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tightjeansjavi · 1 month

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My Dearest,

A/N: so, while I was in Galena for my girls trip this weekend…my friend and I went into a bookstore and that’s where the inspiration struck! Ulysses Grant wrote letters to his wife (My Dearest Julia) from June 4th, 1844 to February 2, 1854. Of course I immediately had to throw Joel into the narrative, with a twist ;) please have your tissue boxes at the ready for this one and remember, fiction can’t hurt you! Also, big thank you and kisses to @beardedjoel for sobbing along with me while I wrote these series of letters 💘 P.S I know California wasn’t founded as a state until 1850…but let’s just pretend!

~word count: 1.9k~

Summary: a series of letters written by Joel Miller, a hopeless romantic yearning for your embrace once more.

Pairing | forbidden love!joel miller x f!reader

Warnings: angst, allusion to smut, infertility, pining, hopeless romantic, unrequited love, forbidden love, major character death, alcoholism, death by alcohol poisoning, yearning, no age gap, mentions of social status, somewhat historically accurate language, no happy ending, reader has no physical descriptions, readers nickname is my dearest, +18 minors dni! (If I missed anything, please let me know!)

June 4th, 1844

My Dearest,

I am deeply remorseful for the events that transcribed three days ago. I know I have put you in an undesirable situation now with your father’s wishes for your arranged marriage to the rich banker's son. Forgive me, for I don’t care to remember his name. My dearest, do not put the blame upon yourself. If we had known that there were prying, hateful eyes watching us, I would have waited for you in the stables and not inside your chambers. Jealously drives even the sanest of people to do the unforgivable. The deep wounds your father has inflicted upon me will heal, but my heart? Oh, how it aches for you, my dearest. If I were not a coward, I would turn back and face the gallows just to see your face one last time, for what else is a man to do when he is in love? I’m heading west, like we planned in the gardens, in hopes that you will follow me and go against your father’s wishes. Please write to me soon, tell me that you are safe, and grace me with your sweet words.

Your devoted Joel.

July 13, 1844

My Dearest,

California is beautiful and my eyes are seeing the ocean for the very first time. I wonder what your view is? Last I heard you were moving to New York. Is it true? Please tell me it’s a lie. I would be naive to think that what is written in the papers to be false, but my heart is still holding on. Are you moving to New York because of me? I’m so sorry, my dearest. We should have been more careful. I can still smell your perfume, and feel the ghost of your lips on my skin. I am no poet, but if I was, perhaps your father would think highly of me.

I dream of you even in the daytime.

Please write to me, dearest.

J.M

September, 7th 1844

My Dearest,

There is a sweetness on my tongue that I have not felt the indulgence of for many moons and suns. I worried that I would never hear from you again, that I would become another distant memory fading into ash. I forbade this from happening, dearest. We are thousands of miles apart, and all I wish for is to see your face once more. Do you wish for the same, dearest? To see your Joel, to feel his warm embrace? Please don’t forget me, please. I know in your heart that you still feel for me. California calls your name as it did mine. Come back to me, dearest.

Yours most affectionately,

Joel

January 12th, 1845

My Dearest,

I have not heard from you in months and my heart cannot bare it any longer. Why do you not write to me, dearest? I’ve enrolled in classes, maybe I’ll even become the next great American author! Would your father accept me then, if I was no longer a penniless man? I think he would. Your father is a very simple man in those regards. If only my status in society didn’t matter. Do you lie awake in bed and think of me, dearest? Does your dream state float off to the thoughts of your Joel? My dearest, my love for you has not changed, only grown stronger. Has yours for me felt all the same?

Joel

July 11th, 1845

My Dearest,

I write to you with a heavy heart and an anger that has never once possessed me. Please tell me it isn’t true. That you have fallen for another, the rich banker's son? It cannot be true. The papers lie, dearest. Your heart belongs to me, does it not? It must. You promised! You said that no matter what happened, no matter the consequences, we would end up together. You spoke those words so sweetly upon my ear when I laid beneath your sheets, dearest. Back in Texas, in your abandoned home, the stench of me still lingers. When you receive this letter, close your eyes and imagine me there with you, wherever that may be. I’ll come to New York, I swear it. I’ll come find you!

Please, write to me soon, dearest. Do not allow this to be the end of our story, I beg of you.

Yours always,

Joel Miller

October, 1845

My Dearest,

This morning I write to you about the thoughts of reminiscing on our love. Something so sweet, fresh, ripened, but not yet spoiled. Do you remember the night we first met? We were just children then. All bright eyed and filled with curiosity. I remember the bows in your braided hair, your mother scolding you for them, slapping your cheek and yanking them from your braids. You wept with your face buried in your hands, and I comforted you. Your mother taught you how to curtsey, how to engage in small talk and forced you to wear those unbreathable garments that you hated so. I showed you how to run, to make mud pies and swim in the river. Do you remember the night of our first kiss? The first time our lips touched and my life held a meaning again? The foul mouthed, stable hand boy winning the affections of a girl such as you. If I bring my fingers to my lips now, I can feel your kiss there, too. I moved back to Texas, dearest. I wanted to feel closer to you. Write to me soon, and in your letter tell me that you wish for me to come to New York to be with you.

I am inconsolable without your presence at my side.

Yours devotedly,

Joel Miller

P.S. Every night I pray to the moon and stars that we will be in one another’s embrace very soon. I have never been a religious man by any means, but I find myself praying for you, my dearest.

March 29th, 1846

My Dearest,

It is spring once again, and everything is in bloom! A new family has moved into your abandoned home, and I am back to my roots. I have given up my dreams to be an author, but I write to you, still. I missed being around the horses more than you could possibly imagine. There’s a piece missing here, and that piece is you. The new family I work for has a daughter around your age. She’s pretty, beautiful even, but she’s not you, my dearest. She’ll never be you. Her hair isn’t the right length, her eyes the wrong shade, her laugh isn’t yours, her mannerisms are all wrong. She yearns for my affections, but my heart belongs to another. I will not commit adultery against you, my sweet. Even in my loneliest hours, I will not give into my sins against you. She would make a fine wife, and her parents are unlike your own, but she will never be you, and she will never possess my heart.

I yearn for you.

Your Joel

July 2nd, 1846

My Dearest,

I write to you with sweat dripping down my brow. I cannot sleep, the Texas heat has played a cruel trick upon my mind. I awoke to your voice, whispering my name through the billowing curtains. I taste your sweet kiss and the oncoming summer storm, but you are not here. Am I going insane? I fear that I am. What is the weather like in New York? Write to me soon, I beg of you.

Joel Miller

September 23rd, 1847

My Dearest,

I am facing my loneliest night yet, and I picture you laying beside me beneath my sheets. I have scrapped up enough money to finally buy you a ring! Isn’t that the most wonderful news? Tomorrow evening, after supper, I will head into town to the jewelers and buy you a ring that shines more brilliantly than the heavens above. You’ll wait for me, won’t you? Promise me that you will.

With love,

Your Joel

January, 1848

My Dearest,

Today is the day where I wish I never awoke. I wish to stay in a sweet slumber where my dreams are filled with you. You cannot marry him, please. Tell your father that you don’t accept the banker's son’s hand in marriage! He will never know you as I do, my dearest. He will never satisfy you the way that I can. He will turn his nose up at your politics, your drinking habits, your antics and wildness. But I love you as so. Come back to me, runaway with me. I can give you so much happiness if you only let me. How will your husband to-be react when he finds that you cannot bear him children? When the marriage is to be consummated, and he strips you of your skirts and touches you where only I have been, how will he feel? I worry for you, my dearest. I remember the night that we first became one. Do you still think of the way I moved in you? I still feel the phantom crescents of your nails in my back. I wish the marks left there were permanent, so I would always have a piece of you with me. Tell me that you remember the way that my kisses feel, my taste on your tongue, my voice, my body moving with yours. There was a time when you wanted to bear my children, and begged me to fill your womb with my seed. We waited and waited, but your womb never swelled with life no matter how many times we tried. You assumed my feelings for you would sour, but they only grew.

If you accept the banker's son's hand in marriage, I wish to never see the sunrise again.

