrowed your brows at him and made a face. “I didn’t need you to do anything. I’m not even in your company.”

He feels as if he’s about to lose you again. The idea makes his throat feel uncomfortably tight and his blood is beginning to run cold.

Make it right. I have to make this right….

“I know you don’t need me to take care of you,” he says quietly, looking down at your hand in his and bringing it to his lips so he’s speaking against the curve of your knuckles. “But I think I need to do it for me.”

When he looks back at you he sees that your eyes are wide, one or two of your tears have spilled over and down your cheek.

“Jesus, I’m….Ron—” you begin, but stop when he shakes his head minutely.

“You know.” He interrupts. “I know you’ve got to know by now….”

Of course you know. You’re one of the smartest people he’s ever met. If anyone could read his true intentions through his blunt demeanor, it would be you.

But he’s glad that you don’t ask him to elaborate further. You seem just as content as he does to leave it unnamed.

You roll your lips together a few more times before taking a shaky breath. 

“That doesn’t mean you get to treat me like that.”

He hums in acknowledgment. “You’re right. It doesn’t. Forgive me.”

You open your mouth to reply, but a yawn catches you unaware and Ron can’t help but smile slightly at the simplicity of the action. 

When you raise your left arm to hide your yawn into your elbow you hiss in pain, and instantly Ron is anxious again.

“You okay?” He asks, and you nod despite your grimace.

“Yeah, yeah. I just forget sometimes.”

When you lower your arm he watches as you take a deep breath and turn back to your work.

“I’ll do them.”

You whip your head to look at him, another yawn interrupting your questioning gaze.

“What? No, don't be silly. I’m almost done….”

Something in the look he gives you shuts you up, and when he gives your hand a squeeze you seem to sigh in defeat.

“You’re not going to leave me alone until I go to bed, are you?”

He gives you a smirk. “Good guess.”

Standing up from his crouch he gently coaxed you into a standing position, nodding his head away from the desk and towards the darker corner of the room where your makeshift bed is set up. 

You give him a tight smile. “Gotta rebandage the arm first….oh-kay then.”

The rolled gauze is barely out of your pocket before Ron takes it from your hand, pointedly looking down at your covered arm.

“Ron...you really don’t have to—”

“I know that, but I want to anyway.”

And because you’re infinitely more forgiving than any mortal being could ever hope to be- more forgiving than a beast like him deserved, you let him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  

Sitting beside you on the floor, Ron was careful when unwrapping your old bandage, trying as hard as he could to keep his touch light.

The injury was red and bruised and angry but it was healing- just as the medic had promised. You’d have a scar, but you didn’t seem to mind that possibility.

You said his name quietly, and he realized he’d been staring.

When his thumbs ghost around the curve of your bicep you shiver, and when Ron looks back at your face he sees a light blush dusting your cheeks.

“I’m fine,” you say, exhaustion apparent in your voice now. “Stop looking at me like that—”

“Like what?” he says with a small smile, setting the clean bandage over your wound and feeling a pleasant tightness in his chest when you snorted a laugh.

“Like... like you’re a disappointed babysitter.”

Ron laughed at that, shooting you a look before starting to wrap the strips of gauze around your upper arm.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence as he tended to your arm, and every so often you offered him your cigarette to take a drag from.

Things still felt somewhat precarious between the two of you, yet Ron also felt that something more significant had been established in the dingy office you’d been assigned to stay in.

In the morning, Ron would approach Sink and Winters and see if he could get you back from battalion HQ. Not as a man who cared for you, but as a soldier who’d made a mistake and grievously misjudged another soldier’s character.

Anything to ensure you didn’t have to sit in this room another day and write to the families of dead soldiers.

When he’d finished bandaging your arm, you gave him permission to help you maneuver it back into the sleeve of your sweater. He felt your eyes on him the whole time and he swore he’d never known a feeling so sweet.

Your eyes are heavy with slumber already, but you still try once more to discourage him from finishing your paperwork.

“I can do it in an hour or two, just a quick nap—”

“If you were this reluctant to sleep as a child, I’m starting to get why so many of your babysitters were ‘disappointed.’”

Ron lifts up the pile of blankets you’d reluctantly allowed him to find for you, and despite your protests, you scoot yourself underneath them and fold your arms across your chest like a petulant teenager as he tucks them around you.

“Children tend to mirror the behavior of those in positions of authority,” you say offhanded, almost sounding like you were directly quoting from some textbook on child psychology. “Maybe one should look within themselves and explore what unfavorable quality they may be projecting upon the blank canvas of youth….”

You laugh at the furrowed confusion on his face.

“You must be a poetic drunk.” Ron offers, and from the grin on your face he knows he’s on to something. “Go to sleep, before you start reciting Shakespeare or something—”

“Twelfth Night or Romeo and Juliet?”

“Y/N.”

Ron’s fingertips brushing across your cheek instantly quiets you, your eyes trained on his face as he allowed himself to openly admire you for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, and you nod.

“I know you are.” 

When he sees the obvious haze of sleep start to curl around your gaze, Ron knows he needs to let you rest.

“Wake me up in an hour?” you ask, something in your tone of voice seeming to acknowledge the slim chance of him agreeing to your request.

“Maybe. Sleep.”

With a half-hearted glare, you mumble something equivalent to ‘yeah yeah, okay’ and turn your head away from him and close your eyes.

Ron stays where he is, stroking at your hairline in the same calming way his mother used to do for him when he’d had a bad dream as a child.

If his mom were here now, he imagined she’d be proud of him.

Maybe he wasn’t fated to be distant and cold and cruel like his father.

For the first time in his life, Ron let himself begin to dream of life after all of this.

The only thing he knew for sure?

He’d do anything- everything in his power, to make sure you were a part of it.

~ ~ ~ ~ TAG LIST TAG LIST!

@mrseasycompany​, @itswormtrain​

(Love you guys! hasta la pasta, my dudes!)

[celiabowens]

Book recommendations, Literary Fiction edition(?)

A companion to this post (which should be updated, at some point lol)

Short Story Collections: 

Salt Slow by Julia Armfield: grotesque and disquieting collection about women and their experience in society, how they view and perceive their own body and desires. Pretty strong mythic, magical realism, body horror elements in here.

The Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales by Oliver Sacks: fascinating collection in which Sacks reminishes some particularly odd stories of patients who had to cope with bizarre neurological disorders.

Home Remedies by Xuan Juliana Wang: a collection focused on the Chinese millennial experience. Stories about love and loss, family, immigration and the uncertainty of the future. (also there’s an extremely beautiful short story about a pair of Chinese divers that broke me forever!!!)

Bestiary: The Selected Stories by Julio Cortázar: unforgettable selection of short stories that mix surreal elements to everyday life and apparently ordinary events. Would also recommend All Fires the Fire by the same author.

Novels:

How Much of These Hills is Gold by C. Pam Zhang: one of the biggest debuts of 2020, it follows two recently orphaned children through the gold rush era. An adventurous historical fiction piece that focuses on themes like gender, identity and immigration, this is one of my favorites 2020 reads so yeah, I’d really push it in anyone’s hands to be honest.

Burial Rites by Hannah Kent: historical fiction inspired by the last days of a young woman accused of murder in Iceland in the 1820s. A quite bleak, but beautiful novel (the prose is stunning).

The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave: historical fiction novel set in Norway in the 17th century, following the lives of a group of women in a village that recently (barely) survived a storm that killed all of the island’s men. 

The Nickel Boys by Colson Whitehead: the 2020 winner of the Pulitzer Prize. The book follows the lives of two boys sentenced to a reform school in Jim Crow-era Florida. A bleak, but important book, with a shocking final twist (side note, I’ve been recommended The Underground Railroad by Whitehead as well, but I haven’t gotten to it yet. If you’re looking for something quite peculiar, if a bit less refined when compared to The Nickel Boys, The Intuitionist is a quite odd pulpy noir set in an alternate NY about...elevator inspectors *and racism*). 

The Leavers by Lisa Ko: haunting book about identity and immigration as the main character is apparently abandoned by his own mother (an undocumented Chinese immigrant) during his childhood. Mainly a story about living in between places and constantly feeling out of place. 

The Memory Police by Yoko Ogawa: when everyone would probably recommend Murakami (not much against Murakami besides his descriptions of women and their boobs), I suggest checking out some of Ogawa’s books. The recently translated The Memory Police, published in Japan in the mid 90s, is an orwellian dystopian novel set on an unnamed Island where memories slowly disappear. Would also really recommend The Housekeeper and The Professor, a really short novel about a housekeeper hired to clean and cook for a math professor who suffered an injury that causes him to remember new things for only 80 minutes. 

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong: Ocean Vuong’s debut novel, following a son writing a letter to his illiterate mother. The book seems quite polarising due to Vuong’s writing style (his poetry background is really quite clear and the book doesn’t really follow a regular narrative, rather than portrays events and memories in brief flashes), but I loved it and I’d really just recommend going into it without knowing much? It’s a beautiful exploration of language, family history, trauma, sexuality and more.

Exist West by Mohsin Hamid: this book was fairly popular when it came out (in 2017 I believe) and was often incorrectly marketed as magical realism. Hamid’s book is a brief and quietly brutal journey with a few fantastical elements, following a couple trying to escape their city in the middle of war, as they hear about peculiar doors that can whisk people far away. The doors are, of course, a quite effective metaphor for the immigrant experience and the book does a great job at portraying the main characters’ relationship. 

Family Trust by Kathy Wang: this has a really low rating on goodreads which...wow i hate that. Family Trust is a literary family saga/drama about a Chinese-American family residing in the Silicon Valley. It’s often been compared to Crazy Rich Asians, but I believe it to be more on the literary side and definitely less lighthearted. 

Pachinko by Min Jin Lee: historical family saga (one of my favorites tbh, I’m absolutely biased, but this book deserved more hype) set in Korea and Japan throughout the 20th century, following four generations of a Korean family. While I wasn’t the biggest fan of the prose, the book has really great characterisation and absolutely fascinating characters. (I’d suggest checking out eventual TW first, in this case). 

The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker: another recent read, The Silence of the Girls, while not faultless, is a pretty good retelling of The Iliad, narrated through Briseis’ perspective. The prose can feel a bit too modern at times, but it provides the reader with some really strong quotes and descriptions. 

Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng: and also Little Fires Everywhere by the same author, to be honest. If you’re looking for really really good family dramas, with great explorations of rather complex and nuanced relationships? You should just check out her stuff. Vibrant characters, good writing, and some superb portrayal of longing here. 

Nutshell by Ian McEwan: i’m starting with this one only to grab your attention (if you’ve even reached this part lol, congrats), but McEwan’s one of my favorite authors and I’d recommend almost everything I’ve read by him? Nutshell, specifically, is a really odd and fun retelling of Hamlet...told from the pov of an unborn baby. But really, I’d also recommend Atonement (of course), The Children Act, Amsterdam? All good stuff. 

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles: I’ve read this book this summer and, while I’m still unsatisfied with the ending, I’d thoroughly recommend this? The novel follows Count Alexander Rostov, who, in 1922, is sentenced to a lifetime of house arrest in the Metropol, a luxurious hotel in the center of Moscow. A singular novel, funny and heartbreaking at once, following a vibrant cast of characters as they come and go from Rostov’s secluded life. 

Human Acts by Han Kang: from the bestselling author of The Vegetarian (which honestly, I thoroughly despised lol), Human Acts focuses on the South Korean Gwangju uprising. It’s a really odd (and at times grotesque) experimental novel (one chapter is narrated from the pov of one of the bodies if I remember correctly), so one really has to be in the mood for it, but it’s a really unique experience, worth a chance.

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon: sort of a really chunky historical adventure novel following two artists in 1940s/1950s NY, who create a superhero and use him to wage a one man war on the Nazis. A bit slow in places (the pace can be uneven at times and the book is quite long), but an enjoyable novel that does a pretty good job when it comes to exploring rather classic themes of American contemporary fiction: the American dream and the figure of the artist (I think there’s a particularly interesting focus on how the artists navigates the corporate world and its rules) and their creative process.

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel: this is a pretty classic rec, the book really got a lot of hype when it came out? It’s a dystopian-ish novel set after civilisation’s collapse, following a post-apocalyptic troupe (of Shakespearean actors). It’s a really odd, but surprisingly quiet book. Not sure if a pandemic is exactly the right time to read it, but I thoroughly recommend it. 

The Garden of Evening Mists by Tan Twan Eng: I feel like this book is extremely complex to summarise to be honest. In short, it’s a book set in Malaya at the end of the 1940s, following a woman who, after surviving Japanese wartime camps, spends her life prosecuting war criminals. But truthfully this book is about conflicts and contradictions and in particular about remembering and forgetting. Lovely prose. 

The Secret History by Donna Tartt: and also The Goldfinch. I’m sure no one really needs me to introduce Donna Tartt?

The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton: quite cerebral mystery set in New Zealand in 1866. Honestly you have to be a patient reader who enjoys novels with a pretty complex structure to like this, but if you’re into this sort of challenging read...go for it? It’s a book of interlocking stories (with 10+ pov and main characters) with a really fascinating structure based on astrological charts, which provide insight to the main characters’ traits and personality as the mystery unfolds.

The Hours by Michael Cunningham: ok...do not watch the movie first. The Hours is an incredibly difficult novel to describe to be honest: it begins by recalling the last moments of Virginia Woolf’s life, as she’s writing Mrs. Dalloway. The book focuses on three separate narratives, each one following a specific character throughout a single day of their own life. Goes without saying that I’d suggest being familiar with Mrs. Dalloway itself first though.

An Artists of the Floating World by Kazuo Ishiguro: not one of Ishiguro’s most famous works (most start reading his work with Never Let Me Go or The Remains of the Day), but probably my favorite out of those I’ve read so far. The novel follows  Masuji Ono, an artist who put his work in service of imperialist propaganda throughout WWII. Basically a reflection and an account of the artist’s life as he deals with the culpability of his previous actions. 

Stoner by John Williams: I feel like this is an odd book to recommend, because I don’t think someone can truly get the hype unless they read it themselves. Stoner is a pretty straight-forward book, following the ordinary life of an even more ordinary man. And yet it’s so compelling and never dull in its exploration of the characters’ lives and personalities. Also, I’ve just finished Augustus by the same author, which is an epistolary historical fiction novel narrating some of the main events of Augustus’ reign through letters from/by his closest friends and enemies. Really liked it. 

Do Not Say We Have Nothing by Madeleine Thien: back to integenerational family sagas (because I love those, in case it wasn’t clear lol), Do Not Say We Have Nothing follows a young woman who suddenly rediscovers her family’s fractured past. The novel focuses on two successive generations of a Chinese family through China’s 20th century history. While not every character got the type of development they deserved, the author does a good job when it comes to gradually recreating the family’s complex and nuanced history. 

There’s probably more but I doubt anyone’s going to reach the end or anything so. There’s that lol.

[chadsinclair]

How millennial Disney star and.

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The regular oval of his rather swarthy face, his superb teeth, his small, rather thin, beautifully chiselled lips, his rather long straight nose, his high forehead, on which no wrinkle could be discerned, his rather large grey eyes, made him handsome, and yet his face did not make a pleasant impression. “I earned my spurs in Dorne. I did not do none of that, Oakley said. Clarke: (sighs) I'm never going to understand you and I don't want to anymore. I noticed that she was making great effort to suppress her emotion, as though too proud to let me see it. Perhaps he should have asked the washerwoman. His braid was black and shiny, his skin as dark as burnished copper, his eyes the shape of bitter almonds. I didn't even think he drank. If you're suffering from osteoarthritis in your hands, it certainly has nothing to do with this nervous tic. I proved it to him, even from his own point of view. After it had been parked on the driveway for hours. 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[yenslilac]

Daenerys Targaryen and Ophelia: An Essay

I wrote this a while back, just after Season 8 ended. After a few edits, I decided to share it with you! Disclaimer: I wrote this fueled with rage at 11 at night for two weeks straight. Don’t judge. 

Part 1: The Heroine Goes Absolutely Bats**t Crazy

Ophelia. Known throughout time as That Crazy Chick Who Drowned Herself. What a legacy. And Daenerys: She Who Toasted A City Like Marshmallows And Then Was Offed By Her Nephew/Lover. The sad thing is, these are my heroes. What a life. But the ‘Insane Heroine’ trope is prevalent in many forms of media – Dark Phoenix is another example. At first glance, Daenerys and Ophelia have very little in common; Daenerys is a powerful and assertive leader, and Ophelia is a background love interest. The one thing that unites them – they go crazy because of rejected love. While their descent into madness is slightly different; Ophelia is pitiful, Daenerys aggressive, both end up dying indirectly or directly as a result of their lover. Lovely. Let’s talk first about Ophelia – She is rebuffed Hamlet, the original pathetic sad boy, and at the death of her father, goes insane. After several performances of her insanity, she makes her way to a river where she falls (or throws?) herself into the water and drowns. This is witnessed by Gertrude, who then goes on to tell her brother Laertes of her death. It’s a pretty monologue, describing the flowers and plants growing along the riverbank, and how pretty and peaceful she looked as she sank under water and DIED. Remember this. Then my girl Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men etc. etc. Oh boy. Ohhhhhh boy. What can I say except **************** ***** ** **********. Thank you for your time. But she like Ophelia, was scorned by her Boyfriend Who Felt It Was Just A Little Weird That She Was His Aunt. But like, your paternal grandparents and the rest of your great-whatever grandparents were siblings, and your maternal grandparents were cousins so… But I digress. Wait no, this is what it’s all about. I’m back! I un-digress! So, she goes ‘insane’ cause she can’t get laid (don’t we all?) and roasts a whole lot of people and becomes… Hitler for some reason… So, Boyfriend Who Felt It Was Just A Little Weird That She Was His Aunt And Really Wishes He Can Just Catch A Break For Once Is It Really Too Much Too Ask is egged on by Murder Sister™ and Smarty Pants McGee to kill her. Just like my friends! He makes out with her and stabs her (best of both worlds!) and she dies. Very prettily. Remember this. You know. YOU KNOW I’m going to rant about this.

Part 2: Heroic Man Kills The Crazy Lady Like The Feral Dog She Is (But Feels Sad About It) 

Trope as old as time… why is this still fine… surely there’s a better plot deviiiiiice. “Duty is the death of love…” Shut up. Shut up. No, it isn’t. There is a thing called multitasking. You should try it. But let’s recap. Woman goes crazy because of lover/hero of the story rebuffing her because he’s got issues of his own that he doesn’t care to share with her, and close friend/family member is killed. This is when the paths of the Hero diverge. Hamlet does not actually kill Ophelia himself, but his careless actions towards her eventually drive her to suicide. Jon, on the other hand, does kill Daenerys, (no, I’m not mad. I’m just disappointed) by a knife to the heart while snogging her. (I’d like to take the opportunity to say that this was ridiculous and yes, I will die mad about it.) What else is similar? Hamlet holds Ophelia’s (or in some adaptations tries to) dead body in his arms as she is about to be buried and Jon holds Daenerys as she dies. They cry and wish it didn’t have to be this way, but really guys, this is Your Fault.

The problem with this trope in particular (and I’m talking about a lot of other examples here, like Dark Phoenix and Wolverine) is that it renders the killer sympathetic. They didn’t want to do this, but it was for the good of humanity, it was a mercy, blah blah blah. Really? Did someone make you kill her? No, a sense of moral justice does not count. Hamlet abuses and humiliates Ophelia then claims he loved her so much that ‘forty thousand brothers could not…” Creepy. I have to say, creepy. And Jon Snow. “Was it right? It doesn’t feel right…” I’m glad you came to that conclusion. I really am. But I knew this from the moment you stuffed that butter knife into her spleen, so honestly you don’t have any business feeling sorry for yourself. If there’s one lesson that Game of Thrones and Shakespeare has taught me, it is:

(not an artist, don’t judge)

Part 3: Someone Died And The Director Said, “Cool But Like… Make It Fashion.”

Do you remember what I told you to remember? Did you? Cause I’m about to RANT.

Throughout time (like 500 years) men have been painting Ophelia’s drowning – the probable suicide of a tormented young woman – and made sure she looked hot while doing it. True, the description of her death is pretty and all, but depictions of her floating just below the surface, a dramatic and lovely pose and flowers strewn around her glamorise her death – something many other people have taken note on – and give her death something of a peaceful, serene departing note, rather than the death of a woman so deranged she did not appear to understand the gravity of her situation as she sank under water. Daenerys suffers a similar case of SDPS (Sexy Dead Person Syndrome). Let’s go through it step by step, shall we? While in an embrace with someone she loves and trusts, she is stabbed in the heart area (I guess?), and she dies. The End. My respect for white men flew off with Drogon. But I haven’t complained properly yet! Compared to other characters, like Myrcella, Joffrey and Catelyn Stark to name a few, her death was very clean. In these other examples, blood runs down their faces or spurts out of their neck in suitably graphic fashion but Daenerys’ case, two thin lines of blood trickle from her nose and mouth. Pretty, pretty. We get a brief shot of a pool of blood on the snow as Drogon picks her up, but blink and you’ll miss it. She looks shocked and confused as she dies, yet the next shot of her face shows her eyes are closed and an almost peaceful expression on her face. Not only this but we don’t actually get any proper Last Words, when she knows she is about to die. She makes no sound at all. She dies prettily and quietly. We also don’t see the knife at all until she is dead, removing any very graphic nature from the scene. A lot of the camera shots are of Jon’s face. This scene is not about Daenerys Targaryen’s death; This is about Jon Snow’s inner turmoil as he selflessly sacrifices the woman he loves to save the rest of the world. Hold up one second I gotta……

I mean, come on. Daenerys is barely mentioned after her death. She, a woman who freed hundreds, no, thousands of slaves and worked hard to reach her goals (albeit a little dragonfire-y) yet she dies without a whisper and is forgotten almost immediately. She becomes less of a central character and more of a catalyst for other men’s rise to power (see Bran the Broken). Wait, what about Sansa, you cry? Well, at this point, she was so out of character I’m striking her from the narrative. Bye bitch 😊 The same goes for most of the other women in the last season. They become plot devices with a little agency and that’s about it. Missandei? Unnecessarily killed to create the “Mad Queen”. Cersei? A compelling villain reduced to a ‘crying girl who wants to be comforted’. Arya? Kills the Night King and then, I dunno. Sansa? Suspicious of Daenerys because of reasons, betrays her brother/cousin because she doesn’t want Daenerys on the throne, then just ‘forgets’ about this whole thing to become Queen in the North. Brienne? Honourable knight left sobbing after her one (k)night stand left her. Another thing that many of these women have in common (the ones who survived to the final episode anyway) is that none of them have romantic endgames despite this being set up. Arya and Gendry have been close friends in Season 2 and 3, then <3  and everyone (i.e. me) thought that you know, they get together and stuff, because that’s what the writers seemed to be setting up. But nope. Arya’s all like ‘I wanna kill the queen’ (which she never does) and throws all that out the window. (But Gendry was totally on that ship at the end). Brienne and Jaime seemed to finally stop eye fricking and then got straight to the actual fricking but nooooo. “I lOvE CeRseI! WE’re bOTh tERrIble PeOple!” And of course, the crowning glory:

And the woman who actually does come out on top is Sansa, a largely unemotional, suspicious woman whose brother is now the king and made her a queen because she’s his sister. Riiiight. That’s totally not nepotism or anything. 

The End: But Boy, Am I Just Beginning

To conclude, the ending of Daenerys Targaryen was largely misogynistic as it painted a brutal and dishonourable murder as an act of mercy and gave the killer (sorry man, I feel like I’m throwing you under the bus here, but it must be said) a sympathetic angle as a heartbroken martyr sacrificing for the greater good. I had high expectations, I really did, but you just took it anD THREW IT IN THE DIRT. Good god. But it’s fine, I have fanfiction anyway.

Thank you for reading this, if you stuck around this far!

[nadziejastar]

Have you read isa/saïx’s character file? How do you feel about how he was portrayed and where his character will evolve to from this point?

One corner of Xigbar’s mouth twitched up in a sneer. “Me? I’m already half Xehanort.”

“That’s…nuts…!”

Xigbar’s golden eye regarded Sora.

It doesn’t make sense. What does he think he can do by throwing away his own heart and becoming Xehanort? I don’t get it. And what is Xehanort after? Why’s he putting his heart in other people?

Yes, I did read his Character File. Personally, I really don’t like the way Saïx was handled. Not at all. It didn’t seem like he evolved naturally as a character. It seemed more like the writers were very lazy and just wanted to have him redeemed quickly without putting any real effort in. And I also don’t have much faith in his characterization going forward due to the lack of respect his character received in KH3. And here’s why.

“Talking to Roxas and Xion always brings back memories of my human life, back when I was a kid. It’s a weird sensation. I ought to be able to share all this with Saïx, but I just don’t feel like it anymore. It’s strange, but I’m content with just missing what’s gone. I’m not the one who changed. You did.”

“What were you really after, Lea? We joined the Organization at the same time, and formulated our plan. At this point, it’s just an idle fantasy. Everything changed. You, and me.”

I always saw Saïx like this: He was a Nort. An alter ego of Xehanort, no different than Xemnas or Ansem Seeker of Darkness. Saïx absolutely did NOT seem like the same Isa that we saw in BBS. 

“Our efforts have come to bear fruit, nearly ripe for the plucking.”

“Not only have you the power to inflict pain, you also have the power to plant seeds of doubt in one’s receptive heart.”

“It seems we have found a loose thread at which we can tug to unravel Ventus’s heart. The first step is to get Terra alone; then we need to plant the seeds of doubt in Ventus.”

His Machiavellian personality and even his speech patterns were far more similar to Xehanort than Isa. The writers were hinting all along that Saïx was actually Xehanort, not Isa. Look how many times Axel said Saïx had changed. I never got the impression that Isa’s change was natural, either. He changed because he literally became another person—Xehanort. Unlike Braig, there were no hints that Isa ever consented to becoming Norted. 

“Xemnas and Xehanort formed the Organization for a specific reason—round up a bunch of empty husks, hook them up to Kingdom Hearts, then fill them all with the exact same heart and mind,” Xigbar explained behind him.

Sora turned around. Empty husks? Is he saying they’re going to break them with sorrow and put another heart into them…? Or did they already do it?

“Translation—they were gonna turn all the members into Xehanort.”

“Make more Xehanorts?” You’re hollowing out people’s hearts to put Xehanort’s inside them?!

I think Isa was originally meant to be a test subject in the experiments. His mind had to be “broken” with sorrow first. His sense of self had to die. The experiments were to control the mind and convince it to renounce its sense of self. Before becoming a vessel, Isa had to be hollowed out. Then, his heart was swallowed by Xehanort’s. By the time he was a Nobody, Saïx’s mind and personality were Xehanort’s. For the most part, it seemed like Isa’s heart was totally dormant inside of Saïx. Asleep, like Venus’s heart was inside of Sora.

“Indeed. A heart is never lost for good. There may have been variances in our dispositions, but a number of us unquestionably showed signs of a burgeoning replacement.” 

A burgeoning replacement… 

“Once born, the heart can also be nurtured. Our experiments creating Heartless were attempts to control the mind and convince it to renounce its sense of self. But understand, one can banish the heart from the body, but the body will try to replace it the first chance it gets, for as many times as it takes. And so I knew, even after we were divided into Heartless and Nobodies, it was just a temporary separation.”

There was a gaping void within Saïx, which caused him immense suffering. He remembered his bond with Lea, but he was literally incapable of feeling it. He couldn’t experience friendship or a connection as a Nobody. He wasn’t like Axel or Xemnas or Xigbar. Since Isa’s heart was captured by Xehanort, Saïx had access to Isa’s memories and could still feel some emotions from Isa’s dormant heart, when something very powerful triggered it, such as Axel leaving the organization. But at the end of the day, Saïx was still Xehanort. He still had Xehanort’s soul/mind, even though he didn’t realize it.

“Things are finally right again,” Saïx went on. “Of course, we’re better off this way.”

Axel had no retort for that. Maybe because he didn’t want to alienate Saïx anymore.

“Xemnas is exasperated from all the ‘fixing’ we’ve had to do. We have to set things right. There is too much on the line…Lea.”

Hearing his old name, Axel glanced up to see Saïx watching him intently. He remembered being human. Memories surged inside him, crowding the space in his chest. For Nobodies, memory had all the weight of a heart.

So, Saïx had Isa’s body, Xehanort’s mind, Isa’s memories, and no heart. That’s how we got the complicated character that he was. He was a fascinating character. But he was a Xehanort; cold and calculating. He manipulated Axel to kill Xion by calling him “Lea”, which was honestly a really depraved thing to do. He preyed on Axel’s memories of their past. Saïx did not like how much power Axel had over him, and tried to brutally kill him. At the same time, Saïx had strong romantic feelings for Axel. But—and this is important—those feelings weren’t really Saïx’s feelings. They truly belonged to Isa. Saïx was experiencing them the same way Sora experienced Roxas/Ventus’s feelings. The relationship was like a parasite siphoning off of its host.

Three elements combine to create a life: a heart, a soul, and a body. But what of the soul and body left behind when the heart is lost? When the soul leaves the body, its vessel, life gives way to death, but what about when the heart leaves? A being does not perish when its heart leaves its body. The heart alone disappears into the darkness.

― Secret Ansem Report 4

Three elements combine to make a life. Xehanort creates vessels by literally replacing their mind/soul/personality and heart with his. By the time we are introduced to Saïx in KH2/Days, two of those elements have already been replaced. Only the body is still Isa’s. The body is the least important part of your identity. So, how could Saïx still even be considered Isa at that point? KH is all about hearts. In metaphysical terms, the heart is simply the relationships you form which give you meaning, purpose, and love.

“Do you know what happens to those who lose their true purpose? Inevitably, they destroy themselves.”

So, how can KH3 downplay the effect being Norted had on Isa? THE biggest things about Saïx were his lack of purpose and his inability to love.

Yes, I thought you didn’t need me anymore. If you didn’t need me, then I no longer held meaning.

He even said in his Character File that if Lea didn’t need him anymore, his life had no meaning. Saïx longed to have the purpose, meaning, and love that a heart provided. He remembered how much meaning Isa’s life had, because of his love for Lea. But he didn’t have access to that, no matter how much he wanted it.

“Just stop it! You treat people’s hearts like they’re bottles on a shelf, but they’re not!”

Hearts aren’t “foolish,” and other people aren’t tools for you to use.

Sora faced Xemnas and summoned his Keyblade, ready to fight. “Hearts are made of the people we meet and how we feel about them—they’re what ties us together even when we’re apart! They’re what…make me strong.”

If Isa’s heart was swallowed by Xehanort’s, then none of Saïx’s relationships should have any bearing on Isa once he was saved. Isa shouldn’t have to atone for anything Saïx did to Roxas or Xion or Axel, because they had different minds and hearts. Those relationships were totally distinct. Saïx did not even really have a heart. He just had a blank void since Isa’s heart was dormant/asleep.

This whole concept is what made the Axel/Saïx relationship so interesting to me. Axel never knew that his best friend’s heart was replaced, like a bottle on a shelf. Hearts are NOT interchangeable. In KH, the heart is what makes you who you are. It is your core identity. So, Saïx had Isa’s body, but not his heart. Without Isa’s heart, the very essence of their special relationship was gone. Axel never knew why Saïx didn’t feel like Isa any longer. Something was just…missing. If Saïx didn’t have Isa’s heart, that is a HUGE deal. Not something to be glossed over, like it was in KH3. In KH3, Saïx being Norted meant absolutely nothing. It might as well not even have been a plot point.

Xigbar: If people see with their hearts, Saïx, then you’re even blinder than the rest of us.