Joel Miller

May 7th, 1848

My Dearest,

I have never wept more than I have this morn. I shredded the papers, I pounded my fists into the earth and spooked every horse in the stable. Even the heavens weep with me, my dearest. Can I even call you that any longer? You wear his ring upon your finger, awake beneath his sheets, smelling of him. I’m sorry, my dearest. I’m sorry I could never be enough for you. I have tried so hard, and have continued to fail. My heart aches, and I wish I could rip it from my chest and stab it till all movement ceases. I wish to not feel any longer. I have lost all hope, and I fear that my attempts to hear from you have been fruitless. My devoted letters are out there, somewhere. Or perhaps you have collected them. Perhaps you did not awaken in his sheets. Perhaps you are on your way back to me. I’ll wait for you, my dearest.

Undoubtedly yours,

Joel Miller

June 4th, 1848

My Dearest,

In my loneliest hour, I write to you. If you ever receive this letter, do not weep for me. You and I were cut from a separate cloth since birth. I was not born into wealth. I was not fed from silver spoons. My clothes are tattered, the soles of my boots are worn down. All I have to my name is my penmanship and my memories of you. Think of me sweetly, will you? I wish you only happiness and love. I have turned into a drunk, my dearest. Alcohol soothes my mind, woes, and ailments. I hear your voice so vividly when I am in this state. You’re here beside me now, watching as I write my final letter. I can reach out and touch your cheek, soft, supple. You smell of saccharine honey and lavender fields. Your laugh is my favorite tune, and I can hear it now. Sing me a lullaby, my darling as I close my eyes and dream of you for a final time. If another universe exists, I hope I am rich. I hope I am the wealthiest man who is adored by your mother and father. I hope that on the night we meet again, I present you with a ring forged from my heart, a piece of me that has forever belonged to you. I hope I am fed from a silver spoon, dressed in the finest garments, attend every gala with you on my arm as my lady, my wife, my reason to live. I hope to bless you with as many children as you so desire. I have always loved you, my dearest, from the moment we met, I have been yours.

Farewell,

Your Joel.

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bradshawssugarbaby · 5 months

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Picture Perfect - Smallville!Clark Kent x Reader

A/N: Inspired by the song Picture Perfect by Angela Via. pairing: Smallville!Clark Kent x f! reader warnings/content: fluff, mutual pining, one singular swear word. word count: 2.2k

I should be yours, baby, you should be mine. Meant to be, can’t you see? We’re picture perfect”

Clark watched as you chewed on the end of your pen absent-mindedly as you glanced over the notes in your binder, written in your vibrantly feminine script, large and looping letters forming your thoughts on the page, written in your favourite pink gel pen, as you always did. He couldn’t help but smirk at how even your notes looked like they were transcribed by Barbie herself, but as silly as the thought of media law scrawled out in pink glittering ink in your flourished handwriting was, he loved that about you. He loved that your bubblingly bright personality had its way of working itself into every aspect of your life, including your studying methods.

His piercing Kryptonian blue eyes continued to stare over at you, fixated on the way your hand gracefully glided across the page as you wrote, your fingers curled just so around your pen. He was fascinated by the way you could make even the most simple of tasks, like holding a pen, appear elegant. He knew he had it bad for you, he had for as long as he could remember, since you met. His friends would often tease him about diving in head first when he fell in love, and he tried to work on it in an effort to protect himself from getting hurt, but with you, he knew it was useless. He may not have had many weaknesses, but you were one of the few things that could stop him dead in his tracks.

“Clark? You ok?”

You had looked up from your notes to see Clark seemingly staring off into space at you, unable to break his focus from his thoughts. He chuckled nervously before pointing at his open text book on the table and nodding his head.

“Yeah, I’m fine!” He said, trying to sound confident and hide his embarrassment as she caught him staring.

You tossed your textbook closed and shoved it across the table in front of you with a tired laugh. Straightening your ponytail, you let out an exasperated sigh before rubbing your hand inbetween your thumb and index finger.

“I’m starving, and my hand is cramped up, ready to go grab something to eat? I think if I have to read anymore of this I might implode,” you laughed, shaking your head as you stood up from your seat.

“Yeah, yeah I could go for something to eat. Pizza?” Clark laughed softly, raising an eyebrow as he followed behind you.

He tried to keep his gaze upwards, focusing on anything but your backside as you walked in front of him out of the library. He had to congratulate himself on his willpower - resisting the urge for his eyes to drift downwards, tracing the shape of your curves as you walked. He caught up beside you, chuckling as he pretended to jog up beside you. If anything, it was harder work to pretend he couldn’t keep up with your strides than it was to actually jog, he could run from Kansas to California in a matter of seconds. In fact, he’d often thought about doing just that. He’d worked so hard to keep his secret from everyone, including you, as much as he hated hiding things from you. He loved you, and he trusted you, but he was terrified of how you’d respond. Would you be afraid of him? Would you stop speaking to him? Would you think he was crazy and tell everyone he’d gone insane? The more he’d thought about telling you, the more he realized he’d rather continue the facade he’d created than have any chance of losing you. Having you in his life and not knowing the truth about him was better than telling you and not having you there at all.

“Clark, are you sure you’re ok? You keep spacing out on me.”

Your laughter rang out through Clark’s ears - he could easily list it in his top favorite sounds, second only to the way his name sound when it fell from your lips, making it sound like an answered prayer every time you said it. Clark had it bad for you, and he knew that if he continued to hold it in, it’d end up forcing you away, but he’d been through this before with friends, and it rarely ended in his favor. The last thing he wanted was to push you away, either due to him revealing his true feelings, revealing his secret or by continuing to ignore how he felt for you. His own happiness aside, he knew ignoring his long-standing feelings towards you was the easiest solution. He ran a hand through his thick dark hair for a moment and chuckled awkwardly, his piercingly bright blue eyes glancing over at you as he spoke.

“I’m fine, I promise. Just thinking,” He said, trying his best to be reassuring but he couldn’t help but think he was failing miserably at it.

“Oh, that’s what that smell is?” You teased, giving Clark a playful shove of the shoulder as you spoke.

Clark rolled his eyes and gave you one of his infamous smirks, the kind that had most girls you knew weak in the knees. Clark had often been told he had a nice smile, but he was also oblivious when women found him attractive. Half of the time he had no idea when someone was flirting with him, and the other half of the time, he didn’t know how to respond to or reciprocate the flirting. The best he could do was flash a sweet, charming smile someone’s way and be his usual kind-hearted self, which was how he liked it best. He hated the idea of having to work for someone’s attention. With you, however, he found himself wanting to try. He wanted to flirt with you, he just had no idea where to begin.

He held the door to the pizza place on campus open for you, giving you another one of his warm, heart-melting smiles as he gestured for you to enter first with the motion of one of his long, muscular arms, the sleeve of his navy blue sweater shifting up on his wrist slightly as he moved, the arms just a little short for his frame. At six-foot-four and the majority of his height in his legs, Clark’s clothes were often just that half inch too short, often masked by pushing his sleeves up or by the shoes he wore.

Little did Clark know, while he was busy admiring your every feature, you were doing the same to him - the way his blue eyes would light up and shine when he smiled was enough to make you swoon. The way he always acted like a total gentleman around you, holding doors, pulling out your chair, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, it was enough to make your heart flutter and race each time. The way he’d talk about his mom’s homemade pies back on his family farm in Smallville, the way he’d sing her praises and humbly brag about how her baking was famous across their little town. He’d always jokingly offer to bring you a slice the next time he went home to visit her, teasing you that despite the fact it wouldn’t be at its freshest, it’d still be the best slice of pie you’d ever eaten. You loved all these things about him, as well as the way he cared for everyone - he was always doing whatever he could to be a good person, which was a rarity a lot of the time on campus at Metropolis University, but you treasured his difference from the other men on campus.

To anyone else who saw the two of you sitting together in the pizza parlour that day, they would have sworn you were on a date - the longing, loving stares at each other, exchanged stolen glances and sweet smiles, blushing red cheeks and nervous laughter - all the signs of a budding romance sparking between two young lovers. To the two of you though, it was one-sided, guarded feelings - scared to make the first move, scared to let feelings become known, anxious about how the other might respond, worried about whether or not your feelings might be showing through too much to the other party. You and Clark occasionally got comments about how sweet of a couple the two of you made from passersby, usually elderly women who’d say it as they passed through, commenting how it reminded them of how they were years ago when they first met their husbands, giving you a wink about how Clark was a keeper, or telling Clark to continue being the gentleman he is. The comments were always met with blushing cheeks from both of you, an awkward chuckle and thank you from Clark and a polite smile from you, but unbeknownst to the both of you, you and Clark both secretly felt your hearts flutter in agreeance to the compliment, hoping the other would agree too.