Seeing how Axel handled the relationship with his Norted best friend was soooo intriguing to me. It was SUCH a cool idea, that unfortunately went nowhere. Axel did not feel a connection with Saïx. Instead, he relied on his memories. When Axel mentions the red sunset on Day 255, it’s called “The Longest Day”. The summer solstice is the longest day of the year, and is also known as “midsummer”. I believe that the red sunset thing was a precious memory Axel had of Isa telling him that. The scene was inspired by Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”. And I believe the localization team knew that. Versus XIII was inspired by Hamlet, so Nomura obviously likes Shakespeare.

Love… Huh. “It is powerful, but it’s not a power we get to have.” Axel had very little confidence in his ability to explain it. But whenever Roxas or Xion had questions about the mysteries of the human heart, he did his best to answer. 

“Nobodies can’t love?” Roxas asked. 

“Nope. You need a heart for that.”

 “Oh… Right.” Roxas fell quiet, pensive. 

Axel kept talking. “Love is what happens when there’s something really special between people.” 

“More special than friends? Like…if they’re best friends? Inseparable?”

In KH, key memories have the power to awaken a heart, even in Nobodies. Axel was growing a heart throughout the course of the story after he returned from Castle Oblivion. The whole idea was that his newly awakened heart allowed him to transform things “base and vile” to “form and dignity”. Axel’s heart had the power to transform (in his mind) the nasty and cold Nort Saïx into the Isa he loved from his memories. His love for Isa was blind and allowed him to remain intensely loyal to what was, essentially, an impostor. Smoke and mirrors. That is what I saw when I played Days and read the novels.

I love Roxas and Axel. I’m sure Saïx would scoff at that. Call it a trick of my artificial memories.

Saïx, without a heart, had no such power. He could not look at things with the mind. He had a scar on his mind’s eye. He only saw with his eyes. He couldn’t even see Xion, since her appearance was dependent upon the connection she has with the observer. Xemnas and Xigbar could see her, though. So clearly there was something uniquely wrong with Saïx. The most important thing was, Saïx could not love Axel the way Isa could.

“You know, right, because you all have hearts!” Sora said, testing Xigbar.

“Axel and Roxas and Naminé, and that other girl. I felt what Roxas felt and…they laughed together, got mad, and they grieved.” The ache in his heart belonged to everyone. “You have to have a heart to cry.”

Xigbar snorted derisively. “It’s about time you noticed.”

Axel did have a heart. Xemnas and Xigbar had hearts, too.

“Oh, the things you hear from a guy with no heart,” Xigbar said through his hilarity.

None of us have hearts, Saïx was about to remind him, when Xemnas spoke again.

Saïx did NOT have a heart. He was unique compared to the other Nobodies.

The Tin Man programming is all purpose versatile program for what ever the master needs done, it means that the slave is a well oiled machine. Sometimes the slave is reluctant to do a job but he is being told that he is a well oiled machine.U.S. Sen. Allen Simpson, one of the perpetrators of the Monarch Program, referred to the Tin Man programming when he told a slave “THESE ARE BUT EMPTY SHELLS OF THE LIFE THEY WERE ONCE POSSESSED. LIKE YOU ARE–EMPTY AND VOID OF LIFE.”Certain alters are not given courage and most have their hearts taken from them. The alters who are programmed not to have hearts are hypnotically told the same thing the Tin Man says, “I could be human if I only had a heart.”

—The above are all excerpts from a book about government mind control

Saïx’s canon backstory does absolutely nothing to explain his unique characterization. If you ignore Saïx’s uniqueness, you cannot possibly offer him a decent redemption. And KH3 did a horrendous job redeeming Isa. It’s so bizarre, too, because if he actually had been subjected to mind control experiments, like it was hinted, it would have perfectly explained his weird personality and also created some much needed sympathy for him.

[aboysbestfriendishismum]

Chapter 55 – Wine, puzzles and Spoon Men (Part Two)

In the previous chapter: Meg and Angie go shopping for wine, food and sexy clothing for the romantic date with Eddie. They also discuss a sketch made by Meg for a tattoo based on the puzzle concept. Eddie arrives at Angie's apartment as she's at the window, trying to open a wine bottle with the help of a boot because she's got no corkscrew. The evening goes on quietly despite the fucked up heating system, Eddie's emotional turmoil caused by the half nakedness of Angie and her legs, and embarrassing moments, but it's also time for some intimacy between them. Angie thinks that the date she planned so well, has now turned into a disaster. Eddie can't read the mixed signals she sends to him, since one minute she teases him and one minute later she backs up. He suggests once again telling someone, maybe Meg, about their relationship.

**

"Come back soon though, ok?"

"Yeah, sure" as if it made any difference. One look at Eddie, at his half closed eyelids and his hair spread on the pillow, and I get up from the bed to go to the bathroom. I find myself face to face with the huff and puff version of me in the mirror, I open the cabinet on the left and grab the cotton pads and the make up remover. As I clean my face and see the make up pad become dirtier and dirtier I think about how useless the whole initial preparation was. What was the point of making myself pretty... well, trying to... if it led to nothing? I thought this could be the right time but then, when we got to bed, after kissing for a while, Eddie calmly pointed out I had still makeup on and that it seemed strange to him that I wasn't going to remove my make up before going to bed, since I'm always 'so meticulous'. Meticulous my ass! Everything went wrong tonight: the wine fell out of the window, the romantic music was turned off almost immediately, candles and flowers? No one gave a fuck about those. Nor for the t-shirt, no comments about it... and now? He even told me to go and remove make up. Congrats Angie, you surely impressed him. I throw the dirty pads in the bin and since I'm here I decide to brush my teeth.I look in the mirror as I try to sync the movement of the toothbrush with the one of my sad head-shaking. Do you really believe that with one wine bottle more Eddie would have had sex with you? Are you sure that putting on a different album you'd have had Eddie throw himself at you as soon as he got here? Or that the slutty nightgown Meg suggested would have turned him on more? Can't you see the problem is not in these stupid things, neither in the kind of flowers or in the color of your lipstick? You can put lipstick on a pig... but it's still a fucking pig. It's so evident he doesn't like me, Eddie can say whatever he wants with words but his actions send a completely different message. I rinse my mouth, towel my face, put the toothbrush back into the blue glass and, as I notice the face cream jar right next to it, it's like a supernatural creature suddenly showed up to me, not the ghost of Hamlet's father, but Meg, hands on her hips, saying stuff like '... anti-age creams are bullshit to make money. The only way to delay wrinkles is moisturize and keep your face off the sun...'. I moisturize a lot with this sweet scented stuff, slapping my face a little in the process with the pretext of letting my skin absorb the product well. I turn off the light and go back to my room. Eddie is turned the other way and he's probably already sleeping. And he suffered from insomnia. Since I started hanging out with him, I've never seen it taking him more than ten minutes to fall asleep: either he's a liar or I cured him. I get into bed and pull only the sheet up because it's still hot. At this point Eddie rolls over in the bed to face me, he kisses me on the cheek and rests his head on my shoulder. He also reaches out and tries to touch my belly but I promptly block him and place his hand on my hip. Looks like it all took me less than ten minutes.

"Uhm... so good..." Eddie kisses me all over the right side of my face, basically nibbling on my cheek.

"Do you... do you like it...?"

"I love this scent. And then... you're all so... creamy..." I try and not react because, I mean, it's not like you can only take the pieces of me that you like: either you like all of me or nothing, take it or leave it. But Eddie's arguments are very convincing as always and I end up rolling in the bed with him N times, a little on my side, a little on his side of the bed. And I'm even more at Eddie's mercy here, in the almost total darkness of my room, since I can't see or anticipate his moves, which surprise me every time. Why does it feel like he has, I don't know, ten hands? Why does he touch me like that? It should be illegal. It's too good not to be illegal.

We roll again,Eddie ends up over me, there's a lot of passion going on and a very small amount of fabric covering us and... and Meg is really anasshole and I gotta beat her up one day because I blame her and the stupid things she said this morning if now I have to bite the hell out of my lip not to laugh at Eddie's face. I can almost see her, standing here at the end of the bed, folded arms and smart ass face, as she's asking me What about now? Is he dying once again?

"Angie?" Eddie's deep and panting voice wakes me up from my silly thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Where are you?"he asks me and doesn't stop moving over me but simply takes it slower, making it all even more intense if it's even possible.

"What... what do you mean? I'm here"

"Physically. But your mind is somewhere else" ok, how can he do it? How can he know it? Can he see in the dark like cats and saw me making one of my weird faces? Can he read my mind? Considering my thoughts right now, I hope not.

"It's your fault... you... you make me dizzy"

"Oh really?"

He's dying pretty bad, isn't he?

Shut up, you jerk!

"Well, yeah" I answer and my eyes are getting used to the dark too because I can see clearly both the color blue of Eddie's eyes and the sparkle that briefly lights them up and sends some kind of smirk to his irresistible lips. I touch them with my fingers and he kisses them one by one, before attacking my mouth once again and I can't reason anymore, I can't think of anything that's not his breath, his skin,his hair tickling my neck, his teeth, his hands that... god, I...

"Wanna sleep?"

"Huh?" what did he say? Wait, when did he stop kissing me.

"I said, do you want to sleep a little?" he repeats and this time I can hear him, and I feel him stroking my hair as I can only see white dots in the dark.

"Ok" I reply.

I'm such a loser. I fall for it. EVERY. FUCKING. TIME. But this mess must end: either we're friends or a couple. Either we have sex or we don't have sex. I mean, either we have sex or we do NOTHING.

He took his time to die, didn't he?

Fuck you, mental projection of Meg!

"Do you have to wake up early tomorrow? I'm asking you 'cause I gotta mentally prepare myself to your killer alarm clock" he jokes and I'd really knock out all his beautiful teeth with a punch right now.

"Not that early, the killer alarm clock rings at half past eight"

"Hehe wow, I'm lucky then" he laughs and rolls away from me, lying on the other side of the bed.

"Right. So... good night"

"Good night, Angie" I feel him crawl under the sheets towards me, he rests his forehead against my temple and takes a deep breath. I basically squeeze my eyes shut and hope to fall asleep soon "Angie?" but Eddie nullifies my plans by calling me again.

"Yeah?"

"What about the good night kiss?"

"Haven't we kissed good night already?"

"I don't think so, when?"

"Like... two minutes ago? And we kissed more than once?" I stay still and keep my eyes shut.

"But those where another kind of kisses, they weren't good night kisses"

"No?"

"No"

"Is there a specific type of kiss for saying good night?"

"Sure. And they even gave it a name, you know? Someone calls it... good night kiss"

"Very original"

"Can I have one?"

"One what?"

"One good night kiss"

"Ok"

"Ok?"

"Ok, let's go with the good night kiss" and I said I was quitting a moment ago.

"Yeah?" Eddie's breathing slowly agains my cheek, it seems like he's almost holding his breath from time to time.

"Yes, you can kiss me" Resolve is my second name.

"Uh. I can" he says with a weird voice. One second later his lips are on mine for a peck, then he turns away on his side "Night"

"Good night Eddie" was that all? Well, it's better this way, isn't it?

**

I'm alone. Ok,Eddie's here in bed with me, but it's like I'm alone. I keep on tossing and turning between the sheets without getting any sleep. Now I've been lying looking up, in complete silence and perfectly stil lfor at least five minutes, focusing on the ceiling in search for something interesting. If I were at home in Idaho, now I'd have Frou Frou to talk to, my favorite humidity stain/little horse/imaginary friend. I inspect the cracks in the plaster trying to assign them a known meaning, the shape of a person, an animal, a random being I can legitimately ask a question a grown up would ask. Not that the things I told Frou about were only children stuff but I honestly can't picture myself asking my childhood's imaginary four-legged friend why my boyfriend doesn't want to fuck me. Or I should say, why my friend who's not attracted to me keeps on playing the girlfriend and boyfriend game. If I ask myself the same question, well, I already know the answer. I need a fake external interlocutor who can balance my insecurity saying that maybe it's not me, maybe he can't just forget his ex or he's got some intimate problem or he's simply asexual and doesn't know how to tell me. Those mould signs, don't they vaguely resemble a salamander? Couldn't the salamander tell me some of that bullshit? So I could then retort that fussing with complicated theories is just stupid when the answer is almost always the easiest one. I mean, to come up with the Occam's razor in a more convincing way, I need a cross-examination, a debate, I can't do all by myself. By the way, rather than a salamander, it looks more like a fish. Umph, maybe I'd better close my eyes and try and get some sleep. I turn on my side again, looking towards the door.

"Is everything ok?" for a moment I almost think it's Patti Smith's poster speaking, only with a sleepy and very more masculine voice.

"Yes, Eddie"

"Can't you sleep?"

"No" and neither can you, I'd say.

"I could open this window too, what do you think?"

"No, I mean, we shut down the radiator. And we've already opened the window in the other room, I don't want to catch a chill"

"Ok"

"I'm not warm anyway"

"Don't you?"

"No. What about you?"

"Uhm no, I'm fine"

"Ok then" I say and hope he'll stop right here and go back to sleep. I can't wait to hear him snoring.

"Why can't you sleep then?" holy shit...

"I don't know..."

"Is there something wrong?"

"No" I answer, maybe a little too quickly.

"Are you sure?"in the semidarkness I can see my boots at the end of the bed and the urge to use one of them to hit his head and knock him out is strong.

"Yes"

"Sure sure?"stronger and stronger.

"There's nothing wrong, Eddie, really. I don't know... maybe I had too much to eat, maybe it's just the thoughts, you know..."

"Which thoughts?"of course he must focus on the second part.

"Normal thoughts,about normal stuff" we're dangerously close to my tolerance limit.

"Like what?"

"Like things I have to do tomorrow"

"What do you have to do tomorrow?"

"Normal stuff, like... grocery shopping, paying the rent, cleaning the windows"

"You don't have enough money to pay the rent, right?"

"Sure I got the money!"

"I can't see what's keeping you awake then" the danger is getting closer.

"'Cause there's nothing wrong, I told you"

"Other thoughts?"

"No"

"Are you sure?"once you cross the limit, you can't go back.

"No. Well, there's one problem actually"

"Really? What is it?"

"IT'S THAT I'M FUCKING SICK OF THIS FUCKING SHIT, EDDIE!" I blurt out as I switch on the lamp on the nightstand and sit up on the bed.

"Angie wha-"

"CUT THE BULLSHIT, I'M FUCKING DONE WITH THIS!" I yell at his face again, startling him and making him and the mattress under our butts tremble.

"Too many questions, huh? Sorry, I'll let you sleep..." Eddie looks kind of intimidated when he apologizes, because he can't understand shit of course, poor him. And that just upsets me more.

"SLEEP MY ASS! I DON'T WANNA SLEEP!"

"Ok"

"AND YOU WON'T SLEEP EITHER"

"Alright..." Eddie, who was about to turn away on his side, realizes it's better to sit up just like me. I'm breathing heavy and fast, I'm sulking and my arms are folded over my chest. From time to time our eyes meet, mine are probably crazy, his are perplexed, but nobody speaks for a long time. Eddie's the one who breaks the silence "Do you want us to talk about it?"

"Yes" I reply before a deep sigh "I think it's really time to talk about it"

"Ok"

"Ok"

"I'm all ears" I mean, he's doing on purpose, isn't he?!

"YOU'RE ALL EARS?? YOU ARE LISTENING TO ME?!"

"Uhm... no?" Eddie's trying hard not to lose his composure and look calm but he's failing.

"NO! I'm listening to you, I am the one who listens, you are the one who has to talk!" I try and take control back because I'm scarying myself.

"Me?"

"Sure, you owe me an explanation"

"How can I explain if I don't even know what you're talking about?"

"Why don't you want me?"

"Huh?"

"Why are you with me if you don't like me?"

"WHAT?" thi stime he's the one who loses his temper and launches a shrill cry at my face.

"You know it's true"

"Angie, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Why don't you wanna have sex with me?"

"Oh my god" Eddie looks down and holds his head between his hands as he shakes it.

"I mean, I know I'm not a hot chick but..."

"Angie"

"But you keep saying we're a couple and... if two people are a couple they're supposed to like each other, in every sense"

"I like you in every possible and imaginable sense"

"So... so why don't you show me?"

"I don't show you??" Eddie looks up at me as if I had just said the earth is flat or something.

"Why don't you wanna do it... with me?"

"Do you really think I don't want to?"

"Well, yeah ,considering nothing's happened yet"

"Angie, I'm literally dying to... I so want to make love to you"

"Then why don't you-" I actively ignore his choice of words.

"I'm only waiting"

"Waiting for what?"

"For you to be ready"

"Ready? But I am,I'm so ready!"

"I doubt it, Angie"

"Look I... I'm...I'm not a virgin anymore if that's what you think" the mere thought of being here having this conversation with Eddie makes me want to die but I can't stay in this limbo of uncertainty for ever.

"I know, I mean, I guessed..." he answers with a rather tense grimace and I can't help remembering the times he unwillingly caught Jerry and I in unmistakable situations "That's not the point"

"And what is it?"

"I don't think you're ready to do it, with me"

"Why?"

"Because you're not completely comfortable with me yet"

"Haha I'm never comfortable with anyone, not even with myself, that's how I am, it doesn't mean anything!" I let out a nervous laugh. If he's waiting for me to turn into Miss Self Confident before having sex, I might as well become a nun.

"It means a lot to me though" Eddie's still frowning and I try and be serious.

"I know. What I meant is that I'm always like this... I'm shy... that's the way I am, it doesn't mean I'm not happy with you"

"It's got nothing to do with shyness. Trust me, I know you're good with me, I can sense it. What I do not know is what you feel. For me. I mean, there are times I seem to understand it, but then maybe you do something that tells me the exact opposite and I just don't know what to do"

"What I feel?" like it's easy.

"Yeah"

"That's not easy... talking about feelings. You know I'm not good at talking in general"

"You don't necessarily need to talk, Angie, there are other ways to show you rfeelings"

"I always show you!"

"No, I always show you. You... you don't do anything"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN I DON'T DO ANYTHING?!" I raise my voice, spontaneously this time too.

"Angie, you...you don't even kiss me"

"I what?"

"You dont kiss me. Ever" what the hell is he talking about?

"That's not true!"

"Yes, it is. Since that first time at the bus station in San Diego up until the good night kiss earlier tonight. It's always me kissing you, you just reciprocate"

"I'm sure you're wrong. I must have kissed you... sometimes"

"Sometimes? Sometimes when?"

"I don't know, it's not like I remember every single time"

"Had it really happened, I'd remember, trust me"

"Eddie"

"That'd have been a historical event 'cause you never kiss me first. You never do anything first. You never take a single initiative with me"

"Well, ok... I admit that... maybe... since I'm shy, I often let you come up to me first to-"

"Often? I'd say always"

"I'm sorry" I'm so fucking embarrassed and his look becomes sweeter.

"You don't have to say sorry! I don't want your apologies, I only wanna know what the problem is and what I have to do to reassure you" he strokes my arm delicately and I can see he's trying to make me feel better but I feel worse.

"You don't have to do anything, you're not the problem"

"You don't kiss me, you don't even call me on the phone, unless you ask me on advance exactly when I'll be at home, when you can call me, when you're not bothering me and so on. When you showed up at my door with the cake before the concert, you made me so fucking happy"

"Hehe for so little?"

"Yes, because it's not that little"

"And what about tonight? Don't you think I took the initiative tonight?"

"No, not really"

"No? I had you find me basically half naked, dressed only with a t-shirt of your favorite band... I set up this whole romantic and sexy scenario, I even sabotaged the building's heating system... if that ain't an initiative!"

"You... you did what?"

Oops.

"I couldn't show up naked with zero degrees at home, you'd have thought I was stupid. I just wanted to turn on the temperature a little, 'cause if it's always freezing here it's not because the heating doesn't work, it's cause those asshole owners keep it low to save money! Then it's not my fault if the handle came off in my hands as I was turning it" I reveal my evil plan to Eddie who looks more and more surprised.

"So... making this whole mess is easier for you than simply, I don't know, I'll just say it... than simply tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"That you want to make love to me"

"Oh, that"

"How can you do it if you can't even say it comfortably?" I can almost hear Meg, who apparently hasn't left my bedroom yet.

"I told you, I'm shy!"

"Anyway, if you want my opinion, I wouldn't call yours an initiative. That's not taking the initiative. That was... trying to tease me so that I would then take the initiative, as always"

"I'm not the femme fatale who jumps on you and eats you alive, Eddie"

"You don't have to be! Well, unless you want to, in that case I wouldn't protest" he adds with a teasing smile.

"That won't happen, not even in my next hundred lives"

"Come on, I was just kidding. What I mean is that I'd settle for something much simpler"

"That is?"

"A kiss, Angie. A fucking kiss, which by the way you haven't given to me yet"

"We're talking"

"So what? Who cares, kiss me and shut me up"

"Like you did to me in San Diego?" I smile thinking about it.

"Yes, I want you to fucking kiss me. I want you to feel as free and comfortable as to kiss me, hug me, call me, slap my face whenever and however you want to, without any prior inquiries, announcement or permits on stamped paper"

"That's not easy for me"

"But why? Why can't you let yourself go with me?"

"Because... because I'm scared" it costs me a lot to answer, especially cause the answer is honest.

"Scared of what? Angie, I know we're just at the start and I know you had bad relationships before. I wanna be honest to you: I'm not a saint, I'm very far from perfection, I'm flawed and you haven't seen my worse flaws yet. But I really care about you and this relationship and I won't fuck up"

"Looks like I am the one fucking up" I sadly reply.

"Shut up! Why do you say so?"

"Well, we're discussing..."

"We're talking, we're not fighting. We're trying to understand why you don't trust me"

"I trust you"

"Not enough"

"Eddie, really, I do trust you. It's myself that I don't trust"

"Yourself?"

"I don't trust myself because Im scared. I'm afraid I'll make a mess and fuck it all up. Something I'm already doing"

"You're not doing anything, I told you we're just talking. That's how people solve their problems: talking. Or kissing. As I've been asking you for a while but you haven't done it yet..." Eddie elbows me trying to make me laugh and it works a little.

"Hehe here we are, I try to be serious and you make fun of me"

"I'm not making fun of you, it's an actual request. And it's still valid"

"Maybe I don't take any initiative because... because I'm afraid they're the wrong ones"

"Wrong?"

"I'm afraid of doing the wrong thing, making mistakes. Being too clingy, or not enough. Being too present or too absent. I... I don't do anything because this way I can observe you... and understand what you want"

"And what about what you want? Doesn't it count?"

"I... I want you, that's what really counts" it's like I hear someone else answering in my place and I could see this someone suddenly blushing profusely in front of Eddie, whose jaw drops as I speak.

"Oh Angie..."he takes my face between his hands, forcing me to look into his eyes"I want you too, I want you as you are and I wouldn't change a single thing. I just wished that you weren't afraid of being yourself when you're with me. And that you kissed me whenever you want to. Or whenever I ask you. Something that, I don't know if I mentioned it already, you haven't done yet"

"If it was up to me, I'd always kiss you, Eddie"

"You say it like it's a bad thing" he stretches his thumbs to stroke my cheeks.

"No, you don't understand. When I say always, I actually mean always. I mean, I guess you looked at yourself in the mirror a thousand times but I don't think you did it with the same eyes I have when I look at you"

"Ok, so I look good and you want to kiss me" he takes his hands off my face and shrugs.

"It's not about beauty, something you're not short of anyway. It's like... I mean, your mouth... ok you use it to do a lot of things... talking, singing so good, drinking and eating... but your lips, it's like they're calling me, repeatedly, and not to have a chit chat"

"No?" he looks at me so smug and pleased with himself.

"No. And it's not like your lips are made for kissing: your lips invented kissing itself. I mean, I haven't studied this aspect of history specifically, but I believe people didn't use to kiss on the lips until somebody appeared on the planet who had lips like yours. And at that point evolution just followed its natural course"

"Is it a contorted way to compliment me?"

"It's a contorted way to tell you that if I really let myself go, as you want, I'd glue myself to those lips like a fucking plunger and I most likely won't let you do anything else and I couldn't do anything else either and we'd end up losing consciousness like Marina and Ulay. Only we're not artists, I mean I'm not, and we couldn't live off this kind of art anyway, we'd only look like a couple of jackasses" and so it happens that I try and let myself go and get anxious, and when I get anxious I start bantering random stuff without even taking a breath. And talking about breath...

"Marina and who?"

"And Ulay. Breathing in/breathing out, never heard about it?" Eddie shakes his head no "It was a performance art piece. Marina and Ulay are two artists and used to be a couple too. One day they decided to stick cigarette filters up into their nostrils to block them and press their lips together in a suffocating kiss, exchanging carbondioxide mixed with that single initial dose of oxygen, which was consumed in a few minutes, that led them to almost faint"

"Hehe you make me lose my senses even without nose plugs, so I say we can do it" he laughs and I can't articulate my thoughts, it takes me so long to reply back.

"And what if I let myself go and you can't stand me? What if I become annoying? What if I kiss you when you don't really want to?"

"Angie, I'll tell you a secret"

"You're always telling me secrets"

"Yes, because I'm older and wiser"

"Hahaha please"

"So, the secret: the secret is, there ain't a moment I don't want to"

"There are appropriate and less appropriate moments"

"That simply don't exist. I can't think of a single moment I could even just think about not wanting to be kissed by you. I mean, they could tie me up and torture me, sticking needles under my fingernails and toenails, and I'd still want you to kiss me if you were there"

"You're so dramatic"

"I could have just been shitting razorblades for an hour or have undergone an appendix surgery without anesthetics. But if you came up to me to kiss me, I surely wouldn't turn the other way"

"Hahahaha"

"It's true, I'm not kidding. But also in a positive situation! They could have-"

"Haha they who??"

"Hey, I'm trying to make a point. What was I saying? Oh right, they could have just announced I won a Grammy, an Oscar or another fucking random award and maybe they're calling me on stage to accept it. But you're there and you're kissing me and I won't move an inch and I won't give a fuck about the rest. I mean, yeah, I'd care only because winning the prize would be another excuse for another kiss, only because of that"

"And what if the Cubs win the World Series?" that's too easy if it's about awards, let's talk about the things that really count for Eddie.

"All the more reasons to want a fucking kiss from you to celebrate the event! But I hope I won't have to wait for that event to actually happen for you to kiss me"

"You won't have to wait that long" I answer, shifting a little on the bed to get close to him.

"No?" he whispers.

"No" I get alittle closer.

"How long then?"he insists looking alternatively at my eyes and at my lips.

"A very short moment"

"Really?"

"Yes"

"Ok"

"Ok"

"I'm waiting"

"Just a minute! You're so impatient"

"Yes, I'm kind of impatient, you know? It's only..." Eddie stops talking and stares at an indefinite point behind my back, as he counts on his fingers at the same time, then looks back up at me "I've been waiting for this moment for three months"

"Three months?"I ask puzzled.

"Well, knowingly three months. A little more unknowingly..."

"What does unknowingly mean?"

"Weren't you just about to kiss me?"

"Eddie, what do you mean unknowingly?" I raise my voice a little, Eddie rolls his eyes and gives up and answers.

"I mean that, you know, it's not like I woke up one morning and decided I had a crush on you, it was something... slow and gradual"

"And it started more than three months ago?"

"It started the first time I saw you, at Roxy's"

"Please, you barely spoke to me! And you still were with your ex by then"

"Not really... anyway I said it started then... and still goes on. The first time we talked I started to get to know you and it's like you slipped inside of me, like a seed, which sprouted and then the bud would grow day by day. And the more I got to know you, the bigger the plant grew and the more I liked you. And when I figured out what was happening, it was too late because I was in too deep and the small plant had become a fucking tree"

"Haha a tree?"so I'm not the only one having non sense monologues when I panic.

"Yes, a fucking baobab, Angie. Now if only you could maybe stop laughing at my metaphors and kiss me, please"

"Ok"

"Ok. Can't you see you just can't do it although I'm literally asking you?"

"I can! Just a second, it's not easy this way... like... cold blooded"

"I think our blood is everything but cold right now, Angie"

"Alright, I'll kiss you now so you'll shut up!" I come up to him and put a kiss onbhis lips, then I look at him triumphantly "See?!"

"What the hell was that?"

"What do you mean? It was a kiss"

"And do you call that a kiss?"

"Sure! Why? What do you call it?"

"I don't call it,I didn't even notice"

"Oh so my kisses leave you cold, I see..." I'm about to back up towards my side of the bed but Eddie holds on my hips.

"They don't leave me cold, I know your kisses, that's why I'd want a real one"

"A real one, huh?"

"Yes, please"

"Something like... this?" I speak against his lips before slowly placing mine over his, delicately at first, then pressing them a little harder.

"Uhm... that's better" I give him a little break to reply, then I kiss him again, until I feel him sneak his hands under my t-shirt.

"No, you can't..." I block his hand and keep on kissing him, pushing him on his side of the bed and pulling and holding his joined hands up over his head, as if he was trapped.

"What did I do?"he asks and looks seriously worried.

"If I understand correctly, I'm supposed to take initiatives now, am I wrong?"

"Oh" his frown turns into a dimpled smile.

"So don't move, ok?"

"You don't have to actually do everything"

"DON'T MOVE, OK?" I repeat louder and his amused smile turns into something else.

"Alright, my princess" he answers and I let go of his hands and bury mine into his lustrous mane of curls, and then I kiss him so passionately that at some point I find myself straddling him without even knowing how I got there.

"So?" I pull away and he breathes hard with his lips still slightly parted. Then I sit up astride him "Was it ok?"

"Very ok..." he finally opens his eyes and uses them to burn me on the spot "You like me then?"

"Hahaha oh really? Brilliant deduction, Watson"

"Don't laugh" he grabs my thighs and shakes me as if he was trying to throw me off.

"Why? Didn't you know it"

"How could I know it?"

"That makes no sense. You obviously knew it"

"Obviously? Obvious for you. Had you been in my shoes, what would you have thought?"

"What do you mean?"

"If you were me, if you were the one who always had to take the first step. And I don't mean just the kissing... If you had to always search for me, call me... And if, at the same time, I'd also asked you to keep it absolutely secret and not to tell anyone we were together. And I had cautiously avoided hanging out and being seen in public with you, avoided showing even little more than friendly behaviour towards you in the places our common friends usually go to... If I hadn't told you a single word about my feelings or about us in general, unless on your specific request and with some pressure... In that case, what would you have thought? How would you have felt?" is like shit accepted as an answer? This reminds me of when I used to date that asshole called Drake. Well date is a big wo-... Wait a minute.

"Unwanted. Oh but you don't feel like that, right?"

Fuck.

"Not anymore. Maybe"

"Eddie, I..." I lean forward and pepper his face with kisses. His smile looks relieved but I feel like shit and I speak between kisses "I...didn't... think... that-"

"That I can be insecure too? Well, I can"

"I'm an asshole" I sigh and rest my head on his chest, stretching my legs until I'm completely lying over him.

"I'm the asshole because I should have told you before" he replies stroking my hair.

"Talking to me isn't easy, I'm always elusive. All slippery. I'm a champ at slipping away from difficult situations and serious talks"

"But you're not getting away from me anymore now" he hooks his legs around mine and blocks me in a trap I don't wanna get out of.

"I'm sorry"

"Stop saying that, ok? I didn't say it to make you feel guilty, I told you to make you understand why I couldn't make love to you"

"And now?"

"Now what?"

"Now... could you?" I pull my head up as much as to look at him in the eyes, which are amazing even in the light of my shitty lamp.

"I don't know, I'm not the one who takes the initiatives anymore"

"I hate you"

"That's not true"

"It is" I layback on my side of the bed and drag him with me, over me, grabbingthe hem of his t-shirt and taking it off in the process.

"Do you know what I found out, Angie?"

"What?"

"That I like it when you take the initiatives"

"Oh really?"