Clark finished his pizza, pushing his plate away from his body on the table slightly, letting out a satisfied sigh as he reached for his glass of soda, bringing it up to his lips to take a sip. He peered over the glass at you, stealing a glance as you blushed to yourself, biting your bottom lip for a second, appearing deep in thought as you sat across from him. Clark wrestled with whether or not he should finally bite the bullet and tell you how he felt. After a few moments of his own deep concentration, he decided tonight was as good a night as ever to finally talk to you about his feelings and find out where he stood with you. He set his glass down, clearly appearing uncomfortable as he shifted in his seat. You tried not to notice his discomfort as you finished eating, and the two of you left to head back to the dorm building in silence. When you reached the front steps of the building, having had enough of the piercing silence and avoiding eye contact that had taken place the whole walk home.

“Listen, I need to talk to you,” Clark said as he shifted the weight of his backpack on his shoulder awkwardly, looking around at the sky, trying to focus his eyesight on anything but your face as he spoke in an effort to avoid the awkwardness that he felt would inevitably come with what he was about to confess to you.

“About what?” You raised an eyebrow as you took in a sharp inhale of air, holding your breath as you hoped he wouldn’t be saying how he met someone or how he thought the two of you could use some space.

“I think you and I should…discuss our relationship, going forward,” Clark shook his head as he chuckled awkwardly and held his hands up for a moment in surrender, “That sounded better in my head, let me try again?”

“I really like you,” Clark finally sighed with a nod of his head, “I’m not good at this, I know I never say the right things, and I know everyone tells me I’m blind to stuff like this, but I really like you. All of you. Everything there is to love about you.”

Clark looked at your bewildered expression, unsure of what to say, but fearing in that moment that he’d just fucked up the only thing he knew he wanted to cling to in life, the one thing that helped him retain some sense of normalcy, some sense of humanity in life while he was living away from Smallville. After a moment of awkward silence had passed, a strained, awkward sounding laugh fell from his lips, almost out of desperation to fill the void that was lingering between you both now.

“I like you too. All of you. And, I know you’re…different, Clark, I don’t know what it is, or how to explain it, but I know you’re not like most people. And I don’t care. I like you anyways,” You finally said, nodding your head in confirmation of your words as you spoke.

Clark breathed out a heavy sigh and laughed, shaking his head, his thick, dark hair tousling slightly as he did so. His deep blue eyes looked at you again, sparkling and glistening as they always did when he smiled. He put a hand on your cheek gently, leaning in to give you a tender kiss. He’d kissed you on the cheek before in a friendly, affectionate kind of way, but this, this was different. This was a soft, tender kiss, full of passion and love for you, as if you were the only woman in the world. In a way, in Clark’s mind, you were, at least in this moment. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to hear you say that, you know,” Clark murmured as he pulled away from your lips, smiling softly as he rested his forehead on yours, “As for the different thing…we’ll get to that.”

#smallville! clark kent x reader #clark kent x reader #smallville clark kent x reader #smallville clark kent #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent fic #smallville fanfiction #smallville fanfic #smallville! clark kent x you #clark kent x you #smallville clark kent x you

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bootlegfrank · 2 months

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This a remake of something I posted on my old blog. On July 8th 2023 Bob tweeted;

Since the original image attached is quite long and pixelated, I transcribed it- exactly as he wrote it. He says that he regrets things he's said in the past, talks about where he is at now, and sends a message out to past friends. You can find the full message text underneath the cut. Warning for talk about suicide and internet hate.

[Tweet] bob bryar @/bobbryar: i really shouldn't post this but, as you know, i make some bad decisions. i think if you click it you should be able to read the whole thing. sorry it's kind of long. ❤️-bc

[Image] hi friends,

i'm going to go out on a super long limb and be the most honest i've ever been in my life. probably too honest. i was going to write something like this only to my close friends but i just decided fuck it, i'll write to everyone, whoever wants to read it can read it. i have nothing to hide. nothing to lose.

nobody knows i'm doing this and it's all me by myself. it will probably be a jumbled mess because i'm obviously feeling like shit, but i hope it will make sense. i have nothing that i'm trying to promote. i have nothing that i'm trying to sell, i'm just trying to get better, clear some things up, and keep going. i'm an extremely private person now so it makes no sense at all for me to do this, and it's way out of my comfort zone, but i'm tired of people dying. i will probably regret this but...... fuck it, way too many friends are now gone and i'm exhausted so here we go.

i've spent years hiding from everyone because i receive so much hate that i don't know how to deal with, and i know i probably deserve it. somehow, no matter how much i hide, i still get messages, phone calls, texts, and even letters in my mailbox. a lot of them are very nice and they make me smile, but most are pretty much telling me to die. some literally just say "DIE" and that's it. LOL. i really don't understand why anyone even cares or takes the time to find me but here we are.

i am way too old for this shit so i've put on a tough guy stone face and pretended like nothing ever bothered me. but when i'm alone i just sit and stare at the wall and think about how things went so wrong. how i had so many friends and now have so few, and now i lost the life that i really enjoyed and worked so hard for. honestly, i've become a pretty lonely and unhappy dude.

i feel very lucky and fortunate so i've worked extra hard to help people and animals that needed a hand without ever bragging or asking for anything in return. even after trying so hard to be the best person that i could possibly be i still feel like an extremely hated dude and i'm not really sure why. when i moved into my hole in the woods most people just forgot about me and didn't care, or never cared anyways, but the people that still come after me are too much to handle.

a while ago i made the decision to give away everything that i owned, give away all of my money, spend some time with the few friends that i had left, wipe my phone, stop talking or replying to everyone so they wouldn't care, and then end it. peace out. i even had the note, the rope (ratchet strap for moving the motorcycles) and location (my garage) ready to go. i felt like that was the only option for me. i felt like i had lived my life and it was time for me to go. i had lost my girl of 13 years that i really needed and relied on, lost all of my pets that were like my kids, had multiple friends die or just disappear, and lost every part of the music industry that i grew up in and lived 24/7. it seemed like everyone in that world magically disappeared when i wasn't getting them gigs, making them money, or getting them into events for free anymore. i had my wrist surgically rebuilt twice to be able to play instruments again but by the time my hand worked i was too old to start over, everything was gone, luckily for me, at the last moment i realized that wasn't the solution. i realized that i couldn't put my mom, my dogs, and the few friends i had left through something like that. i don't think anyone else would have cared to be honest.

i was in a really bad spot but i really didn't, and don't want to die. i was just an angry and lost dude. i lost all trust in people. i still only trust a couple people now and i'll probably be this way for the rest of my life. i also had no idea that i came off as such a jerk all the time. i never meant to. i only just realized it recently when i hit bottom and people got real with me. i really had no idea. other than my fake tough guy attitude i always thought i was a really good person that did good things for the world.

in the past i've made some dumb comments that were either admittedly wrong or were very misinterpreted. i've learned a lot since then and i'm sorry. i really am sorry. maybe i can have the opportunity to address those comments, or anything else, to clear the air and maybe feel happy again. maybe we can be friends again. maybe we can even help someone else that is feeling shitty or alone at the same time.

i'm now mentally healthy (still physically a potato), humbled, and ready to move forward. i want to reconnect with friends, catch up with the rest of the world that i avoided for so long, and remember the experiences (good and bad) that i've blocked out. it's super weird for me at this point but i want to talk more. maybe something on an app. i don't know what everyone uses now. remember, it's been a while and i'm an old man now. i've never gone on a live camera app to talk so i'm not sure which one is the best or how to use any of them. i messed around with instagram the other day when i was trying to play a game and i think i got it figured out for the most part. i dont especially want to be seen because i'm a fat old man now, and i hate being on camera, but i think it's the best way to be real. i have the username "bobbryar" on every app that i'm aware of except instagram. the instagram username is "bcbryar" because someone took my name for some reason. btw, i'd like to have that back if anyone knows how.

i'm probably opening the door for a refueled barrage of embarrassment, but this is my last try to make things fun and live a happy life again. so fuck it again. if this turns out horribly i will just go back to my hole and not try again. i promise.

i know most of you are thinking 'waaah, fuck you, i don't care, nobody likes you anymore, you're old, just go away, etc'. i've heard it all and i understand. but for the people who want to talk, let's do it and hopefully be friends again. i've been thinking about this for a while now.

maybe this is dumb. probably. i don't know. but if you are down i will hang out as long as you want. if it goes well maybe we can talk more often. maybe it might be fun. it's definitely time to have some motherfucking fun again.

i already know that i'm going to get super extra roasted for writing this but oh well. don't care.

anyways... let me know if you are down. i'd really like to have my friends back in my life again. i really miss my friends a lot.

i'm heading back over to the DCI competition now and i'm late. i miss that a lot too. maybe i'll see you there, come hang out and have some fun.

i hope to talk very soon.