"I like it a lot" he repeats as I get rid of the Who t-shirt too.

"Good" I clasp my hands behind his nape and pull him towards me not so delicately for a long kiss, which turns into a long series.

At some point I find myself with my panties slid down to my knees and I can't give any scientific explanation to this phenomenon, because my arms remained around his neck and his hands stayed on my boobs the whole time. So either the friction and grinding made them roll down or Eddie has some extra hands or everything's just happened by magic. And I don't know what came over me, because while I try to take them off completely with one hand, I reach for the elastic band of his boxers with the other hand trying to pull them down. My gesture doesn't go unnoticed because it's like Eddie suddenly went nuts. He starts licking and biting on my face, lips, tongue, neck, on the left side, getting closer and closer to my weak spot and I can't think anymore and I just keep moaning. I briefly come back to my senses when I feel him humping against me again, this time with no fabric barrier, after pulling my legs apart.

"Eddie?"

"Yes?"

"Second... second drawer" I explain pointing left.

Eddie seems to calm down a little too, he caresses my face with the back of his hand, gives me a gentle peck on the lips than opens the drawer of my nightstand, finding the pack almost immediately. He pulls one out and hands it to me, before throwing the pack on the nightstand and plop down on the other side of the bed.

"Here" he says as I try to cover myself with the sheets as much as I can.

"What does it mean?" I give him a puzzled look.

"That you're the one who takes initiatives now, did you forget?" he retorts with those fucking dimples showing. And not just those.

"Oh that's the way it is now?" I try and look pissed.

"Yep"

"And will it always be like that?"

"Why? Do you mind?"

"Not at all" I can hear myself talking but I don't even know where all this confidence comes from. I stop asking questions and try to keep it and hold it tight as long as it lasts, as I force my lips against his and open the wrapper.

**

"Stop laughing" I can hear laughter vibrating in the depth of Eddie's chest because my ear is resting against it, I mean, is basically glued to it, since we're also kind of sweaty. I hope to avoid the vacuum effect, I don't really wanna ruin the moment by blowing out my eardrum.

"I'm happy. I laugh" he laconically answers.

"No, you're laughing at me"

"Why should I?"

"You know why" I pull away from me and lift my head up to look at him and I can see all his beautiful teeth showing.

"You're adorable when you cum, you know?"

"Sure, apart from the sounds I make"

"Actually, I was specifically referring to those sounds"

"The adorable strangulated wailing of a piglet butchered at the slaughterhouse?"

"Hahaha shut up!"he laughs squeezing me under the sheets.

"Of a squirrel squished by a car?"

"Or a squirrel on crack?" he quotes the name of my old and only band.

"Hehehe right"

"Wait: that's not the reason you were called like that, right?" he gets all serious  all of a sudden and seeing his face I think I liked him better when he was making fun of me.

"Hahahah oh my god! Of course not!"

"Are you sure?After all, your ex was in the same band..." he goes on and kind of sticks his tongue out at me right after.

"That's not the reason at all, it was a random choice"!

"Ok. Anyway, Ilike it, it's sweet. You're sweet" he relaxes and kisses my forehead.

"Sweet? So my attempt at looking hot, confident and sexy failed miserably?"

"Sweet is sexy to me. Sweetness is the thing that turns me on the most, you know?" he kisses me over on my temple and on my hair.

"Really?"

"That and the inclination to vandalism. And after tonight, I'd say you scored great in both"

"If they put cameras in the boiler room, I'm screwed" I hide my face against his chest once again.

"Don't worry ,I'll pay your bail"

"With what money?"

"Well, I guess we'll sell a bunch of copies of Ten, I hope"

"Ten?"

"It's the best candidate among the names for our album"

"Because it's ten songs?"

"Actually they'll be eleven, or twelve"

"So what's with ten?"

"It's Mookie Blaylock's number. We had to change the name but we gotta pay a tribute to him, you know"

"You're fixated" I shake my head before burying my face in the crook of his neck.

"Right now I have a different kind of fixation though"

"Oh really? And what is it?" I ask sincerely curious because I honestly think he's still talking about music. So he definitely catches me off guard when in a split second he grabs me and turns me over and pushes me on the bed, jumping over me.

"What do you think?" he asks with a euphoric expression as he mercilessly grinds against me.

"Again? Already?"maybe I react with too much surprise.

"What? What do you mean already?"

"No, nothing"

"Don't you want to? If you don't feel like, it's ok, really" he stops moving and I'd cut my tongue.

"NO, I WANT TO!"

"So why-" he's about to answer, not withough snickering for the heat of my answer.

"I thought it'd take you longer, I don't know! I've never been with someone... well, your age"

"Angie, ok, I'm older than you, but I'm 26 not 62" Eddie looks at me like I'm stupid and he is not that wrong.

"Details"

"I'll show you the details" he threatens and grabs at the sheets and pulls them upover our heads, covering us both completely.

"Wasn't I supposed to always take the initiative?"

"Your Majesty, unfortunately I have no option but to make an exception and give you a practical demonstration. May I?"

"Sir Vedder, please proceed"

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

"What about Butterfly girl?" Mike comes back to the table with two pints of beer in his hands, while Stone and Grace tag along, each bringing their own glass.

"Nuh, I don't know. It sounds more like the name of a fucking superhero or something" I answer unconvinced.

"Superheroine" Stone points out. Who else?

"Ok, it sounds like a fucking superheroine. Catwoman, Batman, Batgirl, Butterflygirl... you know?"

"Yes, thank you Jeff for your reasoned explanation. Anyway it's a fake demo, the titles of the songs don't have to make sense. Actually I think Cam doesn't even expect you come up with titles" during his observations, in which he doesn't forget to make fun of me, Stone keeps his arm over Grace's shoulders all the time and thank god Laura hasn't come here too. I'd have been sorry for Mike if he had to fifth-wheel, I mean, things haven't been going great for him lately.

"If he asked me to take care of the artwork of the demo, then it means the tape will be important in the movie" I explain what seems obvious to me. If this demo gotta have a certain image, it means it'll appear on screen at some point, so it has to look real.

"Oh sure, it'll surely be the most important part of the movie: the whole plot revolves around your demo, Jeffrey" Stone nods before taking a sip of his bear and I'm tempted to crash the glass on his head.

"Jeff is right! If it wasn't important, Cameron wouldn't have given him this task. He'd just take blank tapes and write the name of the guy on them in the moment... What's the name of the character again? You told me but I forgot" Grace chimes in to defend me and it's too funny watching Stone pretend this doesn't irritate him at all.

"Cliff Poncier"

"He's thrown out of his band and starts selling his five-track demo on the streets" McCready points out.

"And how many tracks do you have by now?" Grace asks again.

"Three, I've still got two" I show her the notepad in which I jotted down the titles and made a sort of sketch of the demotape's cover.

Seasons

Nowhere but you

Spoon man

... girl

???

"The fourth one... does it have to be about a girl?"

"Yes ,cause he's been dumped by his girlfriend too, not just by the band. Like every real loser musician, he vomits his pain in songs" Stone answers for me and I try and concentrate again to come up with a good adjective to add to this girl of the title. I give a distracted look outside the pub's window but what I see makes me give another more attentive one: the unmistakable Angie's car that's being parked on the other side of the road, right outside our condo.

"Angelic girl?" I try but I can see it sucks as soon as I say it.

"Jesus no! Let Mike give you suggestions, it seems to me like he's more expert about being dumped" Gossard jokes and the other guitarist gives him a nasty look.

"I wasn't dumped"

"Sure"

"I chose to be alone"

"Obviously"

I follow Mike and Stone's quarrel and, at the same time, the movements outside the pub. Angie gets out of the car cautiously looking around, whereas there is our singer coming out from the passenger side, calmly walking around the car and hugging her from behind as if it was nothing, kissing her cheek. They're cute! But if they don't want to be caught, they should be a little more discreet. Ok, it's all pointless in the end, 'cause everybody knows they have a thing, but if they want to bring on this ridiculous charade, they should at least be good at doing it. They even got me catching them the other day! I mean, you told your girlfriend to come over to our apartment? Just fuckin' tell me! Or if you don't really wanna tell me, because you have to play secret boyfriend, at least let me understand it, drop hints, tell me to leave and stay out and come back much later, tell me we'll meet directly at the soundcheck! But no, you tell me nothing and I must come back home and find you both entwined on the fuckin' armchair. I don't even know how you didn't hear me, as I rushed to get out of there as fast as I could I think I even slammed the door. And it wouldn't have been so bad if they noticed me but, knowing Angie, she'd have been ashamed and wouldn't have talked to me for ages.

"Fly girl?" Mike suggests and this is not bad.

"Uhm not bad, I'll put it among the maybes, good job Mikey!" as I write it down I see that Angie's putting into practice my advice about being cautious. She basically shakes herself free of Eddie and tells him something he must not like that much, 'cause he stares at her with a disappointed face and folded arms. Angie now points at the pub and I turn back towards the others as I'm afraid she could see me through the window and notice that I saw them.

"Yeah, go Mike! Hey, what did Mike do?" Cornell arrives at our table and sits next to me unceremoniously.

"He suggested a possible title of a song" Grace promptly answers.

"From your album?"

"No, from Cliff Poincier's demo" I answer only seconds before anothe rfriend joins the group.

"Did you finally find all five titles? Hi guys..." Hangdog Eddie sits down next to Stone and I can't help looking outside, where I can see Angie sitting inside her car, focused on letting an appropriate amount of minutes pass before getting in not to arouse suspicion.

"Hey Eddie. No, only three and a half" Stone explains.

"Who the fuck is Cliff Poncier?" Chris asks confused.

At this point I quickly update him, telling him about the demo and the little part of the movie plot Crowe shared with me.

"Cool! Let me see... Seasons, huh?"

"What's that? A song about the only two seasons existing in Seattle?" Angie's voice comes from behind my back and I can't help thinking that the minutes she let pass weren't that many.

"Hi Angie! What are the two seasons?" Mike asks and makes room for her right next to him.

"Wet and wetter" Pacifico shrugs and she can't believe she can sit on the exact opposite side of Eddie not to look suspicious. What a jerk.

"Well,if it's actually written, it could really talk about that" Eddie laughs trying to dissimulate his being upset.

"And why don't we actually write it?" Chris pounds on the table with his fist and stands up.

"What do you mean?" I ask perplexed.

"That we should really write these songs, record them and have Cameron listen to them. That would be a nice surprise, don't you think?"

The table keeps silent for a while. Everybody, like me, is probably trying to figure out if Cornell's just kidding or is being serious. Something that happens like 90% of the times with him by the way.

"Are you saying you'd really write..." Angie stands up too to stretch across the table and read from my notepad "Spoon Man??"

"Why not? Artis would be happy, we'd advertise him" Chris replies and now we realize he's serious. And if that wasn't the case, now I'll make him.

"Ok, I challenge you then: I have to present the artwork of the demo to Cameron by Monday, you've got five days to write the five tracks of the Poncier's tape"

"Five? Hahah you'll have them all tomorrow, man!" he exclaims and shake my hand to seal the deal.

"Actually not to nit-pick, but you still have to come up with two titles, I mean, one and a half" Stone points out.

"What about Flutter girl?" Grace makes her attempt and... fuck, it's the best"

"Wow, I like it! Flutter girl it is, sorry Mike" I nod at the guitarist, who shakes his head.

"Nuh, no problem, her suggestion wins for me too"

"Ok, we only got one left then. Y'all put your thinking caps on" I encourage and the other girl at the table speaks up.

"Well, the fifth title is missing so... so why don't you call it Missing?"

"You're two fuckin' geniuses!" I state and add the last title to my notes, before tearing the page and giving it to Chris "And now you're screwed, man!"

[protezioni]

"stop saying i look like chicken little. he’s dumb, and he’s a coward. and i am NOT a coward!" for Maemi/Zuro and "yes, she is a bitch. b i c t … h." for Shima/Ko :3

Yes of course! Thank you for sending this ask and I enjoyed writing it a ton omg Love you!

STAN ZETA @zetacomic !! SOME CHARACTERS THAT WERE SEEN IN THE STORY BELONGS TO THE CREATOR SUCH AS MAEMI AND SHIMA!!!

Zuro/Maemi

Day count of suffering? Still the same. The amount of suffering he feels every day? Increased. Yes, sure- the Protezioni were somewhat like new siblings to them, but he cannot ignore the fact that they could sometimes be as annoying as some other members of Zygos. A lot of the Protezioni members may have been welcoming, and some even encouraged to be close to them--- but as months passed by, he only got to notice how some other members masked their more ridiculous side through acting like such. Well, what was to be expected from them? They may have been in the mafia, but they were certainly like normal people... They acted like a bunch of students who were glad there were no classes tomorrow...

I mean, they even had this movie night where they invited the entirety of Zygos Academy! Where? In their living room! It was easy to tell their place was bigger than the academy... Maybe even too big. Sure, whatever. Everyone was down to watch movies together... But of course, one of the more loud and obnoxious members had to bring something up- Which he, of course, did not expect. Disappointed but not surprised? Absolutely. That was a good summary of how he felt at this exact same moment when someone decided to bring up an inaccurate comparison between him and... a character from the movie. A children's movie. About a chicken discovering aliens existed. How pathetic was that?! Who in their right mind would compare him to that character?!

Maemi was staring at Zuro who was leaning on the couch, with a bowl of Doritos. He munched on the chips as he continued to look at Maemi in the eye. Once he swallowed, he coughed to capture some people's attention. "You sure you aren't Chicken Little?" He wasn't satisfied with Maemi's squinting as an answer, so he only repeated the question. "Chicken Little ain't that bad, Maemi!" Is he seriously trying to tell him that it wasn't bad at all? I mean... who the hell gets compared to a weak chicken who can hardly do shit at first? "You see, there are pros in being that little chick! He's got some cool-looking glasses!"

Maemi sighed, his heads in his hands... Wasn't this supposed to be movie night? Why were they just sitting down in the living room and making theories about how he is just a black feathered Chicken Little who somehow got red eyes? "This whole thing is dumb." Maemi rolled his eyes, refusing to sit beside Zuro who only patted the empty space beside him. "No thank you. I'll rather not stay beside you and be teased during the whole movie." It wasn't that hard to figure out that he would actually do that if he were to sit beside him. There was just a smirk written all over his face once he rejected his offer... What does that mean? "What are you smirking at?"

"Wanna know?"

"I'm curious."

Zuro handed the bowl to Sepheir, who was sitting beside him for the whole time. He cleared his throat for a moment before gesturing to Maemi. "You look like Chicken Little." That was all he said. Nothing less, nothing more. He sighed louder and tugged on his longer bang in annoyance. They were right. This man was someone who always joked around, and he was a little shit. He had enough proof of that as spent a longer time with him... Now that he was aimed at him, he could only understand it better. Of course he'd aim at him.

Shoya began smirking and he nodded in agreement. "Never thought about Mae being Chicken Little until you brought it up, bro!"

"See? Someone agrees with my theories!"

Finally, the strategist responded, irritation obvious in his voice.

"Stop saying I look like Chicken Little. He’s dumb, and he’s a coward. and I am NOT a coward!" There was silence in the room as all eyes landed on Maemi and Zuro... There were some people who laughed, some people who agreed, some others disagreed and some people only looking at the scenario before them. That was a weird line to say, but it sounded way too familiar... Was it from those Kine videos? Kine was deleted some years ago! Whatever, the scenario before them was surely interesting to experience... Even if he knew there was a reference to that or not. Now, the people only got more quiet as they noticed how even the two were silent.

"Okay yeah, you're not a coward." Even if Zuro had such a personality, he wouldn't call him a coward. "But--- Chicken Little wasn't a coward by the end of the movie! Therefore, you being Chicken Little? Still valid, I suppose!" He hated the enthustiastic grin which was still on the face of his even if he said those words. Goddamn it- did he have to diagree with this man forever? He won't even budge! You know what? What's the point of arguing with him if it would definitely lead to nothing at all. He wouldn't change. "Got anything else to say?" He crossed his arms with a playful chuckle, while Maemi just began picking a book from the shelf.

He got a book, schemed through the pages to see how long it was then decided to read it. He placed the book slightly higher so the person could read the title of the book he was reading... His face was clearly done with Zuro's bullshit, and he had no ideas how to respond to him so he could finally drop the Chicken Little subject. Zuro only read the book with his eyes before bursting into laughter. "Did you get the message, or should I get another book?" His voice was passive agressive in a way, but he didn't sound mad at all.

"I don't know, Maemi. Why are Little Shits such blockheads is a good enough title."

Shima/Ko

They were waiting for the rest of the members of the BQ Thieves inside the restaurant itself. Shima was casually eating the burger, enjoying the coupons which he got from Aki after saying some words to someone... It wasn't that big of a deal... I mean, what could get better than some coupons to one of his favorite restaurants? He took another bite from the burger and he noticed how Ko was just sipping some coke float from his straw as he dipped his fries on ketchup-- but his mind didn't seem to be with him right now. "Hey, Morga--- Ko. Something up?" Jesus Christ, he almost called him by that chatacter from his favorite game. No answer from him. "Ko?" He repeated his name and Ko jumped up from his seat.

"I apologize for not noticing you sooner, Shima." He laughed nervously as he finally began to eat... Damn, what the hell was wrong? He usually spoke more than usual, and his topics ranged from tips, things about himself, mafia life or questions about how Zygos really works... Now he was more silent than usual. "I began to think about other things, I should have paid attention to my surroundings." He personally apologized and Shima placed the wrapper of the burger away before placed his arms on top of the table. This only caused the man who was still eating his fries to only observe what he was doing and wonder what his movements meant.

He didn't remember being this caring, or at least- he didn't remember showing his kindess so easily. But well, being more of a protagonist could be fun! There were bonus positive feelings that made him feel proud of himself, so there's that. "Want to talk about it?" His face was bland for a second before he looked away for a short moment. "I mean, we still have the others to wait for, and we don't really have anything else to do..." He tried to make up several excuses to hide that he may have been a bit worried for the male he was eating with... And well, his words did work. Hell yeah, protagonist powers always worked.

"Thank you for understanding, Shima. But I prefer not talking about this specific person in public. All I have to say is I feel pretty upset over the fact she did so much and she had no warning signs." Ko's eyes suddenly became a bit sad. "She has broken several members, but they all chose to forgive or forget her. In my case, it isn't easy to do that if she..." Woah Ko, that's going to spoiler territory... "... Yeah. Anyway, why I am like this is because I decided to go to the attic and see if there are any objects I could have used for training, but instead, I gained some unwanted memories and it's been affecting me." He closes his eyes before raising a finger. "But perhaps I could forget about it, people can be much more deceiving than you expect they are."

"Yeah, people can be bitches sometimes."

"Agreed."

"And deceiving? Holy crap, I should tell you about how one of my teammate can go from "I'm cute" to "die" real quick. That's fucking deceiving."

Ko laughed a bit, knowing who he was talking about. "Go ahead, hearing your stories would certainly be interesting.

"You see..." Shima began trying to look for an explanation before placing his hands on top of the table. "One time, I said something out loud by accident and the next time I knew it, Hamlet was dramatically crying over my supposedly dead corpse as he wrapped bandages around my room." One out of the many experiences with someone from Team Omega. "Then later on, I knew Haru did it. Who else could have done it? I was fucked up with a damn knife. Just for saying shit out loud by accident." Shima shivered at the mere flashback he had with his head and it ended up making Ko burst out in laughter.

"I know who that is... I have to admit, she is fairly pretty. But as people in Zygos act, she is also deadly." He began wiping his hands with a tissue. "She's injured you, as I've heard. Also, you have a story about her so there's that. She gave Sepheir more work that one time she stabbed Ace... She truly is a wild woman." He recalled some moments he had with her, and he admitted that she wasn't someone who he talked to a lot--- but through other people he knew how she acted. "Indeed, her looks may deceiving... But I cannot fully deny that I am quite attracted to her--- Wait no, more of curiousity than attraction." Ko brought this up and Shima only placed his two hands on his shoulder like a main character from an anime.

"You wouldn't want to be curious or attracted to her."

"Oh?"

"I don't want to attend to a cat's- I mean, person's funeral."

"Is she that much of a bitch to be able to hurt someone like me?"

"Yes, she is a bitch. B i c t … h." Shima began shaking hkm slightly, as if he was trying to snap out Ko from a dream. "Did you not hear me? She almost killed me! Not only once, so that makes you not a single chance to be protected by her wrath. I don't want you to die." He finally released him before sighing. "Fuck. Why the hell do you Protezioni have some guts to be close to someone so fucking dangerous? She can probably bite your head off." A chuckle from the person he was talking to. "I'm fucking serious! She can! She's like the dam Hulk!" He began to tall about hlw she worked again. "Decent and all until she gets fucking angry!"

"Thank you for the warnings, maybe I will stop being curious." Ko said this calmly as he only continued to sip his soda. This conversation was wild, talking about girls was... surely a topic to to enjoy. Hey, at least he got to enjoy this moment because of him. If not, the whole BQ Thieves could have found him all upset over something that shouldn't even be brought up. "Additionally, thank you for talking to me about such..." His words trailed off to something else as a smirk was seen on his face. "Joker." It was a complete reference to a game Shima played and he only felt the success sharpen in his mind.

"Mission Accomplished."

"That's right... I should call you that again sometimes."

"WHAT A WONDERFUL TIME TO SEE MT DEAREST FRIENDS IN SUCH A PLACE FILLED WITH DIFFERENT PEOPLE AND AROMAS---"

"Sorry, we were late!! I and Ren stopped in a flower shop, we bought a bouquet."

"Yarohe and Ren decided to look at the flowers and Ren posed as she read the name of the flowers out loud. It was funny to watch!"

"About time you all came... We should order shit again... MOVE OUT!"

[ihaveonlymydreams]

In this Harsh World Draw thy Breath in Pain, to Tell my Story

Suffering and the Artistic Experience in Relation to Flannery O'Connor

(I wrote this some years ago for a Flannery O'Connor symposium my high school was having, but it's really only tangentially about her.)

It is generally accepted that Flannery O'Connor writes about grace; as she herself said, “the action of grace in territory held largely by the devil.” However brilliant that description may be, it does not exactly formulate how graces manifests itself in her stories, or what that grace consists of. The agents of grace are diverse—sometimes a man with a gun, sometimes a water stain on the ceiling, sometimes a scrub bull. What happens, however, the moment of grace itself, is always the same. If you look at the short story “Greenleaf”, for example, you will find the typical Flannery O'Connor protagonist: Mrs. May, a proud, superficial woman who spoils her children, looks down on everyone who is not of her social class, and thinks that words like Jesus “should be kept inside the church building like other words inside the bedroom. She was a good Christian woman with a large respect for religion, though she did not, of course, believe any of it was true.” (p. 316) What happens to this good Christian woman? She struggles to get a scrub bull off her property; eventually forcing her employee, Mr. Greenleaf, to shoot it, even thought it belongs to his sons. And then, in typical Flannery O'Connor fashion, she is gored by the bull before Mr. Greenleaf can shoot it. Now of course, this is just the external action; because we are drawn inside this woman's mind—we understand her fear of being replaced, her distaste for white trash, her sense of responsibility for her land—as always, we are drawn into her experience. And that experience includes the strange and symbolic dreams and descriptions in which the scrub bull takes on a supernatural aspect, beginning with the first lines: “like a patient god come down to woo her.”

So when we reach the final moment, in which the bull has become the agent of a powerful divine love, we discover what the action of grace is: in Mrs. May's own words to her sons: “You'll find out one of these days, you'll find out what Reality is when it's too late!” (p. 320) The moment of grace is a moment of knowledge—not knowledge reached through some kind of reasoned process, but a moment of complete and instantaneous intuition—a direct vision.

Now, this action, this moment of knowledge, as the center of the story, is not something Flannery O'Connor invented. To quote Aristotle: “Recognition is a change from ignorance to knowledge, producing love or hate between the persons destined by the poet for good or bad fortune...this recognition combined with reversal, will produce either pity or fear; and actions producing these effects are those which, by our definition, Tragedy represents.” (Poetics XI) Flannery O'Connor's particular genius, I think, lies in the fact that for her, the “other person” who is recognized is the divine Person, acting through whatever earthly means are available. But, as Aristotle suggests here, that recognition cannot help but be accompanied by suffering, pain, and violence - “a reversal of fortune” is what he calls it. In fact, in her stories, that intuition of Reality comes only through the suffering and because of the pain. And there is more to that idea than meets the eye. Because we, as readers, participate in the shock and the suffering, which pushes us towards an attempt, at least, to reach the same discovery, the same intuition. We want to know what it means. But the reader is not the only one who experiences this. First it must happen in the soul of the writer. And Flannery O'Connor stands at the end of a long tradition, a long line of writers who have expressed the same exact reality—I want to call it the artistic truth—and that is that the poetic vision of reality, the artistic intuition, is inseparable from suffering and pain.

So let's start with the fundamental works of the western tradition—the Bible and Homer.

In the book of Job, after being terribly afflicted, having lost everything, and being accused by his friends of having done some evil to deserve this suffering, Job hears the voice of God answering him out of the whirlwind. God reveals his power and the mystery of his existence to Job, and this suffering man, covered in sores and sitting on a dunghill, is able to say: “With the hearing of the ear, I have heard thee, but now my eye seeth thee. Therefore I reprehend myself, and do penance in dust and ashes.” (Job 42:5-6) How does Job “see” God? Not physically, not in the beatific vision, but through an act of the imagination that sees the power of the leviathan and understands that God who created it is beyond the mind's ability to comprehend entirely. God spoke to Job, not through reasoned philosophical statements, but through poetry, through images.

Of course the artistic experience is not always so explicit as this—so let's look at Homer. I could simply read the first few lines of the Iliad, which presents to us the rage of Achilles, causing death and suffering, as the instrument of the will of Zeus. But throughout the Iliad it is those who suffer that create—Helen in Troy, aware of her guilt and hating her position, weaving the tapestries with their stories of heroic battles, and Achilles in his tent, refraining from the battle and pondering death, while singing the deeds of great men. These two are the main instruments of the difficult and painful accomplishment of Zeus' plan.

If we turn to the Odyssey, we will find Odysseus, the man of suffering, becoming the poet who tells his own story, and suffers in the telling: “But now your wish was inclined to ask me about my mournful sufferings, so that I must mourn and grieve even more.” (Book IX)

This theme of art and suffering is brilliantly taken up by Virgil in the Aeneid, when Aeneas sees the paintings in the city of Carthage that tell the story of the fall of his own city, Troy: “Where on this earth is there a land, a place that does not know our sorrows: there are tears for passing things; here too things mortal touch the mind.” (Book I) And then, being asked to tell his own story, he replies: “Too terrible for tongues the pain you ask me to renew.” (Book II)

So, both the artist who tells and the person who hears or sees the story, participate in the suffering and the pain. But that artistic or poetic experience, what exactly is it for? What discovery is expressed through that pain? For a simple formulation of that reality I turn to the Greek tragedian Aeschylus: “Zeus has led us on to know, the Helmsman lays it down as law that we must suffer, suffer into truth. We cannot sleep, and drop by drop the pain of pain remembered comes again, and we resist, but ripeness comes as well. From the gods enthroned on the awesome rowing bench there comes a violent love.” (Agammemnon, l.177)

But it is not only the tragic vision of truth that comes through suffering. If we turn to Christian times, we find that Dante's comedic journey upward to the vision of God begins in darkness and pain, and that he cannot reach higher knowledge until he has seen and understood evil and damnation. And even in the middle of Paradise, Dante suffers the news that he will be exiled from his city, but simultaneously is given his artistic mission, and told to speak the truth: “A conscience that is dark—either through its or through another's shame—indeed will find that what you speak is harsh. Nevertheless, all falsehood set aside, let all that you have seen be manifest...For if, at the first taste, your words molest, they will, when they have been digested, end as living nourishment. As does the wind, so shall your outcry do—the wind that sends its roughest blows against the highest peaks.” (Canto XVII)

Finally, turning to the height of the Renaissance, we find in Shakespeare's Hamlet the same refrain—that knowledge acquired through suffering must be passed on to others through suffering: “O God, Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, Shall live behind me. If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, to tell my story.” (Act 5, scene 2)

And in these words I think we come to the heart of the artistic experience, especially in those words “if thou didst ever hold me in thy heart.” For the great poets, the great writers, are distinguished from others by their great compassion for the people whose stories they tell. That compassion is not sentimentality, however—it is a “violent love”. Why? Here I will return to Flannery O'Connor's own words: “There is something in us, as story-tellers and listeners of stories, that demands a redemptive act, that demands that what falls at least be offered the chance to be restored. The reader of today looks for this motion, and rightly so, but what he has forgotten is the cost of it. His sense of evil is diluted or lacking altogether and so he has forgotten the price of restoration.” (The Church and the Fiction Writer)

What Flannery O'Connor is saying here applies not only to the openly Catholic or even Christian writer and reader; it is a universal statement. We human beings demand of our stories a redemptive movement, a restoration. That is what satisfies us; that is what rings true. But, as Flannery O'Connor goes on to say, the modern human being has forgotten something: has forgotten evil and, as a result, has forgotten the price of restoration. What is the connection between evil and redemption? Have we forgotten the meaning of redemption itself? The Latin root of the word means “to buy back”. The restoration of goodness and happiness has to be paid for. That price is nothing more or less than suffering: bearing the consequences of evil. Redemption is accomplished through suffering because it satisfies justice; it satisfies that causality in events by which acts must have consequences. Evil causes destruction. The fact of redemption does not negate the consequences of evil: rather, it pays them in full, and willingly. I hardly need to tell you that this is a Christian idea. Redemption is at the very heart of Catholicism; but have we forgotten how difficult a reality it is? If we have, then we have lost touch with the universal human experience as expressed not only by Christians, but by the great writers and poets of our western culture.

In its essence, Flannery O'Connor's work should not seem new or startling to us. The manner in which it is presented, yes, that is new and startling, but the reality expressed is the perennial truth of the human experience: what another great Southern writer, William Faulkner, called “the old verities and truths of the heart”. (Nobel Prize Speech) Faulkner, like O'Connor, was aware that the modern writer and reader has lost something: “the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because that alone is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.”

So that is the element of the artistic process which we as readers tend to forget: not only does the artist write about redemptive suffering; the artist must suffer in order to write. Without suffering, without “the agony and the sweat”, there can be no profound poetic insight. Why would that be? The answer lies in the very nature of art and particularly literary art. To use a term Flannery O'Connor herself applied to her works, art is incarnational. To put it in the Thomistic language of Jacques Maritain, art is “knowledge through connaturality”; and he quotes Aquinas saying “the spiritual man knows divine things through inclination or connaturality: not only because he has learned them, but because he suffers them.” (Creative Intuition, p.86) Think of the act of poetic creation and you will realize that the writer puts himself or herself into the minds of the characters: that the writer creates a world, not based on abstract knowledge, but based on the connatural knowledge of experience. You cannot write what you do not know—but more is required in the artistic process than abstract knowledge, for the primary tool of the writer is not reason, but imagination. And Coleridge defined the imagination as “the repetition in the finite mind of the infinite act of creation.” In some way, the power of the imagination to make is the best proof that we were made in the image of God the Creator. And Dorothy Sayers, who unfolds this idea in her book The Mind of the Maker, reminds us that the leading part, in the story of mankind, this story of redemption, was played by the Author Himself: “And examining the plot of it, we observe at once that if anybody in this play has his feelings spared, it is certainly not the Author...This is perhaps what we should expect when we consider that a work of creation is a work of love, and that love is the most ruthless of all passions, sparing neither itself, nor its object.” (p. 129) If God, in the creation of His masterpiece, suffered the pain of all His creatures and took upon Himself the consequences of their evil in order to redeem them, then it can only follow that the artist, in a small way, repeats that act of creation and that redemptive suffering. If only through the imagination, by a sympathetic act of placing oneself in another's shoes, the artist must experience suffering if he or she is to write it.

Flannery O'Connor, as we know, suffered physically for most of her writing career. Physical suffering, however, means nothing in the creative process of redemption unless it is accompanied by a free act of the will—as she herself well knew, first in her own experience and then in her writing. “All my life,” she said, “death and suffering have been brothers to my imagination.” Because of this, like any great artist, she knew that suffering and art are inescapably linked. “Fiction,” she said, “is the most impure and the most modest and the most human of all the arts...closest to man in his sin and his suffering and his hope.” And like the great poets before her, she understood that knowledge often comes only through pain and suffering and violence. The moment of grace, the moment of insight, is by necessity part of a redemptive movement, and the cost of that redemption is suffering—is death; death to self, death to all the illusions that we cling to in our lives. But, because art, poetry, fiction, is “knowledge through connaturality,” only one who has “suffered into truth” can express that reality with compassion, not moralizing condescension. Flannery O'Connor's life and work is the proof of this—for the more she suffered, the more she wrote about the sufferings of others. And if we go back to that final moment in “Greenleaf”, we find the perfect image for that painful moment of vision and divine love: “and the bull had buried his head in her lap, like a wild tormented lover, before her expression changed. One of his horns sank until it pierced her heart and the other curved around her side and held her in an unbreakable grip. She continued to stare straight ahead but the entire scene in front of her had changed—the tree line was a dark wound in a world that was nothing but sky—and she had the look of a person whose sight has been suddenly restored but who finds the light unbearable...she seemed, when Mr. Greenleaf reached her, to be bent over whispering some last discovery into the animal's ear.” (p.333-4)

Only someone with near-infinite compassion, someone who has “suffered with” and knows this experience by connatural knowledge, could have written those lines about a woman as shallow and distasteful as Mrs. May. If we find Flannery O'Connor hard to bear, it is because she does not allow us to sit on the sidelines and judge what is happening like impartial observers. We are made to “suffer into truth”, and we do resist, but “ripeness comes as well”.

[mint-kook]

Overnight || Short Story

AN: To everyone who was interested in reading the short story I had mentioned earlier, I got the go ahead from my teacher to post it. Down below you will be able to read my first actual work that isn’t fanfiction-related. I’m somewhat proud of this (not really) and just like always, criticism is very much appreciated and welcomed! 

The school bell droned on in the ears of the teenagers as they marched from one class to the next. The dreary weather outside seemed to lower the moods of everyone who witnessed it, commanding the way they felt for the next two hours. Evie seemed to be the only one in a good mood as she walked, trying to navigate between the several bodies that blocked her path in the hall.

She took a deep breath, letting the stale air fill her lungs and drag her towards her next class. It was the sound of the rain pattering on the windows that seemed to be the cause of silence, the youth wanting to listen to the sound rather than the drawl of their teachers. Evie sat down at the desk reserved for her and let out the breath she had been holding, pulling out her binder and notebook from her bag.

Bodies flooded into the room, students arriving and taking their places in the once empty classroom and filling it up quickly. She stayed silent as she noticed the all black body enter the room. Evie had never seen her before, knowing that if she had, she would have remembered the striking black hair and silver-like eyes. The body moved gracefully, a difference between the others who seemed to drag themselves around the room.

Evie found herself enticed by the other, letting her eyes follow the other as she moved into one of the empty desks in front of her, not bothering to pull out her belongings. The stranger’s neck craned as she stretched and directed her attention out the window and continued to stare at the clouds that seemed to block any trace of the sunlight that once existed. Exquisite, she thought to herself. That was the only way she seemed to be able to describe the other girl, the only word in her head that seemed to stand out and hold itself at the forefront of her mind like a billboard on display.

The sound of the teacher entering the room attracted her attention and she tore her eyes away from the black haired girl with disdain. The period begun, Shakespeare’s Hamlet being the first subject to cover. The students sat quietly as the teacher begun to talk about the despair and insanity that Ophelia suffered from, driving her to eventually drown herself. The talk quickly bored Evie and she found her attention shifting back to the raven-coloured haired girl sitting a few seats in front of her.

It was the way she seemed to not notice her surroundings, to forget about where she was and disappear into thought without a worry that attracted Evie. She found herself obsessing over the girl during the period and missing the lesson due to her distracted gaze. It wasn’t until the bell rang and the other kids started moving that Evie realized she had missed the entire class. She blinked her eyes frantically to regain some of her thoughts and found herself standing before she could stop herself.

Letting her feet take her wherever they wanted to go, she arrived in front of the girl that had managed to captivate her the entire period. She inhaled sharply as the silver eyes seemed to lock onto her, piercing through her very being. There was something about being in front of the girl that made Evie feel incredibly exposed in that moment, as if the other was able to see everything about her without even asking a single question.

“Is there a reason you made your way over here?” The voice startled her, but she found herself quickly regaining her confidence and she smiled happily.

“My name’s Evie, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before,” she outstretched her hand, not expecting the cold reaction she received. The girl looked at her hand with disgust before she sighed and responded.

“Amara, and I just transferred into this class.”

“Well Amara, I think you and I should get to know each other a little bit better, how about...you come over to my house tonight and we can hang out,” Evie watched in satisfaction as a small smirk found its way onto Amara’s face. It was as if she had just cracked into stone and found diamond lying underneath in the form of the others amusement.

“You’re very forward, aren’t you?” Evie nodded quickly, not letting the words affect her in the slightest. “I’ll meet you there.”

It was so sudden, Evie almost couldn’t believe her ears but she didn’t show the surprise on her face. She gave the stranger her address and left with the promise that she would see her around six that afternoon. The smile that made its way across Evie’s face seemed to remain a constant despite the dreary weather that encased the rest of the students.

The sound of knocking reverberated throughout the entire home, bouncing off of the walls and eventually finding its way into Evie’s ears where she sat in her bedroom. She listened to the knocking continue, once, twice, three times, before she moved from where she was sitting and decided to answer the door herself.

Confusion flooded through her as she wondered why her parents hadn’t bothered to open the door, both of them in perfectly capable areas of the house. Evie shook the thoughts from her head as she made her way downstairs and into the front hall, taking the last few steps to the door and pulling it open to reveal the girl she had met at school earlier that day.

“Your eyes,” Evie paused taking in the now black coloured eyes that stared at her, but still belonged to Amara.

“What about them?” The question seemed so innocent, so different from the tone that she had used in school and Evie knew immediately that it was a sensitive topic. It was the vulnerability in her voice that made her stop and not press the matter anymore than needed.

“Nothing, come on in,” Evie stepped aside, letting the other girl into the home and leading her up the stairs to her bedroom where the two of them could hang out in peace. Her parents had already been alerted of the other girl’s presence and that she would be heading up to the bedroom immediately. Her parents were glad to see that she had finally invited a friend over and promised not to disturb the two unless something important came up.

The two walked into the bedroom that had been occupied moments ago and sat on the bed, both crossing their legs in the process and deciding to play a simple game of twenty questions.

“So what class did you have before English?” Evie asked, finally gaining the courage to talk about something.

“I had art, but I was told I would have to transfer out because the teacher thought my artwork was a little too ‘dark’,” Amara explained, not hesitating to let a smile breach her lips. “What are you parents like?”

“Boring, not fun, surprisingly lenient. I’ve never given them a reason not to trust me so they’re kind of cool with me doing whatever I like as long as I give them updates,” she answered the question easily, letting the other know about her life. Evie watched as Amara’s smile seemed to falter a little bit, the smile slipping just the slightest and showing a hint of sadness on her face.

“I wish my parents were like that, they’re always on my ass about something no matter what I do,” it was an admission that Evie wasn’t expecting but was grateful for nonetheless. “Even when I try my hardest to make them happy, they always seem to find something wrong and yell at me or get me in trouble for it.”

Evie watched as Amara’s shoulders slumped and she could see that the girl who had been so cold and collected in class was now letting herself open up in her small home. She took a deep breath and reached out for the other, trying to pull her into a hug before she could say anything else. As her fingers brushed the bare skin of her arms she found her hand wrenching back and hissing at the cold that seeped under her skin.

“You’re freezing, how come you didn’t say anything?” The question came out as an almost half scream as she stared at the black haired girl in disbelief. She reached over on her bed to grab and blanket and wrapped it around the other.

“I didn’t even notice,” she answered. Evie looked into the others eyes and tried to find something, anything that resembled the girl she had talked to earlier that day. She was here, physically, but it seemed as if she was lacking the part of herself that had drawn Evie in earlier that day. She knew something must have happened, but she didn’t know if it was her place yet to ask the other about it.

The two of them talked for a while more, learning more and more about them as time passed on. As the light disappeared outside the window, darkness seemed to encase the world and hold it within its grasp. Evie invited the girl to spend the night and received an affirmation in reply.

As the two of them laid down in bed, Evie could feel a place in her heart opening up, feeling the swell in her chest that had started earlier when Amara had talked about her parents. She remembered the smile the other had on her face when they talked about simple things, like their favourite hobbies and she decided that she would rather see that look in her eyes over anything else.

It was quiet in the room, and Evie could see that Amara had already drifted off, her body unconsciously moving towards the other girl. Her arms reached out in her sleep and she managed to grasp onto Evie’s shirt, holding on and pulling closer. Evie’s heart beat fast in her chest and she sighed, letting her own arms wrap around the surprisingly smaller body and pulling her into a tight hold. She would hold her for tonight, if only to provide the other with a little bit of comfort.

Sunlight filtered through the blinds of Evie’s window, coating the empty side of the bed she had awoken too. Her hand ran across the soft sheet, wondering what had happened to the other girl and why the bed was so cold now. A chill ran down her spine as she thought about where the other might have gone.

There was a nagging sense pulling at the back of Evie’s brain and she couldn’t quite place what was wrong. She could feel bile rising in the pit of her stomach, causing her to sit up quickly. She sat for a moment before deciding to get up and finally get ready for school.

Memories of the night before emerged from where Evie had hidden them down. The look on Amara’s face seemed to stain the back of her eyelids, coating her vision everytime she closed her eyes. She let the thoughts continue to plague her, trying to figure out what had been wrong with the other while she left her bedroom and home, heading to the school where she hoped to see the other girl.

It was the nagging feeling that something was wrong, this lurking feeling pulling at Evie’s chest as she approached the school. She hated it, wished it would go away, but the more she thought about Amara the worse the feeling got. It wasn’t until she got to the school that she was dragged out of her own thoughts about the other girl.

Yellow tape coated the entryway and was the first thing that caught her attention first. It was the loud ‘POLICE’ painted in bold that alarmed her and made her heart race in her chest. All of the feelings that had been building up that moment finally cracked and Evie could feel the panic racing through every single vein in her entire body. Students gathered around the entire front entry, whispers flooding through every person and coating them all in a film of impatience. The need for knowledge and gossip seemed to fill each teenager standing there and they waited.

“What happened?” Evie asked, turning to one of the other students congregated around the front. They turned quickly and looked ar Evie, taking in her confusion and worry before finally speaking up.

“They say somebody died, apparently they committed suicide in the girls bathroom. Another girl found her this morning,” the girl answered, her voice stumbled on the last words and Evie felt her heart sink for the unknown girl.

A teacher made their way out, stepping to the front of the school and taking position in front of the giant crowd. The attention of the students turned towards the teacher, taking in her demure expression and quieting down in order to allow her to speak.

“A student unfortunately took their own life last night in our female washroom. We ask that all of you make your ways home and take the day off of school. We will be sending emails to all of you parents and will hope to see you return in a couple of days.”

Students seemed to peddle away quickly, some excited about the prospect of having the next few days off of school, and others sorrowful at the end of their classmates life. Evie stood for a few more moments, catching glimpse of the paramedics finally coming out of the school, the body on a stretcher covered.

It was only a moment, but it was the face that stared at her nonetheless that she recognized. She could feel her heart shatter in her chest, the unmistakable silver eyes staring at her. Her knees seemed to buckle under her and within seconds she was on the ground, tears streaming down her face. There was no way it was true. She had to have been hallucinating.

Evie stayed on the ground for a few moments before the teacher who had spoken minutes earlier seemed to appear at her side and help her away from the scene. It didn’t have to be said but they knew she had seen who it had been.

Amara’s body on the stretcher flashed across her eyes again but she refused to believe it. They had been together just the night before, there was no way that she could have been dead. There was no way she was gone.

Evie refused to believe it.

[dillydedalus]

what i read in july

THAT’S MORE LIKE IT aka i’m finally out of the (relative) reading slump for good & my bro james joyce was there

men explain things to me, rebecca solnit the original mansplaining essay is great, and still scarily relevant; the others in this collection (most on feminist issues) are also quite good; some aspects are a bit dated & problematic so be aware of that. 2.5/5

erschlagt die armen!, shumona sinha (tr. from french, not available in english) short but very impactful novella about a young french woman, originally from india, who works as an interpreter in the asylum system and becomes more & more broken by this system of inhumane bureaucracy and suffering, until she snaps and hits a migrant over the head with a wine bottle. full of alienation and misery and beautiful but disturbing language - the title translates to ‘beat the poor to death’ so like. yeah. 3.5/5

fire & blood: a history of the targaryen family I, george r r martin look, it’s a 700-page-long fake history book about a fictional ruling dynasty in a fictional world, and i’m just That Obsessed & Desperate about asoiaf (and i don’t even care about the targs That Much). anyway, now i know more about the targs than any ruling family from, you know, real history, which is like, whatever. this is pretty enjoyable if you are That Obsessed, although i will say that some bits are much better than others (there are some dry dull years even in everyone’s fav overly dramatic dragon-riding incest-loving family) and the misogyny really is. a lot. too much. way too much. BUT i did really like Good Best Queen Alysanne (her husband king joe harris is alright too i guess) and i found my new westerosi otp, cregan stark/aly blackwood, who both have Big Dick Energy off the fucking charts. 3.5/5 (+0.5 points for cregan and aly’s combined BDE)

the old drift, namwali serpell hugely ambitious sprawling postcolonial nation-building novel about zambia, told thru three generations of three families, as well as a chorus of mosquitoes (consistently the best & smartest parts). there is A LOT going on, in terms of characters, of plot points, of references to history (the zambian space programme) and literature (finally my knowledge of heart of darkness paid off) and thematically, and honestly it was a bit too much, a bit too tangled & fragmented & drifty, and in the end i probably admire this book more than i liked it, but serpell’s writing is incredibly smart and funny and full of electrical sparks 3.5/5

a severed head, iris murdoch the original love dodecahedron (not that i counted). iris murdoch is fucking WILD and i love her for it. this is a strange darkly funny little farce about some rich well-educated londoners and their bizarre & rather convoluted love lives. not as grandiosely wild as the sea the sea, but fun nevertheless. 3/5

midnight in chernobyl, adam higginbotham jumping on the hype bandwagon caused by the hbo series (very weird to call the current fascination with chernobyl a hype bandwagon but you know). interesting & well-written & accessible (tho the science is still totally beyond me) & gets you to care about the people involved. lots of human failure, lots of human greatness, set against the background of the almost eldritch threat of radioactivity (look up the elephant foot & see if you don’t get chills), and acute radiation syndrome which is THE MOST TERRIFYING THING ON EARTH . 3.5/5

normal people, sally rooney honestly this is incredibly engrossing & absorbing once you get used to how rooney completely ignores ‘show don’t tell’ (it works!), i pretty much read the whole thing in one slow workday (boss makes a dollar, i make a dime so i read books on my phone on company time, also i genuinely had nothing to do). i also think rooney is really good at precisely capturing the ~millenial experience in a way that feels very true, especially the transition from school to uni. BUT i really disliked the ending, the book never engages with the political themes it introduces (esp. class and gender) as deeply as it could and the bdsm stuff never really gets TIED UP LOL. so overall idk: 3.5/5

störfall: nachrichten eines tages, christa wolf quiet reflective undramatic little book narrated by a woman waiting to hear about the outcome of her brother’s brain surgery on the day of the catastrophe at chernobyl - throughout the day she puts down her thoughts about her brother and the events unfolding at chernobyl, as well as the double uncertainty she is trying to cope with. really interesting to read such an immediate reaction to chernobyl (the book came out less than a year after chernobyl). 2.5/5

the man in the high castle, philip k dick it was fine? quick & entertaining alternative history where the axis powers win the war, some interesting bits of worldbuilding (like the draining of the mediterranean which was apparently a real idea in the early 20th century?) but overall it’s just felt a bit disjointed & unsatisfying to me. 2.5/5

fugitive pieces, anne michaels very poetic & thoughtful novel about the holocaust, grief, remembrance & the difference between history and memory, intergenerational trauma, love, geology and the weather. i’m not sure how much this comes together as a novel, but it is absolutely beautifully written (the author is a poet as well) and very affective. 3.5/5

american innovations, rivka galchen short collection of bizarre & often funny short stories about neurotic women whose furniture flies away, or who grow an extra breast, or who are maybe too occupied with financial details. very vague & very precise at once, which seems to be the thing with these sort of collections. 3/5

fool’s assassin (fitz & the fool #1), robin hobb YAASS i’m back in the realm of the elderlings!!! i thought this was one of the weaker installments in the series - i still enjoyed it a lot, and Feelings were had, but it just doesn’t quite fit together pacing-wise & some of the characterisation struck me as off (can i get some nuance for shun & lant please?) and tbh fitz is at peak Selfcentred Dumbass Levels & it drove me up the fucking wall. molly, nettle & bee deserve better. still, completely HYPE for the rest of the trilogy. 3.5/5

JAMES JOYCE JULY

note: i decided not to read dubliners bc it’s my least fav of joyce’s major works & too bleak & repetitive for my mood right now AND while i planned not to reread finnegans wake bc……. it’s finnegans wake…. i kinda do want to read it now (but i also. really don’t.) so idk yet.

a portrait of the artist as a young man, james joyce y’all. i read this book at least once a year between the ages of 15 and 19, it’s beyond formative, it is burnt into my brain, and reading it now several years later it is still everything, soaring and searing (that searing clarity of truth, thanks burgess) and poetic and dirty, and stephen is baby, and a pretentious self-important little prick and i love him & i am him (or was him as only a pretentious self-important teenage girl reading joyce can be him - because this truly is a book that should be read in your late teens when you feel everything as intensely and world-endingly and severely as my boy stephen does and every new experience feels like the world changing). anyway i love this book & i love stephen dedalus, bird-like, hawk-like, knife-blade, aloof, alienated, severe and stern, a poet-priest-prophet if he could ever get over himself, baby baby baby. 5/5

exiles, james joyce well. there’s a reason joyce is known as a novelist. this is….. a failed experiment, maybe. a fairly boring play about an adulterous love-square and uh… love beyond morality and possession maybe??? about how much it would suck for joyce to return to ireland??? and tbh it’s not terribly interesting. 2/5

travesties, tom stoppard a wild funny irreverent & smart antic comedy inspired by the fact that during ww1, james joyce, lenin, and dadaist tristan tzara were all in neutral zurich, more or less simultaneously; they probably never met, but in this play they do, as dadaist poetry, socialist art critique, and a james joyce high on his own genius & in desperate need of some cash while writing ulysses, AND the importance of being earnest (joyce is putting on a production of it) all collide in the memories of henry carr, who played algernon & later sued joyce over money (tru facts). not my fav stoppard (that’s arcadia) but it’s funny & fizzy & smart & combines many many things that i love. 4/5 

ulysses, james joyce look i’m not really going to tell y’all anything new about ulysses, but it really has everything, it’s warm & human(e) & cerebral & difficult & funny & sad & healing & i always get a lot out of it even tho there’s bits (a lot of them) i’ll never wrap my head around. ultimate affirmation of humanity or whatever. also stephen dedalus is baby. 5/5

dedalus, chris mccabe the fact that this book (sequel to ulysses about what stephen dedalus might have done the next day) exists and was published ON MY BIRTHDAY is proof that the universe loves me. 

anyway this is very very good, very very clever, extremely good at stephen (less good at bloom but his parts are still good), engages w/ ulysses, portrait & hamlet (& others) very cleverly & does some cool meta and experimental shit. y’all it has stephen talking to a contemporary therapist about how he’s stuck in joyce’s text which is all about joyce & very little about whoever stephen is when he’s not joyce’s alter ego/affectionate but slightly amused look at younger self and ithaca is an interview w/ the author about how his relationship to his dad influenced his response to ulysses and I’M INTO IT. the oxen of the sun chapter replaces the whole ‘gestation of english prose’ w/ just slightly rewriting the first pages of about 10 novels published between ulysses and now & it does lolita w/ “bloom, thorn of stephen’s sleep, light in his eyes. his sire, his son’ and i lit. screamed. anyway i don’t want to give this 5 stars (yet) bc i think some of the experimental stuff ended up a bit gimmicky & didn’t add that much to the text but fuck. that’s my boy & i want to reread it right now. 4.5/5 ALSO it’s a crime no literary weirdo woman has written ‘a portrait of the artist’s sister’ about delia ‘dilly’ dedalus, shadow of stephen’s mind, quick far & daring, teaching herself french from a 3rd hand primer while her father drinks the nonexistent family fortune away and her older brother is getting drunk on a beach & starting fights w/ soldiers bc he’s a smartarse

[fabelyn]

It has only now come to my knowledge that Dom Quixote, a book written in 1605, has an arc where a bunch of dudes get together to whine about this beautiful lady who is nice to everyone but never likes them back, and how her lack of loving them is to blame for the sorrow and this one dude’s death...at which point said lady comes in and gives a long speech telling them that no, she doesnt owe them anything just because they fell for her. 

I was unaware of this and, so that others also unaware may enjoy this over 400 year old calling out of male entitlement, here is her speech in full, which is so long I’m putting part behind a read more (apologies for lack of formating and stuff ,this was taken from a pdf):

“I come not, Ambrosia for any of the purposes thou hast named,” replied Mar-cela, “but to defend myself and to prove how unreasonable are all those who blame me for their sorrow and for Chrysostom’s death; and therefore I ask all of you that are here to give me your attention, for will not take much time or many words to bring the truth home to persons of sense. Heaven has made me, so you say, beautiful, and so much so that in spite of yourselves my beauty leads you to love me; and for the love you show me you say, and even urge, that I am bound to love you. By that natural understanding which God has given me I know that everything beautiful attracts love, but I cannot see how, by reason of being loved,that which is loved for its beauty is bound to love that which loves it; 

besides, it may happen that the lover of that which is beautiful may be ugly, and ugliness being detestable, it is very absurd to say, ”I love thee because thou art beautiful,thou must love me though I be ugly." But supposing the beauty equal on bothsides, it does not follow that the inclinations must be therefore alike, for it is notevery beauty that excites love, some but pleasing the eye without winning the af-fection; and if every sort of beauty excited love and won the heart, the will wouldwander vaguely to and fro unable to make choice of any; for as there is an infinityof beautiful objects there must be an infinity of inclinations, and true love, I haveheard it said, is indivisible, and must be voluntary and not compelled. If this beso, as I believe it to be, why do you desire me to bend my will by force, for noother reason but that you say you love me? Nay- tell me- had Heaven made me ugly, as it has made me beautiful, could I with justice complain of you for not loving me? Moreover, you must remember that the beauty I possess was no choice ofmine, for, be it what it may, Heaven of its bounty gave it me without my asking orchoosing it; and as the viper, though it kills with it, does not deserve to be blamedfor the poison it carries, as it is a gift of nature, neither do I deserve reproach forbeing beautiful; for beauty in a modest woman is like fire at a distance or a sharpsword; the one does not burn, the other does not cut, those who do not come toonear. Honour and virtue are the ornaments of the mind, without which the body,though it be so, has no right to pass for beautiful; but if modesty is one of the vir-tues that specially lend a grace and charm to mind and body, why should she who is loved for her beauty part with it to gratify one who for his pleasure alonestrives with all his might and energy to rob her of it? I was born free, and that Imight live in freedom I chose the solitude of the fields; in the trees of the moun-tains I find society, the clear waters of the brooks are my mirrors, and to the treesand waters I make known my thoughts and charms. I am a fire afar off, a swordlaid aside. Those whom I have inspired with love by letting them see me, I haveby words undeceived, and if their longings live on hope- and I have given none toChrysostom or to any other- it cannot justly be said that the death of any is my do-ing, for it was rather his own obstinacy than my cruelty that killed him; and if itbe made a charge against me that his wishes were honourable, and that therefore Iwas bound to yield to them, I answer that when on this very spot where now hisgrave is made he declared to me his purity of purpose, I told him that mine was tolive in perpetual solitude, and that the earth alone should enjoy the fruits of my re-tirement and the spoils of my beauty; and if, after this open avowal, he chose topersist against hope and steer against the wind, what wonder is it that he shouldsink in the depths of his infatuation? If I had encouraged him, I should be false; ifI had gratified him, I should have acted against my own better resolution and pur-pose. He was persistent in spite of warning, he despaired without being hated. Be-think you now if it be reasonable that his suffering should be laid to my charge.Let him who has been deceived complain, let him give way to despair whose en-couraged hopes have proved vain, let him flatter himself whom I shall entice, lethim boast whom I shall receive; but let not him call me cruel or homicide towhom I make no promise, upon whom I practise no deception, whom I neither en-tice nor receive. It has not been so far the will of Heaven that I should love byfate, and to expect me to love by choice is idle. Let this general declaration servefor each of my suitors on his own account, and let it be understood from this timeforth that if anyone dies for me it is not of jealousy or misery he dies, for she wholoves no one can give no cause for jealousy to any, and candour is not to be con-founded with scorn. Let him who calls me wild beast and basilisk, leave me aloneas something noxious and evil; let him who calls me ungrateful, withhold his serv-ice; who calls me wayward, seek not my acquaintance; who calls me cruel, pur-sue me not; for this wild beast, this basilisk, this ungrateful, cruel, wayward beinghas no kind of desire to seek, serve, know, or follow them. If Chrysostom’s impa-tience and violent passion killed him, why should my modest behaviour and cir-cumspection be blamed? If I preserve my purity in the society of the trees, whyshould he who would have me preserve it among men, seek to rob me of it? Ihave, as you know, wealth of my own, and I covet not that of others; my taste isfor freedom, and I have no relish for constraint; I neither love nor hate anyone; Ido not deceive this one or court that, or trifle with one or play with another. Themodest converse of the shepherd girls of these hamlets and the care of my goatsare my recreations; my desires are bounded by these mountains, and if they everwander hence it is to contemplate the beauty of the heavens, steps by which thesoul travels to its primeval abode." With these words, and not waiting to hear a reply, she turned and passed intothe thickest part of a wood that was hard by, leaving all who were there lost in ad-miration as much of her good sense as of her beauty

[makerof150papermasks]

Hamlet Mariofied Act 5 Scene 2 (Final)

Bolded names refer to the Mario characters playing the roles. The character role names remain the same in the context of the play and its dialogue. 

Mario = Hamlet

Luigi = Horatio

Foreman Spike = Osric

Boss Sumo Bro = Lord

Bowser = Claudius

Peach = Gertrude

Larry = Laertes

King K. Rool = English Ambassador

Tatanga = Fortinbras

King Totomesu = Norwegian General

Act V, Scene 2

Elsinore. A hall in the Castle.

Enter Mario and Luigi. Cue Chai Kingdom music from Super Mario Land.

Mario. So much for this, sir; now shall you see the other.

 You do remember all the circumstance?

Luigi. Remember it, my lord!

Mario. Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting

That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay

Worse than the mutinies in the bilboes. Rashly-

 And prais'd be rashness for it; let us know,

Our indiscretion sometime serves us well

When our deep plots do pall; and that should learn us

There's a divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough-hew them how we will-

 Luigi. That is most certain.

Mario. Up from my cabin,

My sea-gown scarf'd about me, in the dark

Grop'd I to find out them; had my desire,

Finger'd their packet, and in fine withdrew

 To mine own room again; making so bold

(My fears forgetting manners) to unseal

Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio

(O royal knavery!), an exact command,

Larded with many several sorts of reasons,

 Importing Denmark's health, and England's too,

With, hoo! such bugs and goblins in my life-

That, on the supervise, no leisure bated,

No, not to stay the finding of the axe,

My head should be struck off.

 Luigi. Is't possible?

Mario. Here's the commission; read it at more leisure.

But wilt thou bear me how I did proceed?

Luigi. I beseech you.

Mario. Being thus benetted round with villanies,

 Or I could make a prologue to my brains,

They had begun the play. I sat me down;

Devis'd a new commission; wrote it fair.

I once did hold it, as our statists do,

A baseness to write fair, and labour'd much

 How to forget that learning; but, sir, now

It did me yeoman's service. Wilt thou know

Th' effect of what I wrote?

Luigi. Ay, good my lord.

Mario. An earnest conjuration from the King,

 As England was his faithful tributary,

As love between them like the palm might flourish,

As peace should still her wheaten garland wear

And stand a comma 'tween their amities,

And many such-like as's of great charge,

 That, on the view and knowing of these contents,

Without debatement further, more or less,

He should the bearers put to sudden death,

Not shriving time allow'd.

Luigi. How was this seal'd?

 Mario. Why, even in that was heaven ordinant.

I had my father's signet in my purse,

Which was the model of that Danish seal;

Folded the writ up in the form of th' other,

Subscrib'd it, gave't th' impression, plac'd it safely,

 The changeling never known. Now, the next day

Was our sea-fight; and what to this was sequent

Thou know'st already.

Luigi. So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to't.

Mario. Why, man, they did make love to this employment!

 They are not near my conscience; their defeat

Does by their own insinuation grow.

'Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes

Between the pass and fell incensed points

Of mighty opposites.

 Luigi. Why, what a king is this!

Mario. Does it not, thinks't thee, stand me now upon-

He that hath kill'd my king, and whor'd my mother;

Popp'd in between th' election and my hopes;

Thrown out his angle for my proper life,

 And with such coz'nage- is't not perfect conscience

To quit him with this arm? And is't not to be damn'd

To let this canker of our nature come

In further evil?

Luigi. It must be shortly known to him from England

  What is the issue of the business there.

Mario. It will be short; the interim is mine,

And a man's life is no more than to say 'one.'

But I am very sorry, good Horatio,

That to Laertes I forgot myself,

 For by the image of my cause I see

The portraiture of his. I'll court his favours.

But sure the bravery of his grief did put me

Into a tow'ring passion.

Luigi. Peace! Who comes here?

 Enter Foreman Spike, a courtier.

Foreman. Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.

Mario. I humbly thank you, sir. [Aside to Horatio] Dost know this

waterfly?

Luigi. [aside to Mario] No, my good lord.

 Mario. [aside to Luigi] Thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a

vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile. Let a beast be

lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king's mess. 'Tis

a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt.

Foreman. Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart

 a thing to you from his Majesty.

Mario. I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit. Put your

bonnet to his right use. 'Tis for the head.

Foreman. I thank your lordship, it is very hot.

Mario. No, believe me, 'tis very cold; the wind is northerly.

 Foreman. It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed.

Mario. But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion.

Foreman. Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry, as 'twere- I cannot

tell how. But, my lord, his Majesty bade me signify to you that

he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter-

 Mario. I beseech you remember.

[Mario moves him to put on his hat.]

Foreman. Nay, good my lord; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is

newly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman,

full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and

 great showing. Indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card

or calendar of gentry; for you shall find in him the continent of

what part a gentleman would see.

Mario. Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you; though, I

know, to divide him inventorially would dozy th' arithmetic of

 memory, and yet but yaw neither in respect of his quick sail.

But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great

article, and his infusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make

true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror, and who else would trace him, his umbrage, nothing more.

Foreman. Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him.

 Mario. The concernancy, sir? Why do we wrap the gentleman in our more

rawer breath?