❤️ -bc.

[Reply to the tweet] bob bryar @/bobbryar: you can save it as a picture and then see the whole thing. thanks for the help jordan. 🙂

#i watched one of his live streams on instagram- he played fortnite with pink floyd's the dark side of the moon playing in the background #idk ive been wanting to have this on my blog again for a while and since im in my bob feelings here we go #im not commenting on the value of his words here in this post. just sharing it #bob bryar #mcr #twitter

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tenshinokorin · 2 years

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Diluc’s Letters

because I’m insane, I hand-transcribed all of Diluc’s winery letters in his current outfit event. It was mostly to keep Kaeya’s letters, but I also got the ones from everyone else, which includes my guesses at the authors. (I’m still pretty new to GI having only been playing a couple of months, so there may be errors there.) This is mostly only for my own ficwriting records, but if you find it handy and wanted to do a nice back for me, please feel free to add me as a GI friend, since I don’t have any yet. ^^; My UID is 617026092.)

DILUC'S LETTERS

A letter with Rough Handwriting (Grand Master Varka)

Diluc,

Jean wrote to me lately with shocking news. If I don't miss my guess, she wrote to you too. Her sentiments are those of the Knights as a whole. Crepus was a good man, and I thought very well of him. It grieves me greatly to know that he met with such a fate. As for the defeat of the drake, the honors for that accomplishment should go to your father. I do not accept Eroch's theft of the credit for that deed, which was bought with your father's sacrifice. Stolen credit will not be accepted within the Knights of Favonius under any circumstances. I will not permit it. I have already given Jean the authority to punish Eroch with all necessary severity. The Knights will inform you of the results. I've heard that you've been taking some time off outdoors and may not be easy to reach, so there is no guarantee that my letter will reach you. As such, I'll stop here for now. If it does reach you, then I wish you good health and safety in your travels. Contact us if you need anything. I hope that falcon of yours will help put this letter in your hands. I mean, I don't write in person very often, you know? These may seem like pointless words to you right now, but remember: even the greatest of disasters must come to an end. Mondstadt waits for your return, and if you're willing, the Knights will always welcome you. (If you're not, forget I said anything, yeah?)

A TIDILY WRITTEN LETTER (Alice)

To the heir of the Ragnvindr Clan,

I apologize for sending this letter without notice. You may not remember me, but we've met a few times. We've met near the square, when I sat at the table adjacent to yours at the Good Hunter, and I've seen you in your tavern... You were always busy with a great many things, especially back when you were much chattier than you are now. You spoke cheerfully and often with your brother and friends then. It's probably no surprise that you did not notice me then. But I've always had my eye on you, child. I recall with crystal clarity how my little Klee once made a complete mess of your vinyard while she was trying to catch crystalflies there... But you didn't get angry. In fact, you personally escorted Klee back and even gave her a few bottles of fresh grape juice. Now I think that might jog your memory, yes? Klee recently told me she "Hasn't seen that strange man with the red hair in aaages," so I decided to look into it out of curiosity. My deepest condolences regarding your father. In many of the stories I've been told, you are the model knight: proud, driven, a knight of noble character and lineage. But I know that you're gentler than you appear. If you weren't, you wouldn't have treated Klee the way you did. And since you helped my child out, I hope you won't mind if I treat you as if you were my own. Therefore, I sincerely hope that you will leave the dark place that you are presently in, and that you will not wallow in grief and remorse. Partings are most painful things, but they also encourage us to grow. A bird that has lost the roof over its head will fly further than others of its kind. Go out and see the world. That's the best course of action I can envision. Only by feeling, observing, and listening can your heart be healed. Parents all wish that they can accompany their children forever, and the skies seas, and stars bear witness to that oath. Everything that was your father now finds new life with you. That which you will experience in this world may have been things that your father experienced once upon a time. I hope that the wind will bring you all manner of wondrous things in your journeys to come. In any case, keep your chin up, young child.

A LETTER WITH CLEAR HANDWRITING (winery dude)

Master,

Master Kaeya took leave and stayed at Dawn Winery for a few days. In a rare turn of events, he decided to stay in his original bedroom. He would pace about the grounds when idle, and even asked Adelinde to make him his favorite dishes. Ah, it really does take me back. I shall be honest with you, but I was quite surprised to hear Master Kaeya say that he wanted to stay for a few days. We did not refuse him, however. We believe that even if you were here, you would not refuse him outright. Dawn Winery has always been a more quiet location, perhaps because all who stay here are rather peaceable people. The house is made by those who live in it, and Master Kaeya's uncommon arrival did end up livening the place up significantly. I hope that you are doing well in your travels abroad. Everyone here at the winery misses you. May you remain safe and in good health.

A LETTER WITH ELEGANT HANDWRITING (Jean?)

Dear Diluc,

Welcome back to Mondstatdt, sir. It has been some time since the incident. We discovered that Eroch had betrayed us, and he has been punished severely. I hope that this news will put your mind at ease. In other news, our people have discovered that the Abyss Order has stepped up its activities between Wolvendom and Stone Gate lately. Also -- a mysterious individual that people are calling the "Darknight Hero" has suddenly started showing up out of nowhere all around Mondstadt City. He typically actis in the dead of night, and his intentions are currently unclear. Please stay safe, and notify the Knights as soon as possible should you see anything suspicious. We will send support immediately. Whether you are presently in our ranks or not, all faithful Knights will remember your contributions to the Knights of Favonius. May you remain in good health.

A NEATLY WRITTEN LETTER (Albedo?)

Dear Mr. Diluc,

It is my pleasure to investigate the ley lines alongside you. As you know, my focus is on alchemy, so my knowledge of the ley lines remains quite shallow, and I fear that I will only be able to share what little understanding I have. According to many pre-existing documents, the ley lines can be seen as a medium for storing information. Under certain circumstances, they can record activities that occur in the area around them. All this information goes through a recording and storage process. After a certain period of time, they may be released once again by the ley lines. If I may be so bold as to make a guess, there should be a method to activate the ley lines. Those who grasp such methods can control the times at which ley line information is recorded and released. Judging from the runic symbols and some other clues, I surmise that there are particular members of the Abyss Order who may have a very small chance of being able to achieve this. If you believe that his requires further investigation, these entities may serve as your point of entry. I wrote a paper a few years ago in which I covered my brief foray inro questions concerning the flow of ley lines and other such topics. You will find a copy of this paper enclosed. I hope that it can help to clear up some of your doubts.

A NEW LETTER (Informant?)

Dear Darknight Hero, the Knights of Favonius have stepped up the guard details throughout Mondstadt without making any major movements. The Abyss Order will not have noticed. I am scouting around Dragonspine. The monsters here are scattered and separated. Clearly, they haven't been assembled by the Abyss Order. There are no signs of enemy activity in the south of Mondstadt either. If you can confirm that the other locations are also free of monsters, we will be able to conclude that the Abyss Order has nothing to do with the recent ley line disorder.

* * *

KAEYA'S LETTERS

(A Letter in Beautiful Handwriting)

To D:

A storm is brewing within the Knights of Favonius. Varka's inner circle is preparing to investigate Eroch and his henchmen, and it's looking increasingly likely that Eroch is about to get unseated from that high horse of his. You might not be too pleased to see this letter of mine, but I mean to get this news to you as soon as possible. You don't have to reply.

II.

To D:

Even I was a little surprised to hear that you'd decided to leave on a trip. Jean wanted to write and try to dissuade you, but I advised her against it. As for Varka, I don't think he knows that about this. Otherwise, he'd have probably sat you down for a talk. If you'd like to leave, do it now. The less the people know, the less the goodbyes you'll have to say. Leave at night, too, so things won't be too saddening. Take care.

III.

To D:

Some slightly bad news. Eroch won't be quite so difficult [should be 'easy'? Is this an error?] to bring down after all. The Grand Master's order to investigate has certainly dealt him a major blow, but I wouldn't call the problem "pulled up by the roots' yet. The matter's been handed over to Jean's jurisdiction. She'll take care of this, I believe. Eroch is an obstacle in her path, in any case. Just sit tight and wait for the good news.

IV.

To D:

Recently, a group of businessmen returned to Mondstadt. Word is that the reason for their return is a downturn in business. According to my observations, their employees are regulars at Angel's Share. These people can also be found out in the more dangerous parts of the wilds around the city. Now, a few of them were a little careless and even dropped some pages of their notes on the ground. I took the liberty of returning these sheets to Angel's Share. You know, out the goodness of my heart. I think they might have something to do with you, seeing as how they were there. I also noticed that their notes were written in code. Information brokers, perhaps? Or some kind of secret organization? Whatever the case, it took quite a lot of effort to see those blurred words with only one eye, you know? Don't worry, I'll keep this a secret.

To D:

I didn't try to hide it from you on purpose, you know. But I suppose you found out all the same, huh? I mean, not everyone who wears an eyepatch must be blind, right? Don't people also wear an eyepatch if they have a scar over their right eye?

The long-awaited good news is finally here. Now, I'm going to bring a glass of wine when I go to watch Eroch pack his things and leave on his last day (good riddance, by the way). That should be fun, eh? I know you're not the type to do that sort of thing, but I am, so allow me.

VI.

To D:

Oh my! No sooner did you get back than a mysterious character started popping up. I hear he's called the Darknight Hero. He has repeatedly fought off Treasure Hoarders and monsters in the Mondstadt area -- and he'd even attacked Abyss Order strongholds. So far, it seems like he's on Mondstadt's side, but the Knights of Favonius could never permit the existence of a vigilante. I get the feeling the two of you would get along nicely. Why don't you find an opportunity to get to know him and give him some sage advice? You know, just so he doesn't get caught by the Knights?

VII.

To D:

Per standard procedure, the Knights of Favonius need to take a statement from all relevant parties. Recently, the Knights of Favonius have received reports from a number of eye-witnesses claiming to have seen the Darknight Hero in the vicinity of the Dawn Winery. The Grand Master has assigned the Cavalry Company to this mission. As such, I will be paying you a visit in three days. He seems to think our relationship can be improved if we are forced to talk in person. Don't worry, though. My lips are sealed. This will be nothing more than a formality. Anyway, three days' notice should be enough for you, I presume?

VIII.

To D:

The appearance of the Darknight Hero has indeed brought the Knights of Favonius some valuable time during the Abyss Order's last attack. This helped Jean convince the Knights of Favonius to stop focusing on trying to stop him. This will decrease the limits on the Darknight Hero's actions, but this doesn't mean his situation will necessarily improve. Objects with too honed an edge tend to be damaged more easily. You, I'm sure, are aware of the great dangers that come with acting alone. That said, I would advise against such a course of action.

IX.

To D:

I heard that the Dawn Winery did not suffer any damage. Likewise, the Knights of Favonius only sustained minor injuries, and will recover quickly. However, an employee of a local merchant has gone missing, and their last known location just so happens to align with the Abyss Order's area of activity. The Knights have dispatched people to go to the rescue. Do be aware that the Abyss Order has become more dangerous of late, even going so far as to organize multi-pronged offensives. Perhaps the Knights of Favonius and the Darknight Hero should team up. That might guarantee that things will go off without a hitch, hmm?

#genshin impact #diluc #kaeya #hidden strife event #red dead of night outfit

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tabellae-rex-in-sui · 2 years

Note

Did Frederick know JJ? Did they get along at all?

Hsnsjsjdb They never met in person, but JJ did write him some short letters and Fritz knew JJ's works. Unsurprisingly, the Philosopher King did not like Jean-Jacques Rousseau's beliefs on life and politics lol. In 1762, JJ needed a country to live in, as he had been exiled from a couple already, and since Fritz advertised Prussia as an Enlightened haven for philosophers, JJ wrote a letter to Fritz (but maybe didn't send it):

"I have said a good deal that is bad about you, and perhaps I will again. However, I have been driven from France, from Geneva, and from the canton of Berne, and I come seeking asylum in your territories."

—July 1762, JJ Rousseau to Frederick

He then met Fritz' friend and confident Lord Marschall Keith and they hit it off. Keith was actually a fan of JJ's and acted as a liaison between JJ and Fritz. He even referred to JJ as his son and JJ called him his father. Fritz granted JJ and Thérèse asylum in Môtiers near Neuchâtel. As for his feelings towards JJ, he makes himself very clear in the letter to Keith where he agrees to help JJ:

"Your letter, my dear my lord, about Rousseau of Geneva gave me much pleasure. I see we think alike; we must relieve this poor wretch, who sins only by having odd opinions, but which he believes to be good. I will send you a hundred crowns, which you will have the kindness to give him for what he requires for his needs. I believe, by giving him things in kind, that he will accept them rather than money. If we didn't have the war, if we weren't ruined, I would have him build a hermitage with a garden, where he could live as he thinks our forefathers lived. I confess that my ideas are as different from his as is the finite from the infinite; he would never persuade me to graze the grass and crawl. It is true that all this Asian luxury, this refinement of good food, voluptuousness and softness, is not essential to our preservation, and that we could live with more simplicity and frugality than we do; but why renounce the pleasures of life, when one can enjoy them? The true philosophy, it seems to me, is that which, without prohibiting use, is content to condemn abuse; you have to know how to do without everything, but not give up anything. I confess to you that many modern philosophers displease me by the paradoxes they announce. They want to tell new truths, and they spout errors that offend common sense. I stick to Locke, my friend Lucretius, my good Emperor Marcus Aurelius; these people have told us everything we can know, apart from Epicurus' physics, and everything that can make us moderate, good and wise. After that, it is pleasant that we are told that we are all equal, and that consequently we must live like savages, without laws, without society and without police, that the fine arts have harmed morals, and other paradoxes so unsustainable. I believe that your Rousseau missed his vocation; he was doubtless born to become a famous cenobite, a Father of the desert, famous for his austerities and his macerations, a Stylite. He would have performed miracles, he would have become a saint, and he would have added to the enormous catalog of Martyrology; but at present he will only be regarded as a singular philosopher, who resurrects after two thousand years the sect of Diogenes. There's no need to graze grass, nor to fall out with all the philosophers of his contemporaries. Defunt Maupertuis told me of him a feature that characterizes him well. On his first trip to France, Rousseau lived in Paris on what he earned from copying music. The Duc d'Orléans learned that he was poor and unhappy, and gave him some music to transcribe in order to have an opportunity of doing him some liberality. He sent him fifty louis; Rousseau took five, and returned the rest, which he never wished to accept, although they pressed him, saying that his work was not worth more, and that the Duc d'Orléans could better employ this sum by giving it to people poorer and lazier than him. This great disinterestedness is unquestionably the essential foundation of virtue; thus I judge that your savage has morals as pure as the inconsistent spirit"

— 1 September 1762, Frederick to Lord Marschall Keith

He and Thérèse were mostly happy there, but the locals didn't like their presence and regarded them as strange foreigners with royal protection (Frederick was not particularly well liked in the region either). This is also where JJ started wearing his long robe and making lace, joking that he had become a woman, which was also not approved of by the locals. Even more than all that, he was living with an unmarried woman, Thérèse. JJ claimed that Thérèse was the daughter of a friend who had entrusted her to him upon his death, but no one bought the lie and rumors spread about them being lovers and even of Thérèse being pregnant (she wasn't, but they obviously were lovers). They also faced religious hostility, JJ was made to reaffirm his Calvinist faith in writing but Thérèse attended Catholic mass across the French boarder every week, the locals tried to pressure JJ to re-reaffirm his Calvinism and JJ refused. JJ of course published some controversial writing, which again pissed off the locals, specifically ones criticizing religion and he was accused of blasphemy. He refused Fritz' offer of largesse, asking him if there weren't more needy subjects under his rule who could make better use of it. He also implored him to end the war.