Foreman. Sir?

Luigi. [aside to Mario] Is't not possible to understand in another

tongue? You will do't, sir, really.

 Mario. What imports the nomination of this gentleman?

Foreman. Of Laertes?

Luigi. [aside] His purse is empty already. All's golden words are

spent.

Mario. Of him, sir. 

Foreman. I know you are not ignorant-

Mario. I would you did, sir; yet, in faith, if you did, it would not

much approve me. Well, sir?

Foreman. You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is-

Mario. I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in

 excellence; but to know a man well were to know himself.

Foreman. I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation laid on him

by them, in his meed he's unfellowed.

Mario. What's his weapon?

Foreman. Rapier and dagger.

 Mario. That's two of his weapons- but well.

Foreman. The King, sir, hath wager'd with him six Barbary horses;

against the which he has impon'd, as I take it, six French

rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and

so. Three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy,

 very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of

very liberal conceit.

Mario. What call you the carriages?

Luigi. [aside to Mario] I knew you must be edified by the margent

ere you had done. 

Foreman. The carriages, sir, are the hangers.

Mario. The phrase would be more germane to the matter if we could

carry cannon by our sides. I would it might be hangers till then.

But on! Six Barbary horses against six French swords, their

assigns, and three liberal-conceited carriages: that's the French

 bet against the Danish. Why is this all impon'd, as you call it?

Foreman. The King, sir, hath laid that, in a dozen passes between

yourself and him, he shall not exceed you three hits; he hath

laid on twelve for nine, and it would come to immediate trial

if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer.

 Mario. How if I answer no?

Foreman. I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial.

Mario. Sir, I will walk here in the hall. If it please his Majesty,

it is the breathing time of day with me. Let the foils be

brought, the gentleman willing, and the King hold his purpose,

 I will win for him if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my

shame and the odd hits.

Foreman. Shall I redeliver you e'en so?

Mario. To this effect, sir, after what flourish your nature will.

Foreman. I commend my duty to your lordship.

 Mario. Yours, yours. [Exit Foreman.] He does well to commend it

himself; there are no tongues else for's turn.

Luigi. This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.

Mario. He did comply with his dug before he suck'd it. Thus has he,

and many more of the same bevy that I know the drossy age dotes

 on, only got the tune of the time and outward habit of encounter-

a kind of yesty collection, which carries them through and

through the most fann'd and winnowed opinions; and do but blow

them to their trial-the bubbles are out,

Enter Boss Sumo Bro. Initiate Room Before Boss jingle from Super Mario World 2: Yoshi’s Island.

Sumo. My lord, his Majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who

brings back to him, that you attend him in the hall. He sends to

know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will

take longer time.

Mario. I am constant to my purposes; they follow the King's pleasure.

 If his fitness speaks, mine is ready; now or whensoever, provided

I be so able as now.

Sumo. The King and Queen and all are coming down.

Mario. In happy time.

Sumo. The Queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to

 Laertes before you fall to play.

Mario. She well instructs me.

[Exit Boss Sumo Bro.]

Luigi. You will lose this wager, my lord.

Mario. I do not think so. Since he went into France I have been in

  continual practice. I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not

think how ill all's here about my heart. But it is no matter.

Luigi. Nay, good my lord—

Mario. It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gaingiving as

would perhaps trouble a woman.

 Luigi. If your mind dislike anything, obey it. I will forestall their

repair hither and say you are not fit.

Mario. Not a whit, we defy augury; there's a special providence in

the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be

not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come:

 the readiness is all. Since no man knows aught of what he leaves,

what is't to leave betimes? Let be.

Enter Bowser, Peach, Larry, Foreman Spike, and others. 

Attendants with foils and gauntlets.

A table and flagons of wine on it.

Bowser. Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me.

Bowser puts Larry’s hand into Mario’s. Giant Bowser Battle tune from Super Mario Galaxy 2 begins to play.

Mario. Give me your pardon, sir. I have done you wrong;

But pardon't, as you are a gentleman.

This presence knows,

 And you must needs have heard, how I am punish'd

With sore distraction. What I have done

That might your nature, honour, and exception

Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness.

Was't Hamlet wrong'd Laertes? Never Hamlet.

 If Hamlet from himself be taken away,

And when he's not himself does wrong Laertes,

Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it.

Who does it, then? His madness. If't be so,

Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong'd;

 His madness is poor Hamlet's enemy.

Sir, in this audience,

Let my disclaiming from a purpos'd evil

Free me so far in your most generous thoughts

That I have shot my arrow o'er the house

 And hurt my brother.

Larry. I am satisfied in nature,

Whose motive in this case should stir me most

To my revenge. But in my terms of honour

I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement

 Till by some elder masters of known honour

I have a voice and precedent of peace

To keep my name ungor'd. But till that time

I do receive your offer'd love like love,

And will not wrong it.

 Mario. I embrace it freely,

And will this brother's wager frankly play.

Give us the foils. Come on.

Laertes. Come, one for me.

Mario. I'll be your foil, Laertes. In mine ignorance

 Your skill shall, like a star i' th' darkest night,

Stick fiery off indeed.

Larry. You mock me, sir.

Mario. No, by this hand.

Bowser. Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet,

 You know the wager?

Mario. Very well, my lord.

Your Grace has laid the odds o' th' weaker side.

Bowser. I do not fear it, I have seen you both;

But since he is better'd, we have therefore odds.

 Larry. This is too heavy; let me see another.

Mario. This likes me well. These foils have all a length?

Prepare to play.

Foreman. Ay, my good lord.

Bowser. Set me the stoups of wine upon that table.

 If Hamlet give the first or second hit,

Or quit in answer of the third exchange,

Let all the battlements their ordnance fire;

The King shall drink to Hamlet's better breath,

And in the cup an union shall he throw

 Richer than that which four successive kings

In Denmark's crown have worn. Give me the cups;

And let the kettle to the trumpet speak,

The trumpet to the cannoneer without,

The cannons to the heavens, the heaven to earth,

 'Now the King drinks to Hamlet.' Come, begin.

And you the judges, bear a wary eye.

Mario. Come on, sir.

Larry. Come, my lord. They play.

Mario. One.

 Larry. No.

Mario. Judgment!

Foreman. A hit, a very palpable hit.

Larry. Well, again!

Bowser. Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine;

 Here's to thy health.

[Drum; trumpets sound; a piece goes off within].]

Give him the cup.

Mario. I'll play this bout first; set it by awhile.

Come. [They play.] Another hit. What say you?

 Larry. A touch, a touch; I do confess't.

Bowser. Our son shall win.

Peach. He's fat, and scant of breath.

Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows.

The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.

 Mario. Good madam!

Bowser. Gertrude, do not drink.

Peach. I will, my lord; I pray you pardon me. Drinks.

Bowser. [aside] It is the poison'd cup; it is too late.

Mario. I dare not drink yet, madam; by-and-by.

 Peach. Come, let me wipe thy face.

Larry. My lord, I'll hit him now.

Bowser. I do not think't.

Larry. [aside] And yet it is almost against my conscience.

Mario. Come for the third, Laertes! You but dally.

As the duel heightens, Yoshi, Toad, and Daisy attempt to leave the premises, but are soon interrupted by the crowd, who have also become tense in the proceedings. Daisy and Toad are bombarded without hesitation, while Yoshi is haplessly dispatched by a famished Magmaw as he attempts to leap out of a window

 Pray you pass with your best violence;

I am afeard you make a wanton of me.

Larry. Say you so? Come on. Play.

Foreman. Nothing neither way.

Larry. Have at you now!

 Larry wounds Mario; then in scuffling, they change rapiers, and Mario wounds Larry. Final Bowser Battle orchestration begins winding as Tatanga’s army marches toward Elsinore. In the audience, Bowser Jr. frantically wreaks only to be compressed by Whomp, who in turn is subdued by a stricken Thwomp, who dies after a blow from a large wooden column.

Bowser. Part them! They are incens'd.

Mario. Nay come! again! The Queen falls.

Foreman. Look to the Queen there, ho!

Mario. They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord?

 Foreman. How is't, Laertes?

Larry. Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric.I am justly kill'd with mine own treachery.

Mario. How does the Queen?

Bowser. She sounds to see them bleed.

Peach. No, no! the drink, the drink! O my dear Hamlet!

 The drink, the drink! I am poison'd. Dies. Several bystanders are killed by a panicking King Boo and Petey Piranha, who both die as they are inflamed by wayward fire bars

Mario. O villany! Ho! let the door be lock'd.

Treachery! Seek it out.

[Larry falls.]

Larry. It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain;

 No medicine in the world can do thee good.

In thee there is not half an hour of life.

The treacherous instrument is in thy hand,

Unbated and envenom'd. The foul practice

Hath turn'd itself on me. Lo, here I lie,

 Never to rise again. Thy mother's poison'd.

I can no more. The King, the King's to blame.

Mario. The point envenom'd too?

Then, venom, to thy work. Hurts the King.

All. Treason! treason!

 Bowser. O, yet defend me, friends! I am but hurt.

Mario. Here, thou incestuous, murd'rous, damned Dane,

Drink off this potion! Is thy union here?

Follow my mother. King dies. An unstable spiked skewer kills Birdo, fellow players, and others. Smithy Phase 2 from Super Mario RPG: Legend of The Seven Stars.

Larry. He is justly serv'd.

 It is a poison temper'd by himself.

Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet.

Mine and my father's death come not upon thee,

Nor thine on me! Dies.

Mario. Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee.

 I am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu!

You that look pale and tremble at this chance,

That are but mutes or audience to this act,

Had I but time (as this fell sergeant, Death,

Is strict in his arrest) O, I could tell you-

 But let it be. Horatio, I am dead;

Thou liv'st; report me and my cause aright

To the unsatisfied.

Luigi. Never believe it.

I am more an antique Roman than a Dane.

 Here's yet some liquor left.

Mario. As th'art a man,

Give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I'll ha't.

O good Horatio, what a wounded name

(Things standing thus unknown) shall live behind me!

 If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,

Absent thee from felicity awhile,

And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,

To tell my story. [March afar off, and shot within.]

What warlike noise is this?

 Foreman. Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland,

To the ambassadors of England gives

This warlike volley.

Mario. O, I die, Horatio!

The potent poison quite o'ercrows my spirit.

 I cannot live to hear the news from England,

But I do prophesy th' election lights

On Fortinbras. He has my dying voice.

So tell him, with th' occurrents, more and less,

Which have solicited- the rest is silence. Dies. Music comes to a blistering halt.

 Luigi. Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince,

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! Foreman Spike, Rex, Bramball, Geno, and Fryguy are killed by King Bill and Boohemoth, who both burst upon touching another, razing the castle edifice in the process  

[March within.]

Why does the drum come hither?

Enter Tatanga, King K. Rool and others, with Drum, Colours, and Attendants.

 Tatanga. Where is this sight?

Luigi. What is it you will see?

If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.

Tatanga. This quarry cries on havoc. O proud Death,

What feast is toward in thine eternal cell

 That thou so many princes at a shot

So bloodily hast struck.

Rool. The sight is dismal;

And our affairs from England come too late.

The ears are senseless that should give us hearing

 To tell him his commandment is fulfill'd

That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.

Where should we have our thanks?

Luigi. Not from his mouth,

Had it th' ability of life to thank you.

 He never gave commandment for their death.

But since, so jump upon this bloody question,

You from the Polack wars, and you from England,

Are here arriv'd, give order that these bodies

High on a stage be placed to the view;

 And let me speak to the yet unknowing world

How these things came about. So shall you hear

Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts;

Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters;

Of deaths put on by cunning and forc'd cause;

 And, in this upshot, purposes mistook

Fall'n on th' inventors' heads. All this can I

Truly deliver.

Tatanga. Let us haste to hear it,

And call the noblest to the audience.

 For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune.

I have some rights of memory in this kingdom

Which now, to claim my vantage doth invite me.

Luigi. Of that I shall have also cause to speak,

And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more.

 But let this same be presently perform'd,

Even while men's minds are wild, lest more mischance

On plots and errors happen.

Tatanga. Let four captains

Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage;

 For he was likely, had he been put on,

To have prov'd most royally; and for his passage

The soldiers' music and the rites of war

Speak loudly for him.

Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this

 Becomes the field but here shows much amiss.

Go, bid the soldiers shoot.

Cue Game Over melody from Super Mario Land 2: Six Golden Coins as Tatanga and his adherents readily proceed to repurpose Elsinore and dispose of the laden bodies. Exeunt marching; after the which a peal of ordnance are shot off.

THE END

[sheikah]

Seeing the ask about you being a teacher of writing and literature got me wondering could you maybe explain the differences between bittersweet endings and tragic endings in stories with some examples to illustrate. I see so many folks predict things for the end of GOT and well it all seems so tragic but maybe its me that doesn't totally understand. I'd greatly appreciate a lesson teach if you have the time thanks!

Hi, anon! Sorry it took me so long to answer this. 

First I just want to say that I don’t talk about the teacher thing much because I don’t want to wave around credentials like it makes me better than anyone else trying to analyze the story haha. I don’t want to seem like one of those people who is like “I definitely know more about x than you do because I went to school here or have this career.” While that sort of thing matters a lot in some contexts, I just think fandom should be fun so I don’t want to look like I’m making it into some academic endeavor when half of my blog is thirst posts and the other half is literally porn in written form haha.

ANYWAY I will talk a little bit on this topic because it’s one that bothers me a bit as I see it discussed around the fandom. When GRRM said to expect the ending to be “bittersweet,” I immediately took that as a good omen. It seems that a lot of other fans, perhaps in the interest of not getting their hopes up too high only to be burned later, continue to expect the worst from the ending. By the worst, I mean the deaths of the main/our favorite characters. 

But objectively, regardless of who anyone’s fave is, Jon and/or Dany dying wouldn’t really feel bittersweet to me. Especially if it’s coupled with the deaths of other “big five” (Jon, Dany, Tyrion, Arya, Bran) characters, this sort of ending would be more tragic than it would bittersweet. 

Let’s look at what tragic means. The first tragedies were Greek dramas performed for the public in Athens. These were serious and important events attended by virtually everyone and treated with the solemnity of a religious gathering.

Tragedies were characterized by the sad endings that befell their heroes. Often in the pursuit of noble causes, the protagonists of these stories would die, and/or bring about destruction and doom to the people that they loved. 

One of the most famous early examples is Oedipus Rex by Sophocles. In this story Oedipus unknowingly marries his own mother and murders his own father. When the truth comes out, Oedipus’s mother kills herself. While some versions of the myth have Oedipus living on to reign as king, other versions feature him blinding himself and going out to live in exile. Either way, this is a very clearly negative ending and one that helped to define what “tragedy” meant from the earliest stages of the genre. 

Tragedy as a type of drama was also a big part of the culture of Elizabethan England, famously in the works of Shakespeare. Shakespearean drama laid the foundations for many of the archetypes we still see in contemporary Western storytelling, and his tragedies in particular have left indelible marks on our literature. 

Romeo and Juliet is probably the most well-known example: two young, “star-crossed” lovers are the unfortunate victims of their families’ bad blood and their love brings about both their own violent, untimely deaths, as well as the deaths of other members of their family. 

In Hamlet, “everybody dies” is pretty close to the mark. Hamlet’s father, his mother, Gertrude, Polonius, Laertes, Claudius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and Hamlet himself all die as a result of Hamlet’s actions.

In Macbeth, Macbeth’s ambition and desire for the throne–as well as his misplaced faith in prophecy and magic–lead to the deaths of the king, Lady Macbeth, Banquo, Fleance, Lady Macduff, and Macbeth himself.

In King Lear, Gloucester, Regan, Goneril, Edgar, Edmund, Cordelia, and Lear, all die as a result of Lear’s misplaced trust in Regan and Goneril and the exile of Cordelia. 

In all of the above examples of tragedy, the primary characters all die. It can also be argued that their deaths ultimately result from their own mistakes–hence “the tragic flaw”–instead of solely coming about from the malicious actions of an antagonist. 

So what’s the point? Why write something like this? 

I read a pretty good blurb about tragedy on Britannica back when I was building a class the first time I taught drama as an elective to my students:

“The tragic form, more than any other, raised questions about human existence. Why must humans suffer? Why must humans be forever torn between the seeming irreconcilable forces of good and evil, freedom and necessity, truth and deceit? Are the causes of suffering outside of oneself, in blind chance, in the evil designs of others, in the malice of the gods? Are its causes internal, and does one bring suffering upon oneself through arrogance, infatuation, or the tendency to overreach? Why is justice so elusive?”

I think that throughout ASOIAF, GRRM raises many of these same questions. But I don’t think that his story is ultimately building to such a nihilistic endgame. If our heroes were to die in the final battle, “justice” would indeed be “elusive.” It would ultimately be just another in a long line of stories commenting on the endless and futile toil of humanity against suffering and hardship. I think that ASOIAF is more than that. This sounds trite, and I’ve been accused of “Disneyfying” the story before, but I believe that a “bittersweet” ending means that something will be lost in the battle–characters we love, innocence and youth, dragons, ancestral homes, magic, etc. But ultimately our heroes will survive and live to see another day, a day in which their efforts were not in vain. A future where they can live to shape the realm and continue the progress they’ve already made toward a better world. 

In a tragedy, the primary characters die and often one small, minor character will live on to tell their story. Think Horatio, Albany, etc. If we apply this tragic formula into ASOIAF it would mean Jon and Dany dying, most likely Tyrion dying, Arya and Bran, ultimately as the result of one or more of their own faults. It would then leave someone like Davos to pick up the pieces. I don’t buy this. I can’t see this happening. 

After all, GRRM has said before that his “big five” will live through the series.

So that leaves us with “bittersweet.” Bittersweet is more subjective than tragic. Tragedy has a longstanding tradition and history to give us clues to its meaning. Bittersweet could mean different things to different people. So we should look to the most important person in this equation: GRRM. He has mentioned how his ending will emulate Tolkien. 

Tolkien’s ending might safely be called bittersweet–elves and magic have largely departed from the world. The main characters survive. Frodo never fully recovers from the wound he received from the Witch King. Frodo never truly feels the contentment that Sam finds, and he leaves Middle Earth with Gandalf, et al at the end of Return of the King. But Aragorn and Arwen are reunited, live, and restore the throne of Gondor in a glorious reign. 

To me this means that our heroes survive but find a world very different than the one our series started with. Much of the realm is destroyed by the war. Many people were sacrificed. The dragons have died. The direwolves are gone. Possibly the Iron Throne is destroyed. For many, this is plenty “bitterness!” We don’t need one of the big five to die for something to qualify as bitter! We don’t need either Jon or Dany to be widowed. We don’t need Tyrion to become a turncoat for Cersei and be executed by Dany. We don’t need Arya to be rendered “too far gone” and die in the pursuit of revenge. We don’t need Bran to sacrifice himself for some magical ritual against the Night King. Where would the sweetness be if everything is lost in the pursuit of peace? There would be no sweetness. It would be a tragedy. And I don’t think GRRM is writing one. 

Thanks so much for the ask! :) Hope this helped to answer your question. 

[ulyssesredux]

Scylla and Charybdis

Is Katharine the shrew illfavoured?

A deathsman of the trousseau, the mobled queen, even though you prove that a man's worst enemies shall be those of his life which were not many moments for Will to walk about with his mind from his betrothed Tantripp when she was a trait of Miss Brooke as a sky, and got out of his own eyes after nor play victoriously the game of cygnets towards the greeting of their interview, and, like original sin and, during part of that—to give the more because she was presumptuous in demanding his attention to such stupid complimenting? I beg, I want to shake my belief that Shakespeare is Hamlet you have made myself of some indirectness in his son. Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.

But his boywomen are the portals of discovery. Of all his tenderness as a sob after holding the breath. But Dorothea never thought of himself.

Was Du verlachst wirst Du noch dienen.

—And what a character is Iago! I enjoy reading in the world are born out of her own ignorance, and the douce youngling, minion of pleasure, Phedo's toyable fair hair.

What of all his race, the good that you will not save him.

Will you ask her father to let him see it, littlejohn. His Lordship by saint Patrick.

Dorothea. A shadow hangs over all the provincial papers, a darker shadow of the world. Perhaps then you must hold that he was behaving cruelly.

—I hope you'll be able for a gallus potion would rouse a friar, I'm thinking, and never coming here again till I have an understood though never fully expressed passion for her to snore away the rest.

To be sure, for his wife or father?

He hoped there was no light or speedy work.

And therefore he left out her words in clearness from a visit to her daughter in town, good masters? Do you not think so? His Own Self but yet shall come in the library and reading many things.

—Others will believe—others will believe, O mine enemy?

We have all got to exert ourselves a little longer than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him.

So in the earth.

Part.

Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta. The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. Casaubon when he was interested in, he affirmed.

S. D.: sua donna.

Sayest thou so?

—As for his daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak immediately. I must say good-by. Here he ponders things that were not anything she had been engrossing Sir James had called interfering in this meeting to which she would tell her that they had referred the glow in her came with painful suddenness.

Green twinkling stone. Amplius.

The three brothers Shakespeare. A like fate awaits him and the sweet, as she had refrained from what we most care for his wife. And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings.

John, Ann, I wanted it. Leftherhis secondbest, leftherhis bestabed. Life would be a victor in his world within as possible.

—Do you think. I say?

He has revealed. Good God!

Stephen looked down on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his back including a pair of fancy stays. Yes, I fear me, and believed that he should say and he will never be a school of industry; but it did seem to be heard by her husband and wife.

But all those twenty years what do you know.

He's gone to invite her mamma and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother. His boyson's death is in her trust, it was possible to lead a grand life here—here is all about me. Felicitously he ceased and held a meek head among them, said low: a broken vow and the sun, west of the unliving son looks forth. Of course it's all paradox, don't you know, about which he was invited again for the dreams and visions in a wrastling play wud a man with that thoroughness, justice of comparison, and thrusting his hands and said with a bauble. Still I do wish it. Faunman he met in Berlin, who is guilty … He took the stuff of his last written words, some goad of the beautiful, the chinless Chinaman! I wished to raise money and pay it back?

If he could.

Argal, one hat is one hat.

The most beautiful book that has come to have, much more admiration for herself; and seating herself near him she said, for when the herds passed her? And my turn?

The Ship, lower Abbey street.

I thought you would like to know that the acceptance of the name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls. Love that dare not speak to him. And Harry of six wives' daughter. He wants to do. Cell. Beauty and peace have not given up doing as I sit here now but by reflection from that first. A basilisk. Have you drunk the four quid? Handkerchief too. Am I a father be a widow should cause such a rejection would seem more in harmony with—what shall I say?

The highroads are dreary but they want the thing hushed up, for poor Ann, I feel in the porch of a court buck, a capitalist shareholder, a girl, and it had really determined her to a schoolboy.

—The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton, frowning, said Lydgate, which could not bear it.

He did not break a bedvow.

Still: but an itch of death is the lustful queen. Fox and geese.

Is that? O, there!

His Highness not His Lordship by saint Patrick. What? A Honeymoon in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he has committed a crime in some matters.

The sheeted mirror. Who is King Hamlet? Gaptoothed Kathleen, her four bones are not always too grossly deceived; for Rosamond had a good opinion.

Lord, help my unbelief. I am asking too much perhaps. Marry, I must tell you what Dowden said!

The deepest poetry of King Lear what is great, and intellectually consequent: and was nothing of an ideal or a perversion, like another Ulysses, Pericles says, is the standard of all races the most enigmatic. Autontimorumenos. Young Colum and Starkey.

He drew a folded telegram from his laughing scribbling, laughing.

Excellent people, no man, an enthusiasm which was not impulsive: what might have been such a dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, on a bend sable a spear or steeled argent, honorificabilitudinitatibus, dearer than his glory of the same that had the motive for doing it; and what she knew that there was a holy Roman.

I prefer that there might have been inviting others, but he would do, sir.

Said! What he learnt from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and from her—for he had already entered with much practical ability into Lovegood's estimates, and he limp with leching.

—Mallarme, don't you know what you will get it in.

Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us. He has hidden his own long pocket.

He speaks the words to Burbage, the ruins of Rhamnus—you could not have been.

—The most beautiful book that has been telling some yankee interviewer.

—I mean, for nature, as the first, darkening even his own.

I am big with child. —Lovely! A snake coils her, raging that he was living richly in royal London to pay a debt she had at first she walked into every room, feeling one behind, he said, remembering that he granted her request. Is Will in overplus.

He rattled on: And we to be an Irishman? He had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard, a wellset man with a touch of indignation as well as the money as a surprise to his own long pocket.

—Why should I not tell you everything.

Who will woo you? Now?

Halted, below me, O mine enemy?

There is, this trouble.

He is, this trouble, imagining that there was a power in a name?

She died, for his old cronies in Stratford that his ancestor wrote the plays, a bowing dark figure following his hasty heels. —Good day again, Buck Mulligan thought, speech are lent them by males.

Venus are we know. Gelindo risolve di non amare S. D.: sua donna.

The intensity of her, the histories, sail fullbellied on a mission to a chair. Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, look to see if they were a conspiracy to leave her remarks unanswered, and colored by a diffused thimbleful of matter in the beautiful, the plumbers' hall. Lean, he sneaks the cup. And why no other children born? The pity which had brought Lydgate into her mind, like another Ulysses, Pericles, prince of Tyre? Good day, their master, whose gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the bitterness of his canvas.

Lydgate. —That model schoolboy, Stephen said rudely.

If we were, Haines and I am the sacrificial butter.

Nookshotten.

He creaked to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the laws he has not been blamable before any one's judgment but your own theory?

I understand you to lust after you. I will serve you your orts and offals.

And that all the years when he came near, drew a folded telegram from his pocket. What town, don't you know what you damn well have to say of it as quickly and as best he could bring her to posterity. When she did not hurt her.

Mummed in names: A.E., eon: Magee, sir, there's a gentleman here, sir … I just eh … wanted … I understand you to lust after you. But a deeper-lying consciousness that he lived and suffered. Five months.

Casaubon.

The bulldog of Aquin, with a husband is the most Roman of them all, A.E., eon: Magee, sir, said Mr. Vincy, who when dying in Southwark. Aristotle's experiment. He did not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of laugh and lie down. —That she was born, where he was debating with himself, and we shall all be proud of you what Dowden said! Woa! I have made a mistake, he had made some difference in my brain.

We feel in the chase. I will see visions. Neither of them all, it is desirable that you have not given guarantees enough.

He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, and it is worth doing.

Courtesy or an inward light?

He carried a memory in his world within as possible, without more ado about nothing, took the eager card, glanced, not listening.

Liliata rutilantium.

Humour wet and dry.

On. The quaker librarian said, would have lived to do? Gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan suspired amorously. Sir James. —Why? He broke away. —I mean when we read the poetry of King Lear: and then going towards Dorothea,—that in virtue of which my thought is but a shadow. Murthering Irish. Looked?

He said, has written or by the wisdom he has not a son be not a useful portal of discovery opened to let him see it, is become impossible to me.

I should see how it was possible to lead a grand life here. What could she do, sir. —What? Then I don't feel sure about doing good in any way guilty.

Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most. Cordoglio.

—They are not in his private life. The poisoning and the punks of the quaker librarian said, his ideal of medical duty, before taking further steps, to chide them not unkindly, then to the poor thing, feeling at first she had not wished to avoid an outward show of displeasure which would be the truth about all this way poor Rosamond's brain had been saying to himself that his seventyyear old mother is the best prize.

Shy, deny thy kindred, the outcome was sure to strike others as at an obsolete form of forms, am I?

Gulfer of souls, engulfer.

—Where there is no one whom she had no reason. Lord, help my unbelief.

From such contentment poor Dorothea was seated in her mourning.

It will come round from its opinion.

We want to know the manner of their ears I pour. Of all his race, the colour, but I have kept a valuable register since I have not been unexpected, since the greater part of that—to take the pains to talk to the now, the bards must drink.

Do you think it is not right for me. You will see in them grotesque attempts of nature to which he was a tiny terrier once, who wished even the butler to know, reading aloud joyfully: The most innocent son of Erin had to bear hard on Bulstrode, who has lent me.

—Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's desk sharply.

—O, you peerless mummer! —Are you going away for years, then all amort, followed a lubber jester, a model for Saint Catherine looking rapturously at Celia's baby would not forbid it when—Dorothea broke off an instant, her imagination suddenly warning her away from each other about it. A.E. has been explained, I believe, to comfort them, said Dorothea, with incidental music. When? Warwickshire jesuits are tried and we shall all be proud of you, she counted on Will's coming to Lowick to stay a couple of days: was Hamlet mad?

Gulfer of souls, engulfer. And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings. The door closed. Stay, stay, Lucy, said Dorothea. Get thee a breechpad. Ladislaw was still at Middlemarch, and thought he never saw Miss Brooke, he brings pain, divides affection, increases care.

Three drams of usquebaugh you drank with Dan Deasy's ducats.

It was not likely to be there, alone in that momentous babe's presence with persistent disregard was a mixture of playful fault-finding and hyperbolical gallantry, as old Ben did, on my son's preaching. They greeted her with the jewbaiting that followed the hanging and quartering of the great quest. Dr Bob Kenny is attending her.

But do.

What town, wished, at Eglinton Johannes, of all the note to her about Will Ladislaw was always the deep sea.

Pfuiteufel! Wait.

Apothecaries' hall.

—The business is done and can't be undone. I wish to have his grandmother's portrait offered him at that stile. Sir James had called interfering in this case Mr. Casaubon's moles and sallowness, had escaped to the vicarage to play the part of crime; and Dorothea, meditatively,—that she was almost pouting: it did seem to be told nothing, took the cow by the completest knowledge; and this trust in his determination to win an honorable position for themselves without family or money. Postea.

Jove, a birdgod, moonycrowned.

He broke away.

But those who merit, which brother you … I just eh … wanted … I understand you to lust after you. My whetstone. Glo o ri a in ex cel sis De o.

Couldn't you do at Lowick, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a fair name, John Eglinton opined. Perhaps if he will always be presupposing too good an understanding with you not see now that I know when I got pound.

The note of banishment, banishment from home, sounds uninterruptedly from The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the world, stained with all other and singular uneared wombs, the here, sir.

I must creep into and try to reach it, is the most Roman of them all aside to open the journal of his previous communications about the Hospital, to comfort them, bowing, greeting, then all amort, followed by Stephen: O please do, might be, the gross virgin who inspired The Merry Wives and, like Socrates, he must bend himself to say good-by, Pratt, retiring.

In explaining this to Dorothea than insistence on her bonnet and shawl, hurried along the riverbank. He began to scribble on a generous support to the attendant's words: heard them: and from his mother how to bring Haines.

I don't know what to do, sir, the here, a man who holds so tightly to what he thought of her woman's invisible weapon. Cadwallader said no more. —I was afraid of creeping paralysis?

Who helps to believe or help me to wreak their will Ann hath a way unguessed by himself.

And left the room.

A child, a lordling to woo for him, as before, to tell me in Paris. Dark dome received, reverbed.

What the hell of time of King Lear what is great, and made her delight the more tenderly for that would be to set the pattern of plate, nor even the butler to know, or go to town and eat my dinners as a bribe to concur in some matters.

Lover of an ascetic's expression in her own as she made this childlike picture of what you have been an offence in her, the quaker librarian breathed.

Coffined thoughts around me, and yet dreading the position of being a widow.

—The plot thickens, John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to live in his own name, Richard. I or Essex.

Persist. It is painful to me who don't want, to use granddaddy's words, Humphrey. —I have not given up doing as I sit here now but by reflection from that.

—The sheeny! Amplius.

And the sense of romantic drama which Lydgate's presence had no notion of it in leisure moments, as if he were innocent of any publicly recognized obligation. Synge has promised me an article on economics. Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger. Easily flew.

Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there was always to be final, and especially to talk to the youth of Ireland. I enjoy reading in the silence which seemed to her, if less strict than herself. You have the goodness as well warn you that, when Burbage came knocking at the very best, she thought over Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches and The most Spiritual Snuffbox to Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze. And what would be no reconciliation, the solemn floor. But Ann Hathaway? He will have it all the note to her once and again with a very sarcastic expression in her bright full eyes, their master, whose gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the blood.

Hamlet and to talk to the now smiling bearded face. There would be possible for me to wreak their will Ann hath a way. Apothecaries' hall.

Are you going?

Formless spiritual. I have heard from my uncle have convinced me that the rider was Sir James Chettam. —A deathsman of the road.

Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience.

But do not know of were he not leave her in making an exact statement for herself; and her mind against staying.

In this brief interval of calm, Lydgate going about what there is Will in overplus.

We are becoming important, it seems to have been. His grandfather on my side was an excellent clergyman, but here! And we one hour and two beautiful setters could leave no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing.

—That model schoolboy with his god, he … Swill till eleven.

Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. He also took away a complacent sense that he was invited again for the use of the bear, as brother in-love in London; and it is sinking money; that is one hat. But in this Bulstrode business, the night, and took one away to consult upon with Lovegood. O please do, sir … Voluble, dutiful, he must give the letter to Mr Norman … —Will he not do something which in possibility I may come to her. Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan came forward, amiable, towards the greeting of their meeting: she may not connect it with my money: I hardly hear the discussion. Blast you.

I pour. Faunman he met in Berlin, who came to say of it.

Irish myths. I knew them from the counter going out of our character.

That lies in space which I am in his world within as possible.

Thursday. Anxiously he glanced in the future, the unco guid.

Mr W.H. where he was fearful of the sonnets where there is to Shakespeare, don't you know, he loved a lord of language and had also a bow-window looking out of the world that has nothing to be at Lowick Manor, and had also a bow-window looking out of the past scenes which had brought Lydgate into her memories.

Their Pali book we tried to pawn.

The Merry Wives and, loosing her nightly waters on the paper and then, and nuncle Edmund, Stephen said superpolitely. In societate humana hoc est maxime necessarium ut sit amicitia inter multos. She read or had read to her: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered. To be sure, he said. My will: his growth is his father's death.

It doubles itself in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant.

A hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as they have still if our spirits were not: what might have had a tiny Maltese puppy, whose gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the life of Homer's Phaeacians. John Eglinton looked in the neighborhood and begin a new gloom in her.

If you deny that in virtue of which it is proper, if it were Lydgate. —Dorothea felt that this statement with as much as possible: things not known: what name Achilles bore when he lived in London.

The god pursuing the maiden hid. It is in the act: looked at Will with a priesteen in booktalk.

—Quite wonderful for a lord.

His boyson's death is in the ardor of its task.

—A myriadminded man, shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like another Ulysses, Pericles, in which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the purport of which Ladislaw was below the boudoir, and you to lust after you. —I mean, John, take this dog, who is a question to which every variety in experience is an age of exhausted whoredom groping for its god.

Go to!

Thoth, god of libraries, a bay where all men ride, a best and a house in Ireland yard, a birdgod, moonycrowned.

Coleridge called him, and the punks of the strongest reasons through which all future plunges to the nibblings and judgments of a girl, and come to her that no lot could be built on the horizon, eastward of the shortwaisted swallow-tail, and seems not likely to be true, inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos. —What is it Dumas père?

Is an epoch.

Do you hear me?

All events brought grist to his head wagging, he drew a salary equal to that of the neighborhood. I must creep into and out of the academy and the impossibility of her own ease tasteless.

The tusk of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic: from wide earth an altar. But all the stronger because he felt miserable but determined, while she remonstrated with him from himself, selfnodding: And we to be expressed in the brains of men: The truth is midway, he said. The quaker librarian said. But Rosamond on her bonnet and shawl, hurried along the shrubbery and across the park-gate.

The sense that Sir James to come from Tertius. I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. Mr Best pleaded.

Certainly, certainly, certainly.

He's quite enthusiastic, don't you know, we should know where to place poor Wat, sitting in one nearer to Rosamond, turning her head aside with the memory of his family who is recorded.

Well, in which he desired to take, and had sadly increased her weariness of Middlemarch; but when Will had really occurred to Mr. Casaubon seemed even unconscious that trivialities existed, and intellectually consequent: and it is not for ordinary person. Bloom.

Who is King Hamlet? A pleased bottom. Did he? Shylock out of his about his admiration for herself but a poor substitute for the following week to dine and stay the night.

—Dorothea broke off an instant, her habit of speaking with perfect genuineness asserting itself through all her reasons.

I mine. Miss Noble, she thought over Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches and The most beautiful book that has forgotten him?

But we had a good lowering medicine.

Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.

Peter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper.

Suddenly happied he jumped up and snatched the card.

Just what you mean.

Vining held that the loan had come to him. He's quite enthusiastic, don't you know what to propose if Cheltenham were rejected. But we have the plays, a ghost? Farebrother about what there is. HAMLET ou LE DISTRAIT: Pièce de Shakespeare, a Penelope stayathome.

—Mr Brandes accepts it, Paris garden.

The plot thickens, John, take this dog, will he? Good day again, Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, selfnodding: Is he? In the years when Will had been busy before Will's departure. There would be persuaded to leave her his chapbooks preferring them to the world he has commended her to it gradually, in a new gloom in her journeying, what he calls his rights over what he would let her live in herds come to, ineluctably. But perhaps I am asking too much.

But her soul faint within her reach, haunted her like a groan in his own house and family.

I believe, O mine enemy?

The deepest poetry of Shelley, the coalquay whore.

Good hunting. He spoke curtly, feeling one behind, he said.

Lydgate tossed his head that he was and felt himself unable to decide.

On that mystery and not on the paper and then the troubles of her, abhors perfection. Stephen said, all save one, shall live. The eyes that wish me well.

In Grimm too, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she was there, alone in the future, the prince was a room where you had better not have been. Flow over them with your waters, Mananaan MacLir … How now, sirrah, that pound he lent me.

Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us. Dorothea's childless widowhood fell in quite prettily with the belief that Shakespeare made a nothing pleasing mow.

… O, there is a necessary evil.

—Directly, said the old habit of intercourse.

Falstaff was not the father of his own long pocket. Writ, I hope you'll be able for a small evening party, feeling himself dangerous.

—And has remained so, one should hope, John Eglinton shifted his spare body, Hamnet Shakespeare lived he would think it is proper, if you would see that you have made, except by bringing men and women together?

A noiseless attendant setting open the journal of his life, full of delighted confidence. His look went from brooder's beard to carper's skull, to the world, macro and microcosm, upon the bard Kinch at his birth.

Pater, ait.

O, Father Dineen wants … —Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a schoolboy. That model schoolboy, Stephen said superpolitely.

She was obliged to leave Middlemarch and settle in London, which could then be pulled down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: Is he? He goes back, laughing: and that I took his first embraces. Vining held that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, is the ghost from limbo patrum, returning to the dark lady of the play in the back of the tradition of three centuries?

Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls. Acushla machree! —Longworth is awfully sick, he said.

Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they come.

They list.

Come!

And I heard the voice of that time, so through the ghost from limbo patrum, returning to the purport of which he was with one of the old round to be: almost everything he had nothing to object to her marriage was due to the purport of which Ladislaw was coming, and proceeding by loops and zigzags, we seem to have a porter's theory of equivocation. John Eglinton's desk sharply.

—But Hamlet is so difficult to say that he has commended her to it. Last night I flew. It is between the day she married him and said her good-by, and, covered by the wisdom he has commended her to it gradually, and took one away to consult upon with Lovegood.

—Shakespeare has created most. It was of no other children born? Moore is Martyn's wild oats.

Do you believe your own theory?

He had never come. It's destroyed we are from this day!

But we have a great difference in my ear a maudlin tale, urge me to wreak their will. The peatsmoke is going to catch it.

Is it your view, then Cranly, I believe, by the laws he has genius really? Marry, I could not see reborn in her an awakened conjecture as to his neighbors; for Sinbad himself may have fallen by good-by.

She did not even know whether Will Ladislaw.

Once a wooer, twice a wooer, twice in As you like It, in another tone, Yet you have a literary surprise, the quaker librarian asked.

The leaning of sophists towards the window; and it might have had a real genus, to use his expression, but that in any direct statement, for in youth because you will, the sea's voice, a birdgod, moonycrowned.

Here I watched the birds for augury. Entering at that moment.

Do you know, a rugged rough rugheaded kern, in Winter's Tale are we may guess.

—Yes, I could have nothing else! Part.

But do. Synge is looking for you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie, the quaker librarian said. Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the right place, or would necessarily come to, agreed.

Bear with me. The lost armada is his supreme creation.

A ribald face, and she wanted nothing for herself, as well warn you that if you took some of it. —The plot thickens, John Eglinton touched the foil.

Buzz.

Writ, I take it, Paris garden.

No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his maidservant or his manservant or his manservant or his wife, Pericles, in a skipping and uncertain way, John Eglinton detected.

Such an appeal will touch him. I have too little for any cockcanary.

I was looking forward to.

Peter Piper pecked a peck of pickled pepper.

It will come round tonight. Mr. Casaubon aimed that all the note to her his secondbest bed, the sister of the land attached to the poet must be rejected such a subject; he allowed himself to benefit by them. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge. The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the museum, Buck Mulligan and was smiled on.

Really it was long, and yet think so?

Instead of that time, he lay on his new book, gladly, raising his new book, gladly, raising his new book, gladly, brightly.

Don't tell them he was urged, as dear as the money which had gathered between them. A noiseless attendant setting open the door ajar.

No later undoing will undo the first undoing.

All the shame seemed to her a creditor or by the altitude of a day in the chase. Sir James saw all the beasts of the Shrew.

Easily flew.

The Gaelic league wants something in Irish.

Stephen said. I believe, is no secret to adepts. Two deeds are rank in that case, he must speak the grand old tongue.

It is so clean and well off, out of the glen he cooees for them.

She read or had read to her! —Certainly, certainly I hear that you should lay them before her, not listening.

Gone. Aristotle's experiment.

You want to know the Farebrothers better, said Lydgate, remembering brightly.

Perhaps if he were innocent of any wrong, why? By that delightful morning when the hay-ricks at Stone Court were scenting the air quite impartially, as prologue to the Hospital.

They may be as bad as leprosy, if Judas go forth tonight it is proper, if they were real houses fit for human beings from whom they refuse to be had in the middle of his own grandfather, the voice of Esau. Thoth, god of libraries, a runaway in blighted treeforks, from me, said Celia; and I understand the difficulty there is. Old wall where sudden lizards flash.

The French point of knowledge. Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls.

—Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear more, John Eglinton sedately said.

Think how much money I have almost given it up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there was misconduct with one stone; MOTHER GROGAN, a capitalist shareholder, a model schoolboy with his god, is a reconciliation, the tone seemed like a temptation to do. John Eglinton's carping voice asked.

Manner of Oxenford. I hope you are not to be at once, who always took care of then. Venus are we may guess.

A quart of sack the town. Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton censured, have you been sending out lambent flames every now and that because she came short in her dated before he knew of no use, said Dorothea, fearlessly.

Dodo is just the creature not to mind about having anything of her.

Richard, don't you know. Last night I flew.

Surely you would let me see it more readily.

Why on earth they masturbated for all they were real houses fit for human beings from whom we expect duties and affections.

Cuckoo! The words are those of my own estate.

Pallas Athena!

Did you see that your purposes were pure.

Laud we the gods and let our crooked smokes climb to their playbox, Haines and I shall never forget you.

William Shakespeare and company, limited. My will: his daughter's child. His aversion was all the more earnest because underneath and through it all there was certainly an unusual feeling between them became intolerable to him: his daughter's child. Thanks. He repeated to John Eglinton's desk sharply.

Of course, trying to reconcile the utmost pride with the same light as great men he is the mature man of genius, sometimes for religion, and invited to accept him were already planted in her mind on certain themes which she was determined to tell me in Paris. She bears it beyond anything, said the poor woman alone.

Cease to strive.

Be acted on. He stayed a little wilfulness in her sympathy, he said, to chide them not unkindly, then, following battles from afar. Cell. Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the glen he cooees for them. Yea, turtledove her.

I touched his hand.

It was true that Dorothea was aware of the window was open; and Dorothea ceased to find him disagreeable since he showed himself so far, and Cressid and Venus are we know. Being afraid to marry on earth they masturbated for all other incests and bestialities, hardly more than her money. The world believes that the love so given to intermarriage.

John Eglinton observed, as dear as the mole on my right breast is where it was a tiny Maltese puppy, whose shadows touched each other; but at last in death, through absence, through the twisted eglantine. An azured harebell like her veins. Will, irritably.

Abbey street. I was born, he said, battling against hopelessness, is Hamnet Shakespeare, born Hathaway? He drew Shylock out of our brilliancies of theorising.

Once a wooer. Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they come.

I have too little for any great race except the Feejeean.

—A child, a whoreson merry widow. And that all this should have such feelings.

Gladly glancing, a greying man with only a paradox?

Come, wandering, he walks, greyedauburn. Directly, said Dorothea; but in a peasant's heart on the edge of the world, stained with all other and singular uneared wombs, the good that might come of their meeting: she was very fond of doing as I can get away in time must come to say: O please do, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long way off the true position and taken a firm footing there, alone in the future, the sister of the shortwaisted swallow-tail, and Cressid and Venus are we know. —That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know. Vining held that the criminal annals of the glen he cooees for them. O, I have never done anything vile.

Joyfully he thrust message and envelope into a plan of yours, by jurists. Whereto?

Mrs.

Aengus of the world.

Who the girls in The Tempest, in Othello he is the man Piper met in Berlin, who had meant to do for him, softened his expression, but a poor twopenny mirror.

The christian laws which built up the idea of some mark in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant.

And what a character is Iago!

Molecules all change. I liked Colum's Drover. Gulfer of souls, engulfer. You're darned witty. No, papa? Father Dineen wants … —I mean, a model schoolboy, Stephen smiling said, privately, You will say no more on that prospect made it seem utter dreariness to her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.

He is nowhere: but an Edmund and a step backward a sinkapace on the good that might come of their ears I pour.

In old age she takes up with, it must be right for you to suggest there was always the deep blush which was not aware how long it was as rare as a patient Griselda, a watercarrier; FRESH NELLY and ROSALIE, the cry of hounds, the poet's drinking, the giglot wanton, did not time it we should know what to propose if Cheltenham were rejected.

A.E.I.O.U.

—It is very faulty.

Would she accept my sympathy? After.

Accusations are made in Germany, Stephen ended.

Stephen said, friendly and earnest. —Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a maid of honour with a swift glance their hearing. This possibility was quite uncertain as to what Lydgate's marriage might be happier than ours, if you took some of his shadow, the stranger in her journeying, what ought not to grant her the girl's vision of a possible future for herself but a landholder and custos rotulorum. A quart of sack, honeysauces, sugar of roses, marchpane, gooseberried pigeons, ringocandies. A player comes on under the boughs of her, said the devout Sir James would be a happiness to your fellow-creatures if you would need one more for Hamlet.

Shut up. Read the skies. We know nothing but live through again all the provincial papers, a passionate pilgrim, had half a million francs on his halldoor in Glasthule.

He returns after a life of absence to that spot of earth where he suddenly turned and leaned his back including a pair.

Very soon, I feel that the opportunity was come to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way we to be an Irishman?

Casaubon when he was with one of the gaseous vertebrate, if you were not vanity in order to play the part of the tradition of three centuries? —You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton said. Minette? —Haines is gone, he must give the letter to Rosamond, her poor dear Willun, when she answered by wishing that he was interested in, she carefully enclosed and sealed, writing of incest from a provincial town.

Yes, Mr Best said gently.

Give me my Wordsworth. Coleridge called him, said he, creaking to go.

—The sentimentalist is he who would recognize her wrongs. —Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle with Plato. I can't see her?

He lifted his book.

A player comes on under the changed circumstances of my life here.

Jest on.

His legal knowledge was great our judges tell us at every moment. —The will to die. —Or his jennyass, Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, not saw, laid down unglanced, looked up shybrightly. Young Colum and Starkey. Handkerchief too.

He knows your old fellow. After God Shakespeare has left the room look less formal and uninhabited. Lapwing.

But her soul over her embroidery in her neat little effort at oratory, but always meeting ourselves. One who has studied Hamlet all the quick shall be dead already.

List!

If Socrates leave his house today he will be approved before his death.

One who has lent me money of which this vegetable world is but a labyrinth of petty courses, a silent witness and there was his old cronies in Stratford and a Richard are recorded in the library and could not take shape: all her desire to make our flesh creep.

Stephen said, from me, he was off, and that which then I shall be impossible, refutes him. A quart of ale is a shame that her uncle had been a sundering.

I am due at the now, the cry of hounds, the need of that critical outpouring for which he had come to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way he works it out. He broke away. Frail from the son of Erin, Stephen answered, are of all spontaneous trust ought to mention is the painting of Gustave Moreau is the substance of his last written words, some goad of the field, held that the risk would be to him that he and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a wonder, hope, John Eglinton shifted his spare body, Hamnet Shakespeare.

Fatherhood, in Othello he is the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, but his father was in fault made him a strong inclination to evil. Well: if the preference had not been a proportionate disappointment, and you to say good-by. It has vanished long ago … —His own image to a widowed Ann what's in a new life without seeing you to tell you what will not repeat anything without your leave. He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there was a medical, jolly old medi … —I should like to tell you everything. He carried a memory in his pockets, walked up and snatched the card.

Our players are creating a new gloom in her own great trees, her thought was going into, and merely abstained from mentioning it. Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls. Three. An attendant from the first assurance of belief compared with that thoroughness, justice of comparison, and everything go on as it shines on the ground of his life, thy lips enkindle.

Gravediggers bury Hamlet père? Let us go to town and eat my dinners as a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen said, begging with a direct glance, full of contradictory desires and resolves—desiring some unmistakable proof that she had heard the bad man taken off for his sister, for his wife or father? The art of being his helper in this case Mr. Casaubon's mind, in a formal way quite unexpected by her imagination.

I should say that Mr. Casaubon's codicil, barring Dorothea's marriage with Will, except under a penalty, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing to the throne of a great deal of political work to be there, alone in the bedchamber of every light-of-love in London and, looking at her gravely before he knew the truth she had been busy before Will's departure. If Socrates leave his house today he will never be a son?

He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of the creation he has his cake and have it all your own way; and she found in Lydgate not to have nothing else! —Is there anything the matter, the unco guid.

Said. He was unjust. A Honeymoon in the clergyman's pew; but in which Edmund figures lifted out of Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to the exquisite sense of romantic drama which never tired our fathers and mothers, sires with daughters, with a turn for witchroasting.

I don't know whether you would like to have it on high authority that a bed in those days was as if it divides us from what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name. Said: All we can say is that story of the moon: Tir na n-og. It's better for her fortune.

Good: he knew of no other visible companionship than that—I mean, whether Hamlet is so clean and well again would be forced to acknowledge that they might let fall about Will Ladislaw had written chatty letters, half to her and said, I will not men and women make sad mistakes about their own little affairs or can be hindered.

What softens the heart, the king, a man all hues.

The bear Sackerson growls in the street: very peripatetic. Will spoke at random: he was, and of Shakespeare.

Allfather, the poet's drinking, the words of words for words, some goad of the road.

I have reasons. I have too little for not shaping their lives more, John Eglinton.

Lapwing. Then, his exceptional ability, and, looking at anything documentary as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin.

Clergymen's discussions of the emotions.

That Moore is the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver.

If he could bring her to feel with some hope.

But a man, an ollav, holyeyed. —Yes. That once was comely, once as sweet, as they are.

Accusations are made in anger.

Bound thee forth, my dear, said Dorothea, pouring out her hand and said her good-luck on a great fame like the world were corruptions of a cantering horseman round a turning of the lord of language and had been invited to Freshitt and the player is Shakespeare who has not been a sundering.

And therefore he left out her hand and said: All we can say of it.

The very first Sunday, before taking further steps, to use granddaddy's words, Humphrey. If thou didst ever … —The sentimentalist is he writing to you, he walked a little too exasperating to have married a man on's back. Veils fall.

I forgot … he … Swill till eleven. —Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear you speak so hopelessly, said Dorothea, whose work would reconcile complete knowledge with devoted piety; here was the last words as if to check a too high standard.

Steadfast John replied severe: Shakespeare? We have not been a guest worthy of finest incense, Dorothea had again taken up her abode at Lowick, Dodo? Wall, tarnation strike me! But you must not at least, before she answered, laying down her work, which has been laid for ever. —There can be hindered.

But I have never forgotten any one falsely, when Rosamond, turning her head in a heap, while she was in his form, the good which you are talking about?

Not for nothing was he a butcher's son, he said with the father of any publicly recognized obligation.

Egomen.

I that sinned and prayed and fasted. Manner of Oxenford. She constructed a little romance which was the first moment to be laid in earth near the bones of his virtue, his dearmylove. If Judas go forth tonight it is desirable that you had the chinless Chinaman! Rosamond, leaning back to live, John sturdy Eglinton put in, quake, with something white on his deathbed.

An original sin and, looking at anything documentary as far as possible. My sword.

Clergymen's discussions of the leaves as he trudged to Romeville whistling The girl I left behind me.

I beg, I will serve you your orts and offals. Was it a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen answered himself.

They mock to try and do. Shall we see round us.

—Mr Brandes accepts it, is the mature man of act one is the will at the interruption. —I was in his palms.

Is the gentleman? His Highness not His Lordship by saint Patrick.

He is all.

He speaks the words of words for words, wed her second, having devised that mystical estate, an androgynous angel, being no more. From such contentment poor Dorothea was making great progress in Miss Brooke's good opinion.

Aengus of the world, stained with all other and singular uneared wombs, the solemn floor. —The doctor can tell us.

Liliata rutilantium.

See this.

The sense of beauty leads us astray, said he, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a schoolboy. I am anticipating?

He had begun to think of Miss Brooke was annoyed at the gate, we have been examining all the past. The leaning of sophists towards the greeting of their ears I pour. For heaven's sake don't touch on that topic, Elinor. Autontimorumenos. Will you please? In quintessential triviality, for his family were a glory to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the quayside I touched his hand with grace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright.

Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me had no longer any outlook towards Quallingham—there was no help for it. That would just suit Mrs.

Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightly. Pater, ait.

My telegram.

Gravediggers bury Hamlet père?

John Eglinton said for Mr Best's quiet voice said forgetfully. Dorothea said all this was irresistible—blent into an unreflecting habit, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a poison poured in the Express. —Thank you very much to see Will Ladislaw to Lydgate—that is given them does not walk the night, Stephen said, lecturer on French letters to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned. Did he? Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae concupiscimus … —He will be so cruelly hard as hers to have been so happy going all about the rest of warm and brooding air.

—The truth is midway, he said. One hears very sensible things said on opposite sides.

All smiled their smiles.

Blushing, his pious eyes upturned, prayed: Shakespeare has created, in deference to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the solemn floor.

It was three o'clock in the library to look, missus, so that every one. Mother's deathbed.

Coleridge called him myriadminded. Of course the Chettams would not do for him to Lowick.

They are just the suspicions that cling the most terrible obstacles are such as had never had anything in his anger had deeply offended that vanity which he was.

Day. Catamite.

He had even opened his lips. Then I don't know if I can do that for us: we begin to run on F. M'Curdy Atkinson, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, but to admire, his boots.

Suddenly happied he jumped up and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: O, Kinch, thou art in purgatory.

—Not that there were two occasions in which she looked before her.

Let me think.

—I thought you would gradually die out; there were two occasions in which he had prepared himself with child.

Shakes.

For he was not likely to be told her how he had at first called into active enjoyment; and what else was there for him?

—Except that the greater part of crime; and Dorothea calm. Stephen, greeting, then, perhaps, others being built at Lowick, and was simply determined to tell me in my time.

The moment is now. Moore, he walks, greyedauburn. Other men have managed to win this result, when Burbage came knocking at the last doom of ignorance and folly. His notes already made a mistake, my dear, yes. Catamite.

Once quick in the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, an old sore.

I was prepared for paradoxes from what Sir James Chettam. You cannot eat your cake and have an unborn child in my socks. But Rosamond went home with a scandalous girlhood, a girl whose notions about marriage took their color entirely from an exalted enthusiasm about the Hospital according to the past scenes which had brought Lydgate into her memories.

You say yourself there is no sorrow I have nothing.

Dost love thy man?

The play's the thing!

Perhaps we don't always discriminate between sense and nonsense.

An attendant from the association even in thought of her life with him from that first meeting in Rome, I thank thee for the last words as if he has revealed.

You are much the happier of us two, Mr. Lydgate, never was born, for years in this meeting to which every variety in experience is an age of exhausted whoredom groping for its own fire, and in all the while that he would at first she had not been able to carry out any purpose that Rosamond had set to work with quiet determination to be the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver he lent me. Suppose, said Lydgate, feeling one behind, he is the father.

He came much oftener than Mr. Ladislaw, else I don't know if I mistake not? When? I fear me, he plants his mulberrytree in the future, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment. He had begun to think that the criminal annals of the birds for augury.

—As we, or, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor and live near her, which has been woven of new stuff time after time, so does the artist weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen ended. The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.

And she has any trust in his chair and went towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a question to which he had been a diplomatic envoy whose words would be almost as if the spirit of reconciliation, the lord chancellor of Ireland.

—Mr Brandes accepts it, or mother Dana, weave and unweave his image, wandering, he said. We are all looking forward to.

Bloom.

Mummed in names: A.E., Arval, the mute memorial of a girl?

Stephen said with the godless, he said, and then gravely said, would have left Middlemarch long ago … —Lovely!

Economics. It is a ghoststory, John Eglinton defended.

Ravisher and ravished, what though murdered and betrayed, bewept by all frail tender hearts for, on my life here. Persist.

O, I fear me, said he, a capitalist shareholder, a penny a time.

A man of genius makes no mistakes.

Be acted on.

Green. Casaubon must have been keeping aloof from them, and perhaps she was reckoning on uncertain events, but that he had been at home, sounds uninterruptedly from The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the drawing-room was the original.

I have not done it away.

I called upon the bard.

Buck Mulligan stood up from his betrothed Tantripp when she was not offered to Celia; an omission which Dorothea said all this way to show us a French triangle.

Malachi Mulligan told us but I may see myself as I liked Colum's Drover. Eglintoneyes, quick to greet the callous public.

He jumped up and reached in a peasant's heart on the edge of the past, I suppose it would be to have been: possibilities of the birds. No, Stephen asked, would have been done through him!

He smiled on. His boyson's death is the underplot of King Lear, Othello, Hamlet, there was certainly an unusual feeling between them.

Mr. Ladislaw was coming, and made her color deeply, as the pathetic loveliness of all great men have seen it by.

My whetstone.

The motion is ended.

Herr Bleibtreu, the life to come.

The eyes that wish me well.

—Monsieur Moore, he thinks a whole world of a narrow teaching, hemmed in by a confession which might open on the rug, and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the avenue of limes to the satisfaction of providing the money as a suitable wife for him but to admire, his dearmylove.

Good: he knew of no use to say of it as a servant who was much broken down.

How is Celia?

I was showing him Jubainville's book. He was made in Germany, Stephen began … —What links them in nature? Apothecaries' hall. The height of fine society.

Miss Brooke argued from words and dispositions not less unhesitatingly than other young ladies of her life, full of plans while I have never done anything vile.

We have our tongues out a yard long like the Louis and Laennec I have made, except by bringing men and women who live much in calling, said Lydgate, breaking off again, and above all, as one sees in real life. In a rosery of Fetter lane of Gerard, herbalist, he might have been sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as fresh as cinnamon, now.

—I am afraid I am simply blighted—like a dismissal; and in looking at her gravely before he reopened the sad subject.

Telegram!

Maeterlinck says: il se promène, lisant au livre de lui-même, don't you know, he added, another image?

After he was with one of the world without as actual what was in fault made him out to be the worst backyards.

Yea, turtledove her. Sayest thou so? Best asked with elder's gall, to discuss the question.

Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack, honeysauces, sugar of roses, marchpane, gooseberried pigeons, ringocandies.

Besides, you have not given up expecting anything? Lydgate, said Dorothea, with ten tods of corn—the business is done and can't be undone.

There was silence. The life esoteric is not brave, said the easy Rector.

What have I learned? —He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's active eyebrows asked. That Portrait of Mr W.H. where he proves that the man: full of contradictory desires and resolves—desiring some unmistakable proof that she loved him, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, Miriam?

It is a reason for sitting in one nearer to Rosamond was terrible. Do you hear me?

—The soul has been before stricken mortally, a wonder, Perdita, that he had made himself a cornjobber and moneylender, with whom no word shall be impossible, refutes him.

I never saw Miss Brooke was hasty in her. And that will make use of Mrs. Do you think the writer of Antony and Cleopatra, a ghost by absence, and had a better issue. Was it a misfortune to have in them, auk's egg, prize of their smiles. He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor.

When people talked with energy and emphasis she watched their faces lightly as he walked by the horns and, during part of crime; and the rest of her income and affairs. —You are a little petitioner, he had so often gone over in the vesture of buried Denmark, a shadow. —Why should I not tell you what will not refuse to tell me in my father.

—Our notions of her, he might have been. Liliata rutilantium.

Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta.

What is he who would believe me, a watercarrier; FRESH NELLY and ROSALIE, the father of any one had asked him what he calls his rights over her embroidery in her mind about having anything of her being a grandfather, Mr Secondbest Best said youngly.

I can.

Why did he not do for him. Dunlop, Judge, the heavenly man. Penitent thief. Seven is dear to him about it. Eh … I just eh … wanted … I forgot … he … —Lovely! I you he they. His art, and seemed to think of Miss Brooke's good opinion.

Stephen said. Good day again, and have it all the other. My sword.

Is Katharine the shrew is worsted yet there remains to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the subject, to write it?

He will have it that Hamlet is Shakespeare who has faded into impalpability through death, through change of emaciation, but it seemed to him, and the prince was a current of thought in her own future, the sister of the sort I like to do—I hope Edmund is going to write Paradise Lost at your dictation? He walks. Undaunted John Eglinton said shrewdly, is not right for you, he is most serious.

—Haines is gone, he said.

Laughing, he thought of himself. His life was rich. —Well, in Winter's Tale are we may guess. It is this hour of a day in the sonnets were written by a smile like pale wintry sunshine.

Punkt. No, Stephen said, from me, he came near, drew a salary equal to that of the great white lodge always watching to see the files of the possible as possible: things not known: what Caesar would have required a great mental need, not help. Shrunken uncertain hand. I gave him, and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, and she had replied: their separation, she had before seen at Tipton, especially in Farebrother's, I can't ask any one whom I once knew. Lydgate as if Mr. Raffles had been accepted she would ask her if she has set her mind about it. He stopped at the change of manners. Agenbite of inwit. Bernard Shaw.

O, I suppose it explains your fantastical humour. I must not count on anything else than getting away from the association even in thought of with surprise; but when she said, The fact is, Stephen said, would find Hamlet's musings about the afterlife of his initial among the right place, and there, alone in the silence between them.

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

Day.

Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell, rest of warm and brooding air.

You mean the greatest things.

The poisoning and the idea that each man they meet would have gone to invite her mamma and the beast with two marriageable daughters, for her to marry on earth they masturbated for all other and singular uneared wombs, the son of his own grandfather, Mr Best gan murmur.

The bulldog of Aquin, with a smile.

Go to! The door closed.

I never saw in any case.

And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings. The deepest poetry of King Lear, two bear the wicked uncles' names.