"You want to give me bread; are there not any of your subjects lacking it? Remove from before my eyes this sword which dazzles and wounds me; she has done her duty only too well, and the scepter is abandoned. [...] May I see Frederick the Just and the Dreaded covering his States with a numerous people of which he is the father, and J.-J. Rousseau, the enemy of kings, will go to die at the foot of his throne."

— 30 October 1762, JJ Rousseau to Frederick

At this point V made it public that JJ had abandoned his 5 children, and spread other rumors about him too, some true (like him abandoning his kids) some false (like him killing Thérèse's mother). Rocks were thrown through JJ's windows in the middle of the night and people even threatened to shoot him. Frederick sent off a reminder to the region, to respect his protection of Rousseau. But eventually, everything became too much, and JJ and Therese were compelled to leave in 1765. After they left, an effigy of JJ was found in the market, attached to it was a satirical document saying that he had disgraced Thérèse, and condemning the "Bavarian castrato" (Frederick) who brought him there. Frederick invited him to Potsdam, but JJ declined.

A year later, Frederick added in a letter to Voltaire:

"P.S. You ask me what I think of Rousseau of Geneva. I think he is unhappy and to be pitied. I don't like his paradoxes or his cynical tone. Those of Neufchâtel used it badly towards him: we must respect the unfortunate one; only perverse souls overwhelm them."

— December 1766, Frederick to Voltaire

#ask #anon ask #i was sitting on this ask for so long sorry jdjsjdjdnd #but i wanted to translate the quoted and never felt in the mood to #anyway right before all this; before JJ asked V if he could come to his territories; V invited JJ to Ferney and said hed treat him as a son #JJ did not respond to that invitation dbdbjsjdnd

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nordleuchten · 2 years

Note

i once heard that, while in prison, lafayette thought he would be killed and his body thrown in a ditch somewhere, and because of that he wrote smth on the wood from somewhere inside his cell just saying that he had passes throught there in case his family wanted to know where he had been last or smth like this.

So, is this story any true? And if it is, do we have any sort of picture of that?

Hello Anon,

Yes, that is true - and I have something far better than just scraps of wood for you. :-).

La Fayette was especially worried by his transfer from Magdeburg to Neisse in Silesia. The Prussians were preparing to hand La Fayette over to the Austrian’s and the French army was advancing, further necessitating a transfer. But La Fayette was not told that. He furthermore was very ill at the time and feared that he might have been poisoned. No charges were brought against him and the Austrian’s and Prussian’s therefore had no real basis to execute him on - but if he were to die of “natural causes” in prison, then nobody was to blame.

The situation was thus, that La Fayette expected to die in early 1794. Either he would be executed or he was send away to die somewhere away from the public from poison or generally bad health. It did no help either that he was separated from his companions. He wrote several letters, saying his farewells to his family but also giving an insight into his thoughts. One of the letters was received by his friend, the princess d’Hénin, and she had the letter transcribed and copied and it was treated and understood as an (in)official will.

Of all the letters that La Fayette wrote in prison, most survived that tie directly into the situation I just described (La Fayette had sometimes to destroy letters in fear that his guards would find them or he wrote with such simply tools like vinegar - it is no wonder that many letters are lost to us today.) Because we are speaking about a number of letters and because some of these letters are rather long, I will only include (my) English translations - but let me know if somebody in interested in the original text.

La Fayette to his aides-de-camp, January 3, 1794 (English translation):

You would not have believed, my dear and faithful friends, that the hatred of the coalition hatred could invent new tortures against me, but you will do more justice to its schemes by learning that I am leaving alone for a new dungeon on the frontiers of Silesia. Maubourg, who is being transported to Glatz, asks, with all the warmth and all the tenderness of his friendship, that we should not be separated, that at least, if we do not communicate together, the same citadel should contain us. But, in the meantime, a detachment chosen in Berlin, for greater safety, is taking me a hundred and fifty leagues from here, and you feel that it is not to treat me better there. Take immediately to Madame d’Hénin, to Lally, to Mr. Pinkney, the information and the ideas that I hastened to scribble in the attached note, and make the most use of them for my deliverance. I hope my last package arrived safely. I wanted to write to Mr. Pinkney today, but time has pressed me. I embrace with all my heart all the companions of our caravan as well as Lajard. Farewell, my dear aides-de-camp; my wishes, my tenderness and my gratitude for you will last until my last breath. I renew to d’Arblay and Boinville my tender congratulations on their marriage, and I address a line to M. Pinkney who will deliver this letter to you.

La Fayette to Louis-Saint-Ange, chevalier Morel de La Colombe, January 3, 1794 (English translation):

[A fortnight ago I wrote to MM. Pinkney and Short, to Madame d'Hénin, to my aides-de-camp and to the friend from Hamburg that by a note addressed to L. G. I requested my friends to seek in my correspondence exact information on my situation, and that setting aside imaginary hopes and inadmissible steps, I have examined our other means of deliverance. Convinced that my ideas have reached my friends, I will only call them back here to ask for their help one last time. According to the meaning that I receive that (while Alexandre Lameth and Pusy remain in Magdeburg and that, by a very cruel separation for us, Maubourg must be in Glatz) I am going to be transported alone to another fortress in Silesia, I barely have time to talk about this new event; it should not be attributed to ... or even to ... But it suffices to be here to recognize other causes of this transfer.

1° The natural rallying of opinions around all that is called true freedom; a personal benevolence for which not only unwise patriots, but the wisest politicians, such as Mr. Hertzberg, have been very badly noted; the forthcoming removal of the court and of several regiments obviously contributed to this dispersion.

2° The coalition is working with the Jacobins to destroy any hope that the good citizens of France might have in me, and as it is easier to publish in Paris that I am dead than to prove that I am a traitor, it is also better to bury me in another dungeon, than to explain here to a thousand prisoners who are expected, on what grounds my long torture is based.

3° Although I had been dying at Wezel of the anonymous illness that I contracted there; though my dwelling here and my way of life were marvellously contrary to my bosom, a feeling of resistance to oppression hardened my temper against my illness. Some correspondence with my family, my friends; a few communications with Maubourg have done me inexpressible good, and whether it has been discovered that the state of my health, singularly proper to physical vicissitudes, is composed principally of moral affections; whether one wanted, by multiplying the tortures of the soul, also to redouble the physical means, it was necessary to move away from a city attentive to all these details. But, without stopping at conjectures, I hasten to seek resources. All I have left on this side are the chances of the road, and I will not neglect them; our correspondence permitted, very insignificant; a redoubling of firmness, and I must say that since I struggled against the ideas of revenge and the pleasures of hatred, I have used up more than thirty years of my life; that new torments (especially if Maubourg, who asks to join me, does not obtain it) will do me a lot of harm; that the approach to Vienna somewhat recalls certain symptoms, and, although there is still time to recover all my strength, my deliverance, if it is delayed, could very well come too late. My friends, on the contrary, have several ways of being useful to me. I hope that those who correspond with me will retain the right to do so; that the American ambassadors will demand it for themselves; that every week I receive a detailed letter about my family and my friends, about what I can be told at least disguised by the attached cipher. We subscribed to the Leyden and Hamburg gazettes, to a French paper from Berlin; if this permission remains, we can insert interesting articles. But for confidential communication, two friends have to go to Poland. Although the king is less free there than I am, since he has signed the triumph of aristocracy and despotism, I am sure of his good will, and his resources are quite large.

My ticket will be given to him, as well as to Littlepage, his aide-de-camp, and to Mazzei who is attached to him. The patriots [Jean and Séverin Potosky] will serve us well. They would first correspond with my fortress, the name of which is hidden, but which, I believe, is Neisse, and, I am sure, in Silesia. (…) As soon as we know how to get to my dungeon, it would be necessary to establish communication with me; one could also work from there without danger to win over some guards, and if I had the good fortune to acquire real friends there, I would try to unite their zeal with outside attempts, for it would be enough to touch Polish territory to be safe, and it would then be easy, [by reaching the east], to escape all the requisitions. [After strongly recommending this plan, which is not only good, but the only one possible, I will add nothing to what I have said relative to proceedings of another kind. But it seems to me that this new circumstance is equally proper to private and public complaints, to the reflections of well-meaning writers and of all patriots. It seems to me that the Whig party, unable to hate the Jacobite crimes and the coalitionary conspiracy, is destined, I hope, to save liberty, which these two hordes of brigands tear apart at will, and, called upon by friends of humanity to raise the sacred standard which anarchists and despots would like to drown in mud and blood, it seems to me, I say, that the English opposition must find in the conduct of the powers towards us a new proof that it is not the disorganization of France that they fear the most; it seems to me, finally, that the contrast of this transfer with the wish of the United States and their position between France and the allies offers the American ambassadors the opportunity to carry out their project and the hope of succeeding in it. As for me, I owed to the tenderness of my friends, even more than to my preservation, to give them, perhaps for the last time, information about my fate and some ideas about my deliverance. I count too much on their enlightenment, their zeal, their constancy,] to regret the haste with which I am forced to write this note; and begging them to preserve for me, or at least for my memory, the sentiments which are so dear to my heart, I hereby renew for them the expression of those which I have vowed to them until my last breath.

La Fayette to the Princess d’Hénin, January 3, 1794:

Scarcely have I had time to write a few lines, my dear princess, and I will still grieve you. However dreadful my captivity here was, at least I had friends there, I corresponded with you, and the layout of the dungeons brought Maubourg and me closer together. [They probably found that I was dying too slowly, and] to break a soul that does not bend, [or to rework a temperament that has overcome so many evils], they imagined transporting me alone a hundred and sixty leagues further . A. de Lameth and Pusy will stay here, and Maubourg will be taken in two days to Glatz in Silesia, while I will go, I believe, to Neisse, [on the border, although it is still said only mysteriously]. My friend, whom his sister's correspondence puts him in a position to write to the Adjutant General of the King of Prussia, asks so earnestly for our reunion, that is to say the advantage of being locked up in two dungeons of the same fortress, which I still flatter myself with; unless the inexpressible harm that this separation does me has essentially entered into the calculations. I have hastily scribbled down my thoughts on this change, and recalled a few others in a note to La Colombe so that, after submitting it to you, he may take it to Mr. Pinkney and other cooperators in my deliverance, which can only be obtained by snatching it from the powers. I hope, my dear princess, that you will approve of my proposals. [Although the haste of my departure does not allow me to dwell here on the objects which you will find there, there is one which, in spite of my reluctance to worry you, I cannot entrust entirely to anyone but you. Maubourg and I had sinister suspicions about the illness I brought to Wezel. I do not accuse the Prussian government of it; but it would be no less dangerous to complain of it; and nevertheless, in ignorance of my future course, as the material proofs would not be recorded, when after my death the little that would remain of me would still denounce the tyranny, I must file in this letter the new indictment which I bequeath to him.

It was at the moment when the death of M. du C. delivered me to the most violent movements of tenderness and terror], when new anxieties for my wife and my children, for my aunt, tore my soul; where the furies of the Jacobins excite more than ever pain and fears without limit like their villainy; that further removed from the places, from the news, from the communications that interest me, torn from the friend who shares and softens all my sorrows, I am going to see the completion of my solitude and the complete closure of my tomb. I have sworn to myself not to compromise my friends in France by a line from my hand; but that they may one day assure the people whom you know to be so dear to me, that at this moment my heart addressed to them the most tender homage of all that it feels for them. Farewell then, my dear wife, my children, my aunt, you too, my excellent friend, more excellent than ever in misfortune, whom I will cherish to my last breath. [A thousand compliments to Mr. Pinkney, who I hope received my last letter, to Mrs. Church, to my dear friend Lally, whom I embrace with all my heart.]

Note affixed to the letter above, February 23, 1794 (English translation):

The friends of M. de La Fayette having to fear all kinds of danger for him, and the letter transcribed above being a kind of testament, a last farewell to all he loves, it has been judged that it was too important to leave it out of the hands to which it was addressed, and it was decided that a copy would be made, which would be certified as matching the original read by Madame d'Hénin, who received the said original, by M. de La Tour, who wrote the present copy, and by other undersigned friends, who declare that they know perfectly the handwriting of M. de La Fayette and certify that they have seen the original and the copy , and attest, on their honor, the perfect conformity of one and the other.

La Fayette to Monsieur Mazzei, January 3, 1794 (English original):

Dear Mazzei, whereas it happens in my course of dungeons, that I am most likely to die your neighbour, I match an opportunity to introduce to you a friend, and referring myself to that lie bas to say, can only add that very affectionately I am yours.

L. F.

Jules Thomas, Correspondance Inédite de La Fayette, Lettres de Prison, Lettres d’Exile (1793-1801), C. Delagrave, 1903, p. 254-262.

These were the main letter La Fayette wrote around this time (and that survived). We can clearly read his desperation, his fear but also his hope. La Fayette knew that he had friends in Poland and that being so close to the polish border might enable him to escape - plans that were not realized until after his arrival in Olmütz. But La Fayette had friends in Poland and he therefor had hope. Even if he was to die in an Austrian or Prussian prison, he still hoped that his letters and farewells would reach his loved ones.

He did not write directly to Adrienne or his children, partly he could not reach them, Adrienne was herself in prison and I am unsure if he knew the exact whereabouts of all of his children at the time. Partly because he feared that letters from him would aggravate Adrienne’s situation - one or the charges against her was more or less being his wife and La Fayette thought it therefor wise to not have any direct contact with her.

The letters are all from a wonderful book, called Correspondance Inédite de La Fayette, Lettres de Prison, Lettres d’Exile (1793-1801). I had wanted to read this book for a very long time and was overjoyed when I finally was able to find it!

I hope I could answer your question and I hope that you have/had an awesome day!

#ask me anything #anon #lafayette in prison #marquis de lafayette #la fayette #la colombe #princess d'hénin #la tour maubourg #history #french history #american history #french revolution #letter #1794 #neisse #magdeburg

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blake-n-1107 · 1 month

Text

August 31st, 2023

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number

i’ve been thinking about it all day. before i left bed i had already messaged my friends about it. it wasn’t hard. it was as simple as “hey i think you’re cute, can i get your number?” i was gonna ask her for it. i have absolutely nothing to lose. we barely interact or see each other. her name is josie by the way. think that’s how you spell it. cute redhead. sophomore. don’t know anything about her but she lives right up the road and i think she’s cute. throughout the day at school i had told a couple friends that i was just gonna ask today. if she’s gonna give me her number, she would now. the only other thing i’ve really thought about consistently today is the pizza i left in the fridge last night. so hungry. just finished eating it. delicious. well, i’ve thought about other things but, if i can’t rap about them i doubt i can write whatever this is about them. anyways, school finally ends after what feels like forever. we ride the same bus but don’t interact during the ride. she talks to her friend and i usually am in one of the seats nearby. smart people, it’s the best area to sit in the bus. for the ride i just listen to music and read the lyrics. don’t have anything better to do besides that. don’t know what led me to it but i ended up on frank ocean’s open letter from his tumblr. someone transcribed all of his tumblr posts to genius. he puts things in words where i fail to. the things i relate to in it are not about josie though. that’s another story. i discovered frank has a series of random passages that he wrote “to stay sane” and i’m just ripping it off with this but, i don’t care. i finished one right before my stop on the bus. she gets off on the stop before, barely over a hill from my stop. she lives right next to where i get off. i asked her once why she gets off at the stop before, “i like to walk” she said. i go the way the bus came after i get off because it’s faster to go that way and cut through a backyard to my house than the way i’m supposed to go. so every day we cross paths after we get dropped off. i thought she was cute so i’ve slowly made our interactions more consistent, found excuses or questions to ask. some days just a wave and smile, others a joke, etc. i figured today was as good a day as any to just ask for her number. i got off the bus and started my walk while my bus driver got into an argument with a person in a car. shook my head, fixed my hair, took my earbud out. we were about to meet in the middle and we finally decide to acknowledge each other. “how are you doing?” “Good, how are you?” “i got pizza at home but i have work so it’s alright” she smiles while she talks and whatever she said after that. at the last second i said “you look good today by the way,” she said “thanks” still smiling. dunno why i didn’t do it. she smiled, should’ve just gone for it. damn. i got work in forty minutes.