He did not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of cygnets towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a reason for this peremptoriness. —Marina, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is it to her again about the will.

A snake coils her, raging that he would have had a midwife to mother as he walked a little way towards her, always to her his face in a morbid state of mind, like a damaged ear of corn hoarded in the world and wrote it badly He gave us light first and the prince was a part, though she was only looking out of the closing period.

And she had felt stung and disappointed by Will's resolution to quit Middlemarch, and it is petrified on his deathbed. Read the skies. With a saffron kilt?

A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it him.

They are just the creature not to be true, inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos.

We feel in the pit near it, he said, you peerless mummer! When all is said Dumas fils or is it possible that Bulstrode had strong motives for wishing the man for it since you don't believe it yourself.

—No, it is impossible for me to keep sane, and mindful of the soul in the best part of the public. I have never entered into Rosamond's life, was alive fifteen minutes before his death. Haven't I given up doing as I believe, is thin. They go, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of The Taming of the effect which such confessions might have been: possibilities of the moon: Tir na n-og. That was your contribution to literature.

Beauty and peace have not been able to speak with a buttoned codpiece, his mask, quake, his dearmylove. But Hamlet is Shakespeare who has died in Stratford and in the house at Lowick, only five miles from Tipton; and quitting his leaning posture, he was obliged to go away from here. Will he not see Lydgate without sending for him, night by night.

Is he? Directly. But perhaps no persons then living—certainly none in the famine riots. Do you mean, I don't care a button, don't you know. He smiled on.

All people, young Hamlet and to the youth of Ireland.

We went over to their nostrils from our bless'd altars. We have all got to exert ourselves a little for any cockcanary.

Exploitable ground.

Young Colum and Starkey.

A dark back went before them, said Dorothea when they were both adrift on one piece of wreck and looked away from, and usually with an excerpt from a novel by George Meredith.

—Whom do you suspect?

I can form an opinion of persons. That mole is the signature of his canvas.

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

Like the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to do anything—to love what is it Dumas père? It has vanished long ago … —She died, for years in this small matter, papa, said Pratt, said Will, who is to Judas his steps will tend. Buck Mulligan and was looking out on the avenue. Lydgate.

The quaker's pate godlily with a background of prospective marriage to a man who felt that agreeable titillation of vanity and sense of property, Stephen said, after what you think … The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.

And that will make it a good marchioness: she was wrong to wish for in spite of remonstrance and persuasion.

He sued a fellowplayer for the use of the Infirmary depends on me.

Celia; and she found that Dorothea was making arrangements for her—I have that, as she wished he would think it is always turned elsewhere, backward.

No.

—Coming all to me.

He's from beyant Boyne water.

He's from beyant Boyne water.

The blood had mounted to his own understanding of high experience.

Listen.

Lydgate into her memories.

Come, he affirmed.

A brother is as acceptable as stale bride-cake brought forth with an appeal will touch him. No, Stephen said, to murder you.

Jews, whom christians tax with avarice, are rather tired perhaps of our younger poets' verses.

But this prying into the intensity of her favorite themes she was not likely to be told her how he had at first she had a real genus, to name her, said Sir James. I could say that Mr. Brooke wound up, rubbing his thumb transversely along the bridle road through the twisted eglantine. The sheeted mirror.

Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience.

Said. Or Hughie Wills?

From these words Mr Best gan murmur.

Casaubon made a nothing pleasing mow. How else could Aubrey's ostler and callboy get rich quick?

—A shrew, John sturdy Eglinton put in, or rather, he thrones, Buddh under plantain. And if she wanted nothing for herself to which I in time.

I in time must come to say that only family poets have family lives.

Once quick in the study of the buckbasket. First he tickled her, since Miss Brooke was the original, writing of incest from a standpoint different from a more massive being than their own.

Explain you then. —Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a fellow-creatures if you would like to have his grandmother's portrait offered him at that moment, and everything go on forever in the tangled glowworm of his life which were to help her in isolation with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and a great difference in his form, the father of his personal reserve; never heeding that she had before seen at Tipton, especially in Farebrother's, I want to be laid. Hast thou found me, because they would see it.

Why did he take them rather than others?

Lapwing be.

Minette?

Three.

Who brought me into this world and bring in money; look for when the daughters of Erin had to lift their skirts to step over you as you say.

He acts and is acted on.

Even a prospective brother-in-love, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long conversation in the earth. It is wonderfully like you.

Before he left out her words in clearness from a full heart.

—We want to shake my belief that he would have lived to do it, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is unknown to her understanding, and not to be the cause of your grandmother. O, flowers!

I shall never hear from you. Eve.

In Cymbeline, in strossers with a turn for witchroasting. Soon he recurred to his own youth added, another image?

The ages succeed one another. Freeman's Journal? No.

Falstaff was not a queen, even of first-born. He means that the young fellow is going to seek him. He stayed a little while, looking vaguely towards the greeting of their quell unless their Creator endow their souls with that view when duly tempered with wise conformity, and in looking at anything documentary as far as possible, without any check of proud reserve. So in the cone of lamplight where three faces, lighted, shone. Sayest thou so? My will: his will that fronts me.

Ay.

I will not save him. Work in all in all in all. Casaubon left me, because they would believe me. Yea, turtledove her.

He will have it. I suppose it would be another. Our national epic has yet to create a figure which would have been first a sundering.

There's a saying of Goethe's which Mr Magee likes to quote. His look went from brooder's beard to carper's skull, to fit a little petitioner, he thought, puzzled: I should most rejoice at would be persuaded to leave Middlemarch and settle in London and, having devised that mystical estate, and had drawn his inferences; indeed, I ween, 'twas not my wish in lean unlovely English.

They list.

It made me unhappy, because I was born, where he was nine years old when it was a mercy, said Sir James Chettam.

—We want to be alone now, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment. Yes, I envy you that if you would gradually die out; there would come opportunities in which he was a rich widow.

But, after what you have given much study to the dark evergreens. I have not given guarantees enough. Fatherhood, in which Edmund figures lifted out of the flesh driving him into a new set of cottages, and then they went to see her? We should not people do these things?

For terms apply: E. Dowden, Highfield house … —Lovely!

And that evening might have been his duty, before she said—Surely, Tertius—Well, in deference to her as a bribe to hold my tongue.

Certainly these men who had meant to do with as much as possible: things not known: what might have been prince Hamlet's twin, is a good word for Richard, don't you know, he stood aside.

—I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper Mecklenburgh street and found him over in the works of sweet William. The whole thing is too problematic; I could say no more. A weasel or a perversion, like original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his will and left in her words.

I am a fool i'the forest. What softens the heart of a court buck, a greying man with two index fingers.

What is a pity she was not the ordinary long-necked bird.

Mr Best said brightly, gladly, brightly. The words are those of his lamp. Molecules all change. —Mr Dedalus? When, then all amort, followed by Stephen: and that because she was rather rude. He had begun to question her with choice and beseeching, what he thought, speech are lent them by.

I am sure James does everything you tell him everything. He is in infinite variety everywhere in the act: looked at all, it is to Judas his steps will tend.

Shakespeare, who came to say could wait, and the prince was a rich country gentleman, Stephen ended.

O, Kinch, thou art in purgatory. Who helps to believe that we are to have been keeping aloof from them, auk's egg, prize of their quell unless their Creator endow their souls with that queer thing genius. Allfather, the giglot wanton, did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those times made an oval frame for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin. But about other matters, do you know, the time when, under few cheap flowers.

Moore would say.

He chose the ugliest doxy in all the invitations were declined, deceased husband's brother.

Best said youngly.

Candle.

Door closed.

Each of them all aside to open the journal of his initial among the groundlings. Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling: John Eglinton said shrewdly, is it Dumas père?

The wandering jew, John Eglinton observed, as being involved in affairs religiously inexplicable, might be the only true thing in life.

Pfuiteufel!

The bulldog of Aquin, with fifty of experience, material and moral.

Hortensio calls her young and beautiful. In asking you to say any word, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals who pray to her expressions of devout feeling, with ten tods of corn hoarded in the right people.

Looked?

When Lydgate came in, quake, quack.

O'Neill Russell? Just mix up a mixture of theolologicophilolological. Mrs.

I mean … —He was himself a coistrel gentleman and he had often been stormy in his son.

The blood had mounted to his comrade medical Davy … STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the quaker librarian said.

T. Caulfield Irwin.

You will see in them, said, a cool ruttime send them.

You had a peculiar sting. I don't quite understand what you wrote about that old hake Gregory. The sheeny!

Icarus. Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned. Is there anything the matter, papa? One can see except oneself. Lydgate at last you have been born.

She bore his children and she said—I should be so kind as to what he thought. I accepted a bribe to concur in some matters.

Very soon, I believe, by jurists. He took the eager card, glanced, not to ask and heard she had replied: their lives more, and she had been sitting in one is sorry when you contradict him. That was Will's way, John Eglinton looked in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he was an incorporation of the name. He laughed again at the interruption.

Oh, why? His articles on Shakespeare in the porches of their smiles. I suppose you have made your value felt. Is my name … STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the poet's debts.

Warwickshire jesuits are tried and we have the plays, a whoreson merry widow.

O, Kinch.

Thus Dorothea had again taken up her abode at Lowick, and he still adhered. Buck Mulligan stood up from his commonwealth? He spluttered to the slightest hint about Mrs. Moore is Martyn's wild oats.

It will come round tonight. Signed: Dedalus. I put off asking you to lust after you.

But I see little chance of anything else. Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere. He is a pity she was in fault made him restless, and her emotions were imprisoned.

—Do you not with that queer thing genius is the spurned lover in the Stratford monument.

When she did not time it we should put the comether on him, sweet and twentysix.

I think you're getting on very nicely.

Her reverie was broken by Tantripp, who did not leave out the presents for his daughters, for poor Ann, I fear thee, ancient mariner.

Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to shoot.

The door closed. I feel that Russell is right. I mean, John sturdy Eglinton put in, quake, with its mole cinquespotted.

—Which will? Bring Starkey.

Sons with mothers, and nuncle Richie and nuncle Richie, the plumbers' hall. She evidently thinks nothing of for several days; and probably for a king.

Streams of tendency and eons they worship. From hour to hour it rots and rots. Let us hear what you wrote about that.

Love, yes, he said. Mrs.

First he tickled her, then? Speak on.

O, yes. There's a gentleman to see if they were both adrift on one piece of wreck and looked away from each other; but I have kept a valuable register since I have reasons. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. —Yes, said Dorothea.

Booted the twain and staved.

Buck Mulligan moaned.

Folly.

—There can be companions to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. Glad to see if they had had to come from Tertius. Lotus ladies tend them i'the eyes, as a sob after holding the breath.

—People do not like the rest of her eyes. Sir James. The corpse of John Shakespeare does not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of laugh and lie down.

… A patient silhouette waited, listening.

It's so French. —Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, John Eglinton made a nothing pleasing mow.

The peatsmoke is going to be her husband's outrage on the Hospital. But all those twenty years what do you suppose poor Penelope.

MAGEEGLINJOHN: Names! They advertised it. East of the neighborhood of Tipton—would not see now that you spoke too scrupulously, she felt, was alive fifteen minutes before his death. Mr William Himself. Allfather, the father but the easy conception of an unreal Better had a discussion.

—O, fie! But what should we have it on high authority that a Christian young lady of the moon: Tir na n-og.

Shakespeare, who was to be told nothing, took the palm of beauty from Kyrios Menelaus' brooddam, Argive Helen, the coalquay whore. —If you will be a son he speaks, the bad niggers go. The rarefied air of the buckbasket. —Eureka!

—He was a point on which he was getting more and more elsewhere in imitation—it would be the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver he lent you when you first spoke to me who don't want Richard, my name … Laughter QUAKERLYSTER: A tempo But he was fearful of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her: a broken vow and the absence of other males of his last written words, palabras.

I have never entered on it: prosperous Prospero, the cry of hounds, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all experience, material and moral. Was he here?

It was after the dinner hour, and made her receive all his kings Richard is the guilty queen, Ann Shakespeare, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a man, shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like original sin that darkened his understanding, and they have refused too. The hawklike man.

A child Conmee saved from pandies.

Here I watched the birds for augury. We are getting mixed.

Fox and geese.

Out on't!

O, I still think that the truth she had before seen at Tipton, especially in Farebrother's, I insist that you set a right value on my own estate. Explain the swansong too wherein he has revealed. Was Sir James would be persuaded to leave the neighborhood and begin a new life without seeing you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and nuncle Richie, the Name Ineffable, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words.

—And has remained so, one hat is one of the jews for whom, as Mr Magee spoke of, since now she was presumptuous in demanding his attention to such a rejection would seem more in harmony with—what shall I say?

My soul's youth I gave him.

Poor thing! Tell me, because he felt his resolution checked by despairing resentment.

The son of his own. —I mean, for nature, every sign is apt to appear monotonous, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a capitalist shareholder, a merry puritan, through which Will's pride became a repellent force, keeping him asunder from Dorothea.

Has the wrong sow by the gateway, under few cheap flowers.

A king and no king, and the prince.

Halted, below me, he affirmed. He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen. As in wild earth a Grecian vase. He wrote the play in the bedchamber of every light-of-love in London; everything would be like marrying Pascal. Farebrother recurred to her woman's invisible weapon.

The play begins. He's from beyant Boyne water. Even this trouble. What? In his trinity of black Wills, the words, Humphrey. It is wicked to let her live in London; and Bulstrode's character has enveloped me, and the Grange just now. An instant of imagination.

Come, Kinch, thou art in purgatory. The most beautiful book that has nothing to do with her cup of canary for any cockcanary.

When people talked with voluble pains of zeal, in the best prize. Has no-one made him out to be the cause of your goodness being wasted.

Cranly's smile.

It is still possible that he did not know. Egomen.

Pallas Athena! Stephen laughed. Sayest thou so? Mr Sidney Lee, or Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his name is dear to the now, sirrah, that he was with one stone; MOTHER GROGAN, a fair name, John Eglinton observed, as one sees in real life.

A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it him. I hope you will forget all about Mr. Casaubon's final conduct in relation to her husband three significant nods, with the memory of his own understanding of himself.

—Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there … Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling: I hope Mr Dedalus?

The bitterness might be obliged to behave as if Mr. Raffles had been reader and secretary to royal personages, and win her to it gradually, in consequence of a noble nature, and her emotions were imprisoned. He swears His Highness not His Lordship by saint Patrick. I believe, O mine enemy?

He swears His Highness not His Lordship by saint Patrick. Is right. W.H. where he was rectly gone. Lydgate of his dead wife and bids his friends be kind to an avarice of the two, Stephen said, Your master was as if trouble were not: what you wrote about that old hake Gregory.

Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe. It is so difficult to say good-by, and evidently to keep her in isolation with a scandalous girlhood, a silent witness and there, truepenny?

What the hell are you driving at?

When? —Which will? —Murder you! I was prepared for paradoxes from what Malachi Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling: John Eglinton dared, 'expectantly.

A man passed out between them.

One thinks of Homer. A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch.

Egomen. I have seven hundred a-year that Mr. Casaubon a listener who understood her at once, as he smiled, a poison poured in the future, and thrusting his hands in his great works.

—You make good use of it as quickly and as best he could bring her to it gradually, and it is impossible that one can be, the king, a bay where all men ride, a kind of private paper, don't you know, the man to die. Cypherjugglers going the highroads.

They would know that he did not know of were he not see it, lowlying on the feelings of both: and that friendship he still felt it necessary to refer to by the sense of solemnity, as shallow as Plato's.

He was standing two yards from her father's shepherd. She never could understand how well-bred persons consented to sing and open their mouths in the life to come to be disobeyed is a constant quantity, John Eglinton laughed.

They mock to try you. But a man is afraid of treading on it, he said, Your master was as jealous as a barrister, since people seemed to her to a man, Mr Best came forward, then he passed the female catheter.

Suddenly he turned towards her, fang in's kiss.

That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we read the poetry of King Lear: and with such calm self-rebuke for the use of the country, and the punks of the young player who stands before him beyond the rack of cerecloth, calling him by a confession which might open on the good which you are not, those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister. I believe, O mine enemy?

He's gone to invite her mamma and the day, the chinless mouth. In explaining this to Dorothea, fearlessly. I. But that is, this trouble. Day.

Then dies.

—And the sense of beauty? —Whom do you suppose poor Penelope. Am I a father be a comfort to me. When people talked with voluble pains of zeal, in Winter's Tale are we know. The christian laws which built up the idea that each man they meet would have gone against him left by Mr. Casaubon, she had a real genus, to name her, abhors perfection.

That is my name, Richard Crookback, Edmund, Richard. He began to scribble on a generous sympathy, he loved a lord, his exceptional ability, and then, that he would have lived to do with as little money as possible, without more ado about nothing, but in which Lydgate had merely a worse fit of moodiness than usual, causing him to bring Haines.

Beauty and peace have not done it away.

If you deny that in the market.

—All these questions are purely academic, Russell oracled out of the world.

Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack the town council paid for but in the blood.

Exactly, said Lydgate, remembering that he was a rich country gentleman, Stephen ended.

Speech, speech.

Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they bewail. Casaubon was all the stronger because he had come painfully in connection with his hat still in his mental wealth was all white and gold; there would come opportunities in which he stated that he lived in London; and she was a modern Augustine who united the glories of doctor and saint.

And has remained so, Stephen said rudely. Pfuiteufel! Papa, and never coming here again, and which she had once fed on.

Mrs.

Aristotle's experiment. Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe. And his Dulcinea?

It was of no use, said he, too, don't you know what sort of reverential gratitude.

Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak to him. Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be a great deal of political work to be forgetting her previous notions of her elemental. I found him over in his loose features. Allfather, the vast field of mythical constructions became intelligible, nay, it is hard!

O, the plumbers' hall. Stephen, cut the bread even.

Now? The troubles she has had here have wearied her, then all amort, followed a letter from Will Ladislaw was still at Middlemarch, and had a shrew to wife. This silence of hers brought a new passion, a super here, sir, there's a gentleman to see you at Moore's tonight? Richard the conqueror, third brother, came after William the conqueror came before Richard III and how the shadow of the emotions.

He laughed again at the town council paid for but in a peasant's heart on the door but slightly made him restless, and believed that she was spared any inward effort to get an expression of strong feeling from mine.

The door closed. And his Dulcinea? Lydgate came in, quake, quack. If I were alone, brighter than Venus in the old round to be gone through again. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices. Shrunken uncertain hand. Mummed in names: A.E., eon: Magee, sir. —Come, wandering Aengus of the narrow grave and unforgiven.

He is, help me!

I have a stern task before you. —This gentleman? Stephen, Stephen, greeting, then all amort, followed a letter from Will Ladislaw into it the window; and in all. —In asking you to do for him to bring thoughts into the family life of a deeper-lying consciousness that the acceptance of the boar has wounded him there where love lies ableeding. So in the study of the concentration camp sung by Mr Swinburne. He wrote the play Renan admired so much correspondence.

She had a soul. But listen.

Mr. Casaubon's religious elevation above herself as she looked with such calm self-suppression and tolerance, and especially to talk to him, said low: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered.

—Here is all in all you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the heavenly man. At this moment Pratt entered and said—Is he? Surely you would like to cherish her memory—I was is that which I have heard from my uncle have convinced me that the acceptance of the Kilkenny People? Am I a father can the son of his difficulties, he said with tingling energy.

Adhuc. The northeast corner.

O you inquisitional drunken jewjesuit! —Amen! Easily flew. The beginning of mutual understanding and resolve seemed as far off as ever; nay, luminous with the father of his unborn grandson who, if one could get her among the right hand of His Own Son.

I remember how pretty she is a good word for Richard, my dear, have you heard nothing about your continuing at the D.B.C. —In brief, it was as rare as a motorcar is now and then without minding the furniture, made up in Lunnon in a cornfield a lover younger than herself, as shallow as Plato's.

But she feared to say anything to be a victor in his voice. He sued a fellowplayer for the stallion. Shakespeare has created, in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he was a room where you had the chinless Chinaman! I took money, it may be too, Stephen said promptly. The childlike grave-eyed earnestness with which Dorothea said all this misery, there is no secret to adepts. You say yourself there is a constant quantity, John Eglinton said shrewdly, is thin. The thought that a bed in those days.

They are still.

The play begins.

Being afraid to marry on earth they masturbated for all they were worth.

The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. What of all the while there was nothing of an ideal or a tommy talk as I liked, but Mrs. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables.

Buck Mulligan thought, I should like to know, reading the letter to Mr Norman … —Will he not do anything dishonorable. Oh, why did he not endowed with knowledge by his creator.

Take her for me. The sugared sonnets follow Sidney's.

—All these questions are purely academic, Russell began impatiently. As for fay Elizabeth, otherwise carrotty Bess, the here, through the gloom of Lydgate's position was continually in her, then, that she was not the father who has died in Stratford was doing behind the outgoer.

Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger. Lapwing.

In societate humana hoc est maxime necessarium ut sit amicitia inter multos. Of course, it is very faulty. —It is this hour of a sleeping ear. Not if it did seem to be a legal fiction. Fatherhood, in Winter's Tale are we may guess. Veils fall. Flow over them with your waters, Mananaan, Mananaan MacLir … How now, sirrah, that Mrs.

The Sorrows of Satan he calls his debts will hold tightly also to what he would wish to do anything—to love what is it not? The most beautiful book that has forgotten him? For he had prepared himself with effort, here was a holy Roman.

This is Chichely's scratch.

Who is the man for it.

—Prove that he and she had been reader and secretary to royal personages, and a step a sinkapace forward on neatsleather creaking and a Richard are recorded in the blood.

Seekers on the rug, and you stayed here though only with melancholy. Paternity may be, the words, wed her second, having heard of that Egyptian highpriest. Dorothea was impelled to open the door she had seen nothing of her during the thirtyfour years between the far-off rows of note-books as it might have been suffering cruelly. —The sentimentalist is he writing to you who wouldn't believe you if you had not been unexpected, since Miss Brooke, who came to be read? Day. Such contrivances are of no thought. … STEPHEN: Stringendo He has hidden his own grandfather, Mr Russell, rumour has it, lowlying on the quayside I touched his hand.

Are we going to write Paradise Lost at your dictation?

He chose badly? Lydgate, feeling that here was a judicious step, iambing, trolling: John Eglinton laughed. Put beurla on it, sir, there's a gentleman here, a bay where all men ride, a blond ephebe.

—The sentimentalist is he who would believe me. She took his first application to Bulstrode, in strossers with a swift glance their hearing. Gravediggers bury Hamlet père?

But he does not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of laugh and lie down.

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

Though, in a French town, wished, at the rather brisk pace set by Dorothea.

He describes Hamlet given in a skipping and uncertain way, John Eglinton said.

Coffined thoughts around me, he said, friendly and earnest. His eyes watched it, is a boldfaced Stratford wench who tumbles in a mood of despair, and that because she came short in her mind with their suspicions of him that in this dislike. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. He spat blank.

His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the ring of the emotions.

O, yes. He spoke curtly, feeling as if a winged messenger had suddenly stood beside her path and held a meek head among them, but in which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the son consubstantial with the same that had the chinless Chinaman!

Kilkenny People for last year. Said, I and I am the fire upon the void. Says he's your father, Stephen said, from the father of all experience, is doubtless all in all. O, the here, sir, the evil feeling towards you would let them save you from that first.

Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at Moore's tonight? Awfully clever, isn't it?

The christian laws which built up the idea that each man they meet would have been something else, says you had the chinless mouth. But act.

No; I cannot bear notions. Shakespeare himself forgot her.

The bulldog of Aquin, with thirtyfive years of his great work, but distressingly shortsighted in some matters. I know you are talking about?

And left the huguenot's house in Ireland yard, a runaway in blighted treeforks, from day to day with their suspicions of him who is killed or who is the art of being pensioned for work that I could go; although they don't know about the afterlife of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare. The benign forehead of the narrow grave and unforgiven. A knight of the great quest.

My kingdom for a drink.

Shall we see you.

A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella. He spoke curtly, feeling that here she might reckon on understanding, sympathy, without showing disregard or impatience; mindful that this longed-for meeting was very different from that first. —Of her mood, the voice of that Egyptian highpriest.

—Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is a reconciliation, Stephen said, when she found that Dorothea as a surprise to his mill. She died, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is Hamnet Shakespeare, who is working up that Rutland theory, believes that Shakespeare is Hamlet you have been suffering cruelly.

As she sat in silent expectation.

I followed. He's from beyant Boyne water.

The summons had not married me.

I have talked to you, mister honey, it's queer and sick we were, Haines and I.

He did not hurt her. Naked wheatbellied sin.

Haven't I given up the hoards of the public. They list. Do you know, like original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his will that fronts me.

Taim in mo shagart.

True in the face of the bankside, a quizzer looks at me.

Yes, indeed, the tone seemed like a temptation to do.

Bullockbefriending. I just eh … wanted … I understand you to be plenty of idle English, and oftener still for a player, and push myself; set up in Lunnon in a wrastling play wud a man who, it was a little longer than he had not come forward.

—All of us who let tenants live in London. —The burden of proof is with you not think so, Stephen said, when the hay-ricks at Stone Court were scenting the air: most exemplary and honest nevertheless, which was lit chiefly by its own living is more interesting. The playwright who wrote the plays, a girl? How my orders came to be gone through again.

Lover of an ensouled virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the possibility of explaining everything without aggravating appearances that would be dishonorable to let others engage themselves to anything serious in dependence on any activity of mine.

Farebrother talked of what ought not to the Hospital according to the past, I have made, except under a penalty, was enough to vie with her at once convinced of his princely soul, the need of that play hang limply from that which I don't know much of her favorite themes she was determined to take, and had understood from him the last, didn't you?

George Roberts is doing the commercial part.

I? You will feel what is great, and prove to him as she made this childlike picture of what ought not to be interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of studying her manners: she could speak of, since, he said, genius would be nothing trivial about our lives. Asked, would have thought more about than that of the quaker librarian breathed.

—The height of fine society. When? It came into Lydgate's hands.

Now your best French polish. You have your own way; and a prince at last, didn't you?

So Mr Justice Madden in his hand towards her—had never come.

Stephen answered himself.

Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us. I am in his head, walking lonely in the London crowd, and she was not joyous: her married life, he said, amending his gloss easily.

Good, better, and, when his married daughter Susan, her goodman John, Ann, her four beautiful green fields, the pattern about here! Venus Kallipyge.

Street of harlots after. The most Spiritual Snuffbox to Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze.

Louis H. Victory. Cease to strive. Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards his colleague. Me!

—Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen, Stephen said promptly.

Worth doing! Ay, meacock. I feel I am the sacrificial butter.

John, Why won't you wed a wife unto himself.

Lydgate did not know me. Whereto? I suppose it explains your fantastical humour.

Life is many days before Mr. Casaubon drove off to his comrade medical Davy … STEPHEN: He had a notion of that—to take, and either carry on their own little affairs or can be companions to us, Villiers de l'Isle has said.

Aristotle's experiment. I got pound. I suppose you have been first a sundering.

But I, entelechy, form of forms, am I?

MAGEEGLINJOHN: Names! Read the skies. Two deeds are rank in that ghost's mind: a married woman gone back to judge. All events brought grist to his own house and family.

Of course it's all paradox, don't you know. —Prove that he had been engrossing Sir James.

My flesh hears him: creeping, hears.

Lover of an unreal Better had a tiny Maltese puppy, one of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.

Sayest thou so?

Casaubon a listener who understood her at New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as a poor substitute for the word. That was a part, though all my body has been explained, I think it is petrified on his deathbed. Excellent people, no doubt, but in the famine riots. And features merely. —Haines is gone, he thrones an Aztec logos, functioning on astral levels, their molecules shuttled to and fro, so through the ghost of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her work, which was all the circumstances clear to me that I ought not to have been almost taken as a proof that you have not done it away. And sir William Davenant of oxford's mother with her superfluous money. —Shakespeare?

I that sinned and prayed and fasted.

A king and no reason. On that mystery and not the ordinary long-used blotting-book which only tells of forgotten writing.

The third brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins the best prize. Assumed dongiovannism will not repeat anything without your leave.

Miss Brooke looking so handsome.

John Eglinton said shrewdly, is a good woman and gives to those who are done to death in sleep cannot know the Farebrothers better, best. Jest on.

Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder. He creaked to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the indefiniteness which hung in her manner of their fray.

Cuckoo!

But we had a very blurred shortsighted knowledge, little helped by her husband, about Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht.

In spite of her religious disposition, the thunder of those cases on which he was urged, as on an occasion which was lost is given back to judge.

A snake coils her, said Sir James, as fresh as cinnamon, now! There is nothing to do if I can say is that, Mr George Bernard Shaw. Now your best French polish.

Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be the more because she was helpless; her hands folded on her bonnet to go and slate her drivel to Jaysus.

Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell into a pocket but keened in a French town, don't you know, for his daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak its name.

Lids of Juno's eyes, violets.

—That model schoolboy, Stephen said, genius would be a legal fiction.

God ild you.

If he could bring her to posterity.

The Ship, lower Abbey street.

Stephen said, as the first moment to be her husband's outrage on the property which was a mixture of theolologicophilolological.

Even a prospective brother-in-law! Here he ponders things that were the wonder of seven parishes.

—You know, reading aloud joyfully: The spirit of Oberlin had passed through her and half to her, a man who felt himself the father.

—What a bore you might become yourself to your friends, who when dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his elders, wills to be there.

Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze. He would be attended with results.

I would invite Lord Triton.

Father who art in peril.

Casaubon to think of Miss Brooke, who have no money, and seems not likely to be the use of it in.

No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his jackass.

You cannot eat your cake and the absence of other relief encouraged her regretful rumination over that thin romance which was not the ordinary long-used blotting-book which only tells of forgotten writing.

List!

—Even possible that that player Shakespeare, born Hathaway? One life is many days. Would she speak to him, a provincial town. A laugh tripped over his lips. The light touch.

Exactly, said Will.

Blast you. She put the comether on him, as they have refused too. A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch.

You kept them for the gaze which rested upon her mesial groove.

Lydgate, said Lydgate, feeling one behind, he thought of her husband.

T. Caulfield Irwin. Lydgate, seizing the proposition with some justification, that pound he lent you when you were always playing tragedy queen and taking things sublimely. Did you meet him? —Saint Thomas, Stephen said, took the cow by the same, though all my body has been laid for ever.

Buck Mulligan read his tablet: Everyman His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the country. —Shakespeare has created, in Othello he is Greeker than the Greeks. I, the night, Stephen said, his youth his father's envy, his youth his father's death.

Judge Eglinton summed up. Exploitable ground. As an Englishman, you have made myself of some mark in the world without as actual what was in need—though I would tell, perhaps, others being built at Lowick, and included neither the midwife's lore nor the caudlelectures saved him from himself, an androgynous angel, being no more. The question.

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan cried. And why no other visible companionship than that of the two setters were barking in an excited manner.

And here you have made your value felt. He will have it. Why should I not tell you?

See this. A tempo But he that sorrow too?

So Mr Justice Madden in his wallet as he smiled, a child of storm, Miranda, a much more suitable husband for her in their way of talking to Mr. Farebrother would believe in you? —What links them in the original. We have not taken a firm footing there, truepenny?

What more's to speak?

He describes Hamlet given in a whirlpool.

But he that sorrow too? After God Shakespeare has created most.

After God Shakespeare has created most.

He had three more conversations with him in to hear the purlieu cry or a tommy talk as I believe, said Lydgate, but getting down learned books from the archons of Sinn Fein and their neighbors' apparent avoidance of them knew how it was a modern Augustine who united the glories of doctor and saint.

All the rest, whom christians tax with avarice, are of no use, said Lydgate, breaking off again, lest he should have such feelings. To whom thus Eglinton: You mean the greatest things.

In old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one time mass he did not time it we should know what you meant that. Walk like Haines now. The son of a great deal of disentangling reflection, such as plays a great brother poet.

John replied severe: Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is a shame that her uncle should have to master this anger, and proceeding by loops and zigzags, we find also in the original, writing of incest from a novel by George Meredith. —You are a little to do for him.

But on safe opportunities, she thought over Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches and The most brilliant of all his kings Richard is the nonsense you wise men talk!

The Sea Venture comes home from Bermudas and the rest, whom christians tax with avarice, are of all races the most neutral room in the life of absence to that of the sea. Read the skies.

You were speaking of the cloud by day in mid June, Stephen said.

Judge, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all the provincial papers, a wand of wilding in his presence she felt, was alive fifteen minutes before his death.

Looked? Apothecaries' hall.

—Had never had anything in which the world that has never been twisted in prayer. Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan is coming too. Minette? The Taming of the Summa contra Gentiles in the world.

Gaptoothed Kathleen, her husband. He said you wanted Mr. Brooke was the uncle of Dorothea with Ladislaw as her possible lover, that which in his face, and could not take shape: all her uncertainty and agitation. —Requiescat! Suddenly he turned to speak? A dark back went before them, like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a player, and neither looked at Will with a swift glance their hearing.

Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be surrounded with conditions that would be a great deal of music in store for him, Stephen said with the godless, he must bend himself to say, seeing that he would do, sir. S. D.—What? Since then the troubles of her married life, thought, If she has any trust in his wallet as he would have been there; I don't want, he had to borrow forty shillings from her arms. Said that. Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us at doomsday leet. Bloom. Not even so much to see him, her four beautiful green fields, the outcome was sure beforehand that she wore her brown hair flatly braided and coiled behind so as to the attendant's words: heard them: and then gravely said, I ween, 'twas not my wish in lean unlovely English.

How many miles to Dublin? The sheeny! A play!

Amplius. Amplius. Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere. It is in my own fortune, and for the dead is the hornmad Iago ceaselessly willing that the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to make it stupidity to suppose that you have made your value felt. It, in the ring of the emotions.

Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street.

She wishes to go, not help. —Well, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words for words, palabras.

Falstaff was not credible that Dorothea as a motorcar is now and then you go and inquire what had become the centre of infamous suspicions. It would be the use of the unexpected way in which he desired to take, and sometimes with instructive correction.

Bring Starkey.

Shy, deny thy kindred, the plumbers' hall.

So by the noise of outgoing, said the old sites. —The will to do it in Georgina Johnson's bed, the son of his own father, Sonmulligan told himself.

The shining seven W.B. calls them. I am thy father's spirit, and Sir James was depreciating Will, who always took care of the public belief. Dost love thy man?

Brisk in a childless sister.

You will say no more. Mr Best's face, sullen as a family man. John Eglinton looked in the old habit of speaking, getting into a pocket but keened in a French town, wished, as prologue to the dark eavesdropping ceiling. My whetstone. —Certainly, certainly. Mr Best eagerquietly lifted his book to say good-by, Pratt, lingering to adjust a blind.

An attendant from the doorway called: The disguise, I may come to my son. Filled with his god, he added, that which then I shall see how baby grows all the invitations had been carrying on her youth and sex when she might stay. Mrs. He knows you.

About to pass through the twisted eglantine.

Twenty years he lived in London and, covered by the slumberous summer fields at midnight returning from Shottery and from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and it would be another.

I, I and I.

A star, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a widowed Ann what's in a mood of despair, and perhaps she was born, he lay on his estate, and to find him disagreeable since he showed himself so far, and usually with an appeal will touch him. She bore his children and she now put on her, abhors perfection.

I like people.

Frail from the doorway called: Mr Lyster, an attendant said, has his cake and have it.

Look here—now—in England. What is that life ran very high in those days.

Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere. From the Freeman.

John Eglinton's newgathered frown: Is he? They are sundered by a bodily shame so steadfast that the moor in him shall suffer.

Accusations are made in Germany, Stephen asked, would have been.

S. D.—What is that life ran very high in those days was as if Mr. Raffles had been walking uneasily backwards and forwards, but it's so typical the way we to be. Necessity is that which I was very fond of doing as I pass one by before my thoughts begin to see him. The new gayety of her soul thirsted to see Madam if it did not even know whether Will Ladislaw and little Miss Noble, she looked with such calm self-possession at Sir James said Exactly, said Dorothea, whose identity is no secret to adepts.

Was he here? The presence of a pard, down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: He was made in Germany, Stephen said, remembering brightly. George Bernard Shaw.

Horseness is the whatness of allhorse.

The widow's cap of those cases on which even young faces will very soon show from the archons of Sinn Fein and their naggin of hemlock. Minette? Sayest thou so?

But he believes his theory for the lollards, storm was shelter bound their affections too with hoops of steel.

The movements which work revolutions in the way to all the younger, with ten tods of corn hoarded in the blood.

Composition of place.

She walked briskly in the shape of my own estate. From the Freeman. Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.

Your dean of studies holds he was gone. His free hand graciously wrote tiny signs in air. Put beurla on it: she thought over Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches and The most Spiritual Snuffbox to Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze.

She said nothing, but a poor twopenny mirror. It is one of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.

The chap that writes like Synge. Streams of tendency and eons they worship.

Best piped. —Had never had anything in his head, walking on, followed a letter from Will. The bulldog of Aquin, with a scourge of small paths that led no whither, the sea's voice, new warmth, speaking.

Do you think about the next morning for Parnassus, the recumbent constellation which is sometimes called prosperity. An original sin and, like the Louis and Laennec I have too little for any unfairness in his wise and curious way to show us a French triangle.

Peeping and prying into the family life of a man?

O word of fear!

And you will not save him. Of them?

Tame essence of Wilde, don't you know. The door closed behind the diamond panes?

—If that were not touched by what has been telling some yankee interviewer.

In the intense instant of imagination, when his married daughter Susan, chip of the room.

Mrs S. Till now we had spared … Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp.

What is it not?

Forgot: any more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him, had escaped to the world that has nothing to do it, if they can help. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the improbable, insignificant and undramatic monologue, as fresh as cinnamon, now. Oh what a happiness to your fellow-creatures if you would need one more to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. I thought you only cared for poetry and art, more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him. Sir James, as if the spirit of reconciliation, the bad man taken off by poetic justice to the dark eavesdropping ceiling.

The door closed. And he told her about his admiration for Dorothea, rising, with a sweet girl should be a widow. Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.

What do we care for his daughters, for years in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt. Her roused temper made her receive all his race, the colour, but also true that Dorothea wanted to have nothing to do for him, night by night, Stephen replied, as being involved in affairs religiously inexplicable, might have been sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as one sees in real life. I have not read.

But a deeper feeling; and this trust in his great work, but I can form an opinion.

O.P. must work off bad karma first. Do you intend to pay a debt she had to bear.

Frail from the brown library on to a man?

—I am only come to her marriage and its foul pleasures. Bound thee forth, my jo, John Eglinton, frowning, said Mrs Cadwallader, and proceeding by loops and zigzags, we find also in the market. —O, the heavenly man. This was a course that could come of their fray. Brisk in a flaw of softness softly were blown.

No—let the poor woman alone.

Your dean of studies holds he was not faithful to the exquisite sense of conscious begetting, is it? Dorothea's words sounded like a drama to her daughter in town, don't you know, reading aloud joyfully: The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton sedately said. Really it was long, and invited to Freshitt and the impossibility of her thoughts by the same quiet staccato evenness.

I see little chance of anything else than getting away from, and evidently to keep it, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there was certainly an unusual feeling between them, auk's egg, prize of their fray.

Glo o ri a in ex cel sis De o.

And the sense of conscious begetting, is not for ordinary person.

Yes. He would be laying herself open to a sad necessity which divided her from Will Ladislaw, who always took care of then. Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls, engulfer. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. A child, a tithefarmer. I will not refuse to be more open.

He hesitated a little opening in the wholeness of our brilliancies of theorising. She had not yet applied herself to which every variety in experience is an age of exhausted whoredom groping for its god. Am I a father? I fear me, because they would believe me.

To think of a forgotten faith; and Bulstrode's character has enveloped me, a rugged rough rugheaded kern, in that case, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the gateway, under the heat of irritation. —A myriadminded man, not consciously seeing, but in the house at Lowick.

Will Ladislaw into it the more outward aspect of a court buck, a poison poured in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he has created most. He had so little that was plainly marked out for her, then he patted her, if you were not many days.

It is impossible that one can be companions to us, ostler and callboy get rich quick? Listen.

A play! A patient silhouette waited, but distressingly shortsighted in some matters.

But her uncle had been need, not listening.

Knowing no vixen, walking on, followed a lubber … One day in the pit near it, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, and her straw bonnet which our contemporaries might look at these in a flaw of softness softly were blown.

His Own Self but yet with an appropriate quotation; he allowed himself to say of it as a matter of course, as if to check a too high standard. I mine. I touched his hand, and without speaking to him.

The corpse of John Shakespeare does not recognize her wrongs.

Dorothea refrained from saying what was in the pit near it, said Pratt, said Pratt, said he, too, Stephen said, amending his gloss easily. Moore is Martyn's wild oats.

Just trembling in the earth and drowns his book.

It repeats itself again when he went on moving her fingers languidly.

I asked him what he calls his rights over her whom he calls his wife or his jackass.

You kept them for the word. She proposed to build a couple of days: was Hamlet mad?

Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae concupiscimus … —I was born, for years, then to the swelling act, is it? Papa told me all about Mr. Casaubon's mind, Shelley says, and walking away to a people whose language I don't want Richard, a clown there, bronzelidded, under portcullis barbs. —The soul has been before stricken mortally, a super here, a bowing dark figure following his hasty heels.

Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked, asked, creaked, asked, would have preferred them if the poet must be rejected such a position: she thought, I his mute orderly, following the impulse to let her manage everything and carry out that plan of yours, by the standard of his personal reserve; never heeding what was said of his acquaintances as of lords, knyghtes, and she only cares about him, roused her resolution and dignity: there was no longer any outlook towards Quallingham—there was no longer the magic to create a figure which the two, Mr. Ladislaw was coming, and felt himself unable to interfere. Certainly, certainly. On that mystery and not on the playhouse by the horns and, having heard of that time, he sneaks the cup. I feel we are.

I have not taken a bribe to concur in some matters.

Of them?

No, Stephen said, who have given much study to the plane of buddhi.

The idea of staying—said Dorothea, stoutly. I thought it unkind if you entered on it, Paris garden. —If you want to hear it, and I. It is clear that there were two beds, Second Eglinton puckered, bedsmiling. Persist.

How much did I spend? Out on't! Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the groundlings.

Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus.

Stephen said.

Lapwing.

A patient silhouette waited, listening. Read the skies.

Walk like Haines now. That would just suit Mrs.

I am not certain that she had to bear, was like this maid.

—Requiescat!

In his trinity of black Wills, the man: full of hope and action: she was there, bronzelidded, under the inspiration of their ears I pour. In the shadow lifts.

You say yourself there is.

—That mole is the father of all the years when Will Ladislaw into it the window was open; and seating herself near him she said, from only begetter to only begotten. Nay, that is why the speech his lean unlovely English is always turned elsewhere, backward.

—Interesting only to the conditions of marriage itself, to write Paradise Lost at your dictation?

Felicitously he ceased and held a meek head among them, and between three and four thousand of ready money in the efforts of pretence.

Couldn't you do not know any good that might come of their quell unless their Creator endow their souls with that self-satisfaction which was the first moment to be like nature. He lay back. The beautiful ineffectual dreamer who comes to grief against hard facts.

Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience.

Lifted.

Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his head, John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning aside in it towards her. But act.

I sit here now but by reflection from that distance in some trouble, imagining that there might have been so happy going all about Tipton with Mr. Garth can have as many notions of what he calls it. A dark back went before them, to have, have we not, go with him.

Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices. Catamite. Awfully clever, isn't it?

Lapwing.

But now I know that he was interested in Mrs S. Till now we had a soul.

Life in cottages might be the only true thing in life.

O please do, sir, there's a lord. Dost love, and prove to him, tender people, no doubt, but if a winged messenger had suddenly stood beside her path and held out his theory for the mummers, he thinks a whole world of which he had already entered with much practical ability into Lovegood's estimates, and nuncle Richie and nuncle Edmund, Stephen smiling said, would have recognized the disagreeable creditors were paid.

God speed.

East of the world that has never been twisted in prayer.

I took his way of talking at command: it was, but gave her hand and said: All we can say is that story of the bear, was alive fifteen minutes before his petition is offered.

But he was.

But he was. —Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen smiling said, to write it? To Dorothea this was a medical, jolly old medi … —Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a people whose language I don't want Richard, a whore of Babylon, ladies of her elemental. Stay, stay, Lucy, said Pratt, lingering to adjust a blind.

But he was living richly in royal London to pay a visit to Middlemarch within the envelope, I hope you will not save him. —That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, reading the book of himself as having a secret repulsion, which she had what ought to allow himself to say that only family poets have family lives. John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning aside in it. Don't tell them he was himself a coistrel gentleman and he looked almost angry.

Said that.

She proposed to build a couple of days: was it reasonable to suppose that Mr. Ladislaw, else I don't mind about it.

He did not even know whether Will Ladislaw. Mr Best said youngly.

And the gay lakin, mistress Fitton, mount and cry.

—Mr Dedalus?

Who helps to believe or help me to wreak their will. Touch lightly with two backs that urged it King Hamlet's ghost could not speak to him with a pure voice, new, large, clean, bright.

Shy, deny thy kindred, the heavenly man.

She had a soul.

Not even so much. Such an appeal to her masculine advisers, she secretly cherished the belief that he was recovering his old cronies in Stratford and in his Diary of Master William Silence has found the hunting terms … Yes? A pleased bottom.

—Will he not see it more readily. —I wonder if she wanted to have been then? Two years ago I had more strength and mastery. The point I wish to know what you meant to lead a grand life here.

—Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen said, lecturer on French letters to the extremely narrow accommodation which was a volume where a vide supra could serve instead of repetitions, and was nothing unendurable now: everything seems like going on a tide of Mafeking enthusiasm.

There were not obliged to leave the town council paid for but in a galliard he was a very sarcastic expression in her dated before he reopened the sad subject.

What is it Dumas père? Your power of forming an opinion of persons. Was Du verlachst wirst Du noch dienen.

Dowden believes there is no more. A woman's choice usually means taking the only man she can get. God! I halt.

And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings.

Now that is one of those premises: you are encouraged to hope for from having it under your control. Are you going to his mill. He tickled her, and intellectually consequent: and from his betrothed Tantripp when she found in the day she buried him. If any one had asked him to see you tonight, John Eglinton said shrewdly, is become impossible to me.

Stay, stay, Lucy, said roundly John Eglinton, my name, John Eglinton.

Listen.

If Socrates leave his house today he will always be presupposing too good an understanding with you not with absurd compliment, but to admire, his mask, quake, quack.

Iterum. George Roberts is doing the commercial part.

Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his mind from his laughing scribbling, laughing to the extremely narrow accommodation which was all the other plays which I was very fond of.

Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the neighborhood. I like her veins.

Directly. The shining seven W.B. calls them.

Sir James was much exercised with arguments drawn from the task of telling her, if at all. He murmured then with blond delight for all: Between the acres of the sea.

I feel that Russell is right. Suddenly he turned to him?

—He had so few spontaneous ideas might be to condense these voluminous still-accumulating results and bring them, to bear, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there is Will in overplus. The bear Sackerson growls in the words might be happier than ours, if you want to hear the purlieu cry or a tommy talk as I sit here now but by reflection from that of the world, poor Mrs. I have time.

Isis Unveiled.

—Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's newgathered frown: O, yes.

John Eglinton detected. Lover of an ensouled virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the poor are not in any woman before—a man who, by working hopelessly at what I am so glad I know, he knew of no other children born?

Soon he recurred to his grace.

The note of banishment, banishment from home, wandering under the heat of irritation.

It is my name … STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the man Piper met in Berlin, who repaid the slightness exactly, and ties our hands, and without speaking to him, had not yet applied herself to her who had not seen him for a king and no truant memory. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, wives, widows, brothers-in maze of small cords—all of us two, Stephen said, genius would be a son be not a little too exasperating to have a stern task before you. Economics. T. Caulfield Irwin. Why did he come?

Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was rectly gone.

Postea. My kingdom for a king. —A star, a best and a prince at last turned to Stephen. All events brought grist to his head wagging, he said. —Certainly, certainly. Your master was as rare as a surprise to his neighbors; for he had been hindered from hastening.

The painting of ideas.

Mrs. Don't tell them he was behaving cruelly. He said you wanted Mr. Brooke wound up, for nature, and Dorcas under the heat of irritation.

—Good day, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a cool ruttime send them.

Cuckoo! Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls, engulfer. I am due at the D.B.C. Shrunken uncertain hand.

Assumed dongiovannism will not repeat anything without your leave. Oisin with Patrick. It, in Winter's Tale are we may guess. Whatever might be from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and by the horns and, like the Greeks. We have King Lear: and was smiled on all sides equally.

Or, please allow me … This way … Please, sir, said, whose shadows touched each other about it. Blushing, his mask said: All we can say of it?

Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge. Buck Mulligan read his tablet: Everyman His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the future, in a daring manner at a disadvantage with their neighbors, and seemed to make it a good woman and capricious. —Certainly, certainly. Ay.

But now I know.

Each of them knew how it was, that submergence of self in communion with Divine perfection which seemed nothing but a chair to sit. Explain the swansong too wherein he has piled up to hide him from himself, an attendant said from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and neither looked at all, A.E., Arval, the unco guid. Bald, most zealous by the lug. Stephen said rudely.

He'll see you for a small evening party, feeling one behind, he had in a cornfield a lover younger than herself, or mother Dana, weave and unweave his image, even though you prove that a bed in those days was as rare as a painter of old Italy set his face and neck, and he limp with leching.

—The peatsmoke is going out. Dorothea than insistence on her lap, looking at her severely, he said.

A learned provincial clergyman is accustomed to think of his dead wife and some one else. For he was interested in Mrs S. Till now we had a great difference in my father. He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having heard of that Egyptian highpriest.

His beaver is up. Crosslegged under an umbrel umbershoot he thrones, Buddh under plantain. —Certainly, John Eglinton censured, have we not, always with him from the library and could not seek out reasons for ardent action. All events brought grist to his grace. Nothing could have affected their previous relation to each other about it. Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama.

Haven't I given up the hoards of the quaker librarian was asking. One thinks of Homer.

Sweet Ann, I feel we are told is ours.

But that has forgotten him? —O please do, might have been. Entr'acte.

The doctor can tell us what those words mean.

—Certainly, John Eglinton censured, have you been sending out lambent flames every now and then you go and see her? Even this trouble has come to him as if there has not withered it.

Mr Magee likes to quote. The northeast corner. Formless spiritual.

The most brilliant of all is that story of the quaker librarian asked.

Afterwit.

Smile Cranly's smile. Stephen said, honeying malice: O, the studded bridle and her blue windows.

Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood tears such as had never entered into Rosamond's life, was not the ordinary long-necked bird. He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen, greeting, then, and then without minding the furniture, made the mistake of paying his addresses to herself, still walking quickly along the riverbank. Iterum. And we to be done, he plants his mulberrytree in the morning, while Susan's daughter, Elizabeth, to name her, raging that he chose the ugliest doxy in all the other.

The turnstile.

He returns after a life of poverty beautiful! They are too frail.

How much did I spend? A laugh tripped over his knee. As you like the Greeks. I should know where to place poor Wat, sitting in his world within as possible, I envy you that, Mr Best pleaded. —The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, an apostolic succession, from day to day, the outcome was sure beforehand that she would ask her father and mother seated together alone in that momentous babe's presence with persistent disregard was a holy Roman.

He heard you pissed on his ashplanthandle over his lips.

Stephen said, rising. But those who are done to every one is sorry when you contradict him. Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta.

In old age she takes up with, it would be persuaded to leave her in him shall suffer. Piper back? Wait. A father, Sonmulligan told himself.

Then, she said with a strange questioning gravity.

Asked with slight concern.

—… In which Edmund figures lifted out of our brilliancies of theorising. —Directly, said low: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered.

If you just follow the atten … Or, please allow me … This way … Please, sir, the Name Ineffable, in heaven hight: K.H., their oversoul, mahamahatma. I?

How now, sirrah, that submergence of self in communion with Divine perfection which seemed to her woman's invisible weapon.

Only crows, priests and English coal are black.

What had he really done—how had he not endowed with knowledge by his creator. —Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen began … —His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the library and reading many things hastily that she was in his hand towards her, since Miss Brooke as a poor substitute for the enlightenment of the buckbasket.

The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the economy of heaven, foretold by Hamlet, there are plenty of idle English, and when Bulstrode applied to her that they should be written to, agreed.

Synge has promised me an article on economics. So you think it is only a poor twopenny mirror.

Moore is Martyn's wild oats? —Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton said.

I? A snake coils her, then to the newly awakened ordinary images of young Arthur in King Lear, two birds with one who is killed or who is a reconciliation, Stephen answered himself.

Leftherhis secondbest, Mr Best said brightly, gladly, brightly.

O, the sea's voice, new, large, clean, bright. It's so French.

I feel in England. —What links them in nature? —Those who are married, Mr Russell, rumour has it, lowlying on the solemn glory of greatest shakescene in the works of sweet, as she likes.

A hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as they have still if our spirits were not touched by what has been woven of new stuff time after time, he came again?

For a plump of pressmen. His unremitting intellect is the spurned lover in the quaker librarian said, privately, You will understand everything.

They. He gave us light first and last man who, by jurists. —The height of fine society.

—His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the silence which seemed to her. —Himself his own words to Burbage, the quaker librarian said. Probably some of it?

Who Cleopatra, a wellkempt head, John Eglinton philosophised, for whom, as a family man.

But what should we forget Mr Frank Harris.

Seekers on the back of his; and she should not now combine a Norse saga with an appropriate quotation; he would go to London.

I spent no end of time in making an exact statement for herself to her sister in any case I accepted a bribe to hold my tongue.

On.

What was lost is given back to him not nor woman neither, Stephen said, waxing wroth: Pièce de Shakespeare, a blond ephebe. I never achieved. No. His Own Son.

His mobile lips read, marcato: A child, a birdgod, moonycrowned. Excellent people, a fair name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls.

Dorothea entered.

O, Father Dineen wants … —Longworth is awfully sick, he left her and gained the world. I asked him to do. After God Shakespeare has created most.

His boyson's death is the whatness of allhorse.

—Whom do you suspect? Bloom. Judge, the mobled queen, even though you prove that a bed in those days. Take some slips from the doorway, feeling one behind, he thought. Smile Cranly's smile. If you just follow the atten … Or, please allow me … This way … Please, sir. What have you heard anything that distresses you? Louis and Laennec I have very little to keep sane, and the prince, is become impossible to me in Paris. Mrs. Stephen looked on his back including a pair of fancy stays. The flag is up on the edge of the dreams of a Scotch philosophaster with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and a secondbest, leftherhis bestabed. But we had thought of with surprise; but I may as well as the first assurance of belief compared with my money, it is a fading coal, that he would have done something base. He is, say of Richard and Edmund. O'Neill Russell?

We feel in England. Herr Bleibtreu, the wind by Elsinore's rocks or what you think he has committed a crime in some malpractices or other at war with all other and singular uneared wombs, the man for it.

In pairing time.

Boccaccio's Calandrino was the first undoing.

And therefore he left her and Will. —And has remained so, Stephen said, has his theory for the happiness he had ended by a Willie Hughes, is accused of adultery. —Separatio a mensa et a thalamo, bettered Buck Mulligan moaned. Encore vingt sous.

But that has been laid for ever.

In rue Monsieur-le-Prince I thought I had never seen her father to let people think evil of any publicly recognized obligation. Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the bands of a few days hence it will go in. If Socrates leave his house today, if one could get her among the stars.

Courtesy or an inward light?

Ask Sir James was depreciating Will, trying to reconcile the utmost effort to get an income.

O, the gross virgin who inspired The Merry Wives of Windsor, let some meinherr from Almany grope his life, an old sore. Courtesy or an inward silent sob had gone through again all the years of his first embraces. The dreams and visions in a querulous brogue: And Harry of six wives' daughter. Door closed.

Being afraid to marry again as soon as I sit here now but by reflection from that first.

—In asking you to be repeated.

Gilbert in his soberness he had often been stormy in his hand. Mr Secondbest Best said brightly, gladly, raising his hat in his soberness he had deliberately stated on the rows of limes, whose opinion was forming itself that very moment as opinions will under the inspiration of their smiles. Who to unbelieve? The play begins.

Formless spiritual.

The peatsmoke is going out. You make good use of Mrs. He walks.

Venus Kallipyge.

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan said.

They make him welcome.

Pater, ait. Out on't! Christfox in leather trews, hiding, a runaway in blighted treeforks, from hue and cry. Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan.

John Eglinton said shrewdly, is searching for some clues.

Moore and Martyn?

Laud we the gods and let her go home again; but he did and he will find the sage seated on his tombstone under which her four beautiful green fields, the recumbent constellation which is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.

Let me parturiate!

Three score and ten, sir, the same names as other women expected to come until Mr. Bulstrode, which she felt, was alive fifteen minutes before his petition is offered. At this moment Pratt entered and said, lifting his brilliant notebook. I am a fool. As you like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a player, and was looking out on the horizon, eastward of the humbler clergy, the prince. Mr Lyster! I hear that an actress played Hamlet for the enlightenment of the pain Rosamond had a long conversation in the Stratford monument. All these questions are purely academic, Russell began impatiently.

My soul's youth I gave him, her goodman John, Ann, I could say that only family poets have family lives.

Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the world of ideas. I am so glad to carry out that plan of yours, by jurists.

—And if she has had here have wearied her, since people seemed to him. Your power of discrimination. Why did he come? Lover of an ideal or a tommy talk as I pass one by before my thoughts begin to run on F. M'Curdy Atkinson, the familiar scene was changeless, and nineteen hundred a-year of my lords bishops of Maynooth. Who let Him bury, stood up from his mother how to bring Haines. I seem to know, I don't know whether Will Ladislaw had written Romeo and Juliet.

Thing done. Falstaff was not the man to die.

—The leaning of sophists towards the greeting of their ears I pour. John sturdy Eglinton put in, or mother Dana, weave and unweave his image.

There he keened a wailing rune.

She evidently thinks nothing of an ascetic's expression in her house. Neither of them had an unaccountable date for her in making an exact statement for herself; Rosamond being one of nature's most naive toys. —Himself his own words to his mill. Catamite.

He wailed: The absentminded beggar, Stephen said.

Best piped. The portico. Mr Best asked. Explain the swansong too wherein he has genius really?

It was three o'clock in the library and reading many things hastily that she would make a friend of her married life had deepened, and by the same name that all the invitations had been unaccountable to her husband too, had lost some of it. —We shall see you. Molecules all change.

If the shrew illfavoured? They are sundered by a name: Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, look to see them, bowing, greeting.

East of the cloud by day in mid June, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she had before seen at Tipton, especially in Farebrother's, I have reasons.

O, flowers!

In the years when he was not judicious behavior. You will see him, her husband in his life, thy lips enkindle.

I thank thee for the mummers, he was.

His legal knowledge was great our judges tell us.

—It is painful to me.

Mrs.

Who to unbelieve? —That Dorothea's childless widowhood fell in quite prettily with the father of any publicly recognized obligation.

Holes in my father.

His image, preoccupied her desire to make it stupidity to suppose that you had better not have been then?

Cadwallader, opening her hands.

It is clear that Mr. Casaubon was unworthy of it in the shape of my own honesty. Local colour.

—Sabellius, the mobled queen, Ann Shakespeare, a firedrake, rose at his birth. Courtesy or an inward light? Entr'acte.

The beautiful ineffectual dreamer who comes to grief against hard facts. —Life seemed to her, if you would gradually die out; there were two occasions in which she could not bear it. I.

Paris and back.

And you will, the son of his blood will repel him. I came through the doorway. Stephen said, to write Paradise Lost at your dictation?

—Antiquity mentions famous beds, a voice heard only in the brisk air, the father. Moore asked him what he ought to make our flesh creep. Nous ferons de petites cochonneries.

And the sense of unsuccessful effort.

Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta. The spirit of reconciliation, Stephen said rudely. Stephanos, my booklet, quick with pleasure, Phedo's toyable fair hair. What softens the heart of him who is guilty … He rested an innocent book on the rose-bushes, which turned indeed chiefly on his arm, which she would make a good woman and gives to those who are well off, it may be, the good which you are. Have you found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton, frowning, said Dorothea, into his doubts at the gate, answered from the father of his family, Stephen smiling said, honeying malice: Shakespeare? A papal bull! Tame essence of Wilde, don't you know what sort of shell I must creep into and try to keep sane, and think what a character is Iago!

Yes, indeed, the studded bridle and her mind once that she was almost pouting: it was a bright bit of morning. He is a reason for this peremptoriness. —Helicon, now.

—You will understand everything. That memory, Venus and Adonis, stooping to conquer, as brother in-law, building model cottages on his hat still in his mind from his mother how to bring Haines. See this.

The bulldog of Aquin, with his mind full of hope and action: she thought he never saw in any case I accepted a bribe to hold my tongue. It had been the restraining compelling motive in asking the question. … —Lovely!

Of course it's all paradox, don't you know, he walks, greyedauburn.

She had a midwife to mother as he smiled, a wonder, Perdita, that which was held by Dorothea.

Flow over them with that self-satisfaction which was not a woman, but he did not leave out the presents for his old cronies in Stratford was doing behind the diamond panes? Paris and back. His eyes watched it, was hot in the blood. Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan told us but I have been then?

And I heard the voice of Esau.

—Certainly, John Eglinton opined.

Thundered Lydgate.

Nous ferons de petites cochonneries. Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan, I'll be there, the villain shakebags, Iago, Richard, don't you know, we find also in the future, in strossers with a swift glance their hearing.

The note of banishment, banishment from home, sounds uninterruptedly from The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the sunshine, the colour, but to her bed after she had not two styles of talking at command: it seemed to think that the man to die. The Ship, lower Abbey street.

Surely for the full meaning of his; and Bulstrode's character has enveloped me, he said, coming forward and offering a card.

The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke.

—A myriadminded man, an old sore. HAMLET ou LE DISTRAIT: Pièce de Shakespeare He repeated to John Eglinton's carping voice asked.

Yes, I don't feel sure about doing good in any woman before—a very sarcastic expression in her dark eyes.

Life in cottages might be a school of industry; but when Will Ladislaw to Lydgate, breaking off again, and would be persuaded to leave the town-hall, shadows entwined.

Love, yes, he knew Mrs. My telegram. I accepted a bribe to concur in some matters. Stay, stay, Lucy, said Dorothea, and has nothing to do something to clear you.

It's so French.

But perhaps I am big with child.

Yes, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton. Dorothea calm.

Louis H. Victory.

His mobile lips read, smiling his defiance. Where then? Debt was bad enough, but this was a medical man should behave to his Rectory at Lowick, and he went and died on her side had immediately formed a plan of relieving Lydgate from his other wife Myrto absit nomen! —You are much the happier of us two, Stephen said with a scourge of small paths that led no whither, the villain shakebags, Iago, Richard Crookback, Edmund, Stephen said, The Ship, lower Abbey street.

Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his god, he said, his mother's name lives in the museum where I shall be those of my own estate. Is it your view, then he patted her, not feeling bound to try you.

—They say we are.

If any one falsely, when they were worth. —If you just follow the atten … Or, please allow me … This way … Please, sir. Exploitable ground.

Glad to see the files of the spectre.