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p.s. i did get her number eventually, nothing came of it which is fine, cool girl, hope she’s doing well in her relationship

#journal entry #writing #writers on tumblr

0 notes

thebuckblogimo · 8 months

Text

Random notes transcribed from my phone plus other snippets of thought.

September 29, 2023

For the last six months I've been fairly diligent about recording thoughts that pop into my head on the Notes app of my phone--stuff that's even briefer than I wrote about in my previous blog entry. I've transcribed them here for your consideration:

I dislike packing. Especially for winter trips to Florida. It takes days for me to round up boxes; figure out where I put various books, papers and pamplets I want to take; assemble cables, chargers, foodstuffs, tools, bottles of wine, etc.; and determine how many t-shirts, pairs of sox, sweatshirts, etc. I should pack. And then there are all the other things I have to do before departing--put cable and internet on hold, turn off the water, pack the car-top carrier and more. Geesh...

I take heat from my wife for using what I call a "travel box." It's an old Leinenkugle's beer case--made of thick cardboard--the kind that was popular during the '50s and '60s. It's ideal for transporting books, magazines, headphones, chargers, bottles of vitamins, packages of gummies, etc. Totally practical.

I don't care for emogis. Never have. I've probably used them only a handful of times in texts. To me they're just crappy clip art.

I don't like to order pizza online. I much prefer ordering over the phone. It's the only way I can be sure of getting my pizza "with onions on half of it."

I don't get the point of those bulbous, graphic letters used in graffiti on trains, subway cars, freeway overpasses, etc. If you're going to deface public property, be creative and do something different.

I know there are TV monitors in every major college and professional football stadium pressbox. And I understand that some people can read lips. Still, I've never been able to get used to coaches who cover their mouths with a clipboard as they discuss plays or strategies with their assistants up in the booth.

I don't know how many times I've said this, but ... Often, when having conversation with friends, someone will say, "Not to change the subject..." And then they go and change the subject.

I used to enjoy playing Wordle the first thing every morning for about a year, until I decided that I enjoy my first cup of coffee even more by reading a well written opinion piece along with it.

It bugs me when I drive through areas where the gas stations display the price per per gallon with small letters below that say "Cash"; and the next displayed price is ten cents more when you pay by "Credit."

It makes me uncomfotable to look into the eyes of homeless people who stand on busy streetcorners with cardboard signs in their hands as they panhandle for money. I'm sure some are truly down on their luck, but there are a lot of scam artists out there, too.

As a stupid 19-year-old in college, I once borrowed--well, "expropriated"--11 bicycles in one day. I would take a beat up, unlocked bike at one rack and leave it at the rack in front of the building for my next class, at my dorm or the book store.

Sometimes I count how many times a bartender shakes the stainless steel container for making my "straight up" martini. I've concluded that the best martinis are shaken at least 100 times.

I often say that I was very young when my Dad would regularly take me to different corner bars in the old Detroit neigborhood where he grew up. Every one of them had a drinking age calendar with tear-off pages hanging on the back bar that said something like this: TO OBTAIN ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES YOU MUST HAVE BEEN BORN BEFORE THIS DATE IN (fill in the year). Let's say he took me to one of those joints when I was nine years old. Which would have been in 1956. That means the year printed on the calendar would have been 1935. Yikes!

Random memory: It was the spring of either 1966 or '67. My first college roommate (Hi, Eric), who grew up in a small town with a single stoplight in the thumb of Michigan, came to my home in Dearborn for a weekend visit. On a beautiful afternoon we got into the car with my Dad who proceeded to travel east on Warren Ave., past Lonyo, into Detroit. I can't recall our destination. But shortly after we traveled past the Springwells Water Treatment Plant on the left, my roomie looked right and started to laugh. "What's up?" I asked. The name of a bar on the south side of Warren struck him as being hilarious: The Atomic Bar. You had to be there.

Observation: The three favorite words/phrases used by young restaurant wait staffers these days are "awsome," "perfect" and "of course."

I get disappointed when I ride my bike or motor scooter through Grand Haven State Park and don't pick up the smell of bacon and eggs being cooked on a charcoal grill in the morning.

I'm not a big fan of using semicolns. But sentence fragments? Love 'em.

As a writer, I probably used dictionaries more often than most people I knew during my life. Now I love using the Merriam-Webster app on my computer or phone.

Speaking of dictionaries, when I was in high school there was a nun at St. Al's who regularly said to the class, "Students, take out your 'dics.'" You can imagine how the pals reacted to that one.

I get really irritated with Mr. Dopey Gym Guy. He's the dude who loads up the bar with weights, then walks across the room to talk to his buddy for 15 minutes, and gets irritated with me when he comes back and says, "I was using that."

I never watched a single episode of The Sopranos, Sex in the City, Orange Is the New Black, Game of Thrones or any other television series. But now that CBS has relaunched Yellowstone, right after Sixty Minutes on Sunday nights, I'm all in.

In my opinion, going to bed at 10 o'clock and getting up at 6:00 is better than going to bed at 12:00 and getting up at 8:00.

Finis.

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middle-earth-mythopoeia · 3 years

Video

youtube

J.R.R. Tolkien reads from The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, 1952

This is J.R.R. Tolkien reading—and singing!—excerpts from The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, and it is exactly as amazing as it sounds. George Sayer, a friend of Tolkien’s, helped make the recordings while Tolkien was visiting him in August 1952, two years before The Lord of the Rings was published. (It doesn’t have that information under the youtube videos, but I was able to find out the context from Tolkien Gateway and the Tolkien Library.) These are so wonderful and I’m so glad they exist! It’s absolutely delightful to hear the Professor reading his own stories. You have not lived until you have heard Tolkien’s Gollum impression, or his Treebeard voice, or him speaking in Elvish...not to mention reading The Ride of the Rohirrim! Yes, he actually recorded that and it is literally the best thing ever. It’s amazing to listen to him reciting the Song of Beren and Lúthien (just like Strider told it to the hobbits!), and everything else, and I’m so, so, so glad that these recordings were made. This is a treasure trove! I want more people to know about this!

Excerpt from Riddles in the Dark The Road Goes Ever On Upon the Hearth the Fire is Red Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady Clear! The Bath Song Farewell We Call to Hearth and Hall! Hey dol! merry dol! ring a dong dillo! The Man in the Moon Stayed Up Too Late The Fall of Gil-galad The Song Of Beren And Lúthien The Stone Troll A Elbereth Gilthoniel The Song of Durin The Song of Nimrodel When evening in the Shire was grey Gandalf's Song of Lórien Lament for Boromir The Long List of the Ents Treebeard’s Song The Ent and the Entwife Bregalad’s Song The Ents’ Marching Song Where now the horse and the rider? Gollum’s fish song Oliphaunt Excerpt from Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit Lament for Théoden Excerpt from The Ride of the Rohirrim Song of the Mounds of Mundburg Excerpt from Mount Doom Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor Namárië

Finally, this is George Sayer’s note on the recordings, which I transcribed from this radio broadcast because I thought others would like to read it.

George Sayer writes: “This record is based on a tape recording that Tolkien made when he was staying in my house in northern Worcestershire. It was in August 1952. For the whole of that summer he had been depressed because The Lord of the Rings, the book on which he had worked for fourteen years, had been refused by publishers, so that he had almost given up hope of ever seeing it in print. But the fact that they had returned it made it possible for my wife Moira and I to borrow the only complete typescript and become, with our friend C.S. Lewis, about the first of passionately enthusiastic Tolkien fans. There arose the question of how to return it to its author. Since it could not, of course, be trusted to the post, I wrote to ask when he would be at home in Oxford for me to deliver it. His reply indicated that he would be quite on his own in the second half of August, and perhaps even rather lonely, and we therefore invited him to come to more than to pick up the typescript, and to stay for a few days. “It was easy to entertain him by day. He and I tramped the Malvern Hills, which he had often seen during his boyhood in Birmingham, or from his brother’s house on the other side of the Seven River Valley. He lived the book as we walked, sometimes comparing parts of the hills with, for instance, the White Mountains of Gondor. We drove to the Black Mountains on the borders of Wales, picked billberries, and climbed through the heather there. We picnicked on bread and cheese and apples, and washed them down with perry, beer or cider. When we saw signs of industrial pollution, he talked of orcs and orcery. At home, he helped me to garden. Characteristically, what he liked most was to cultivate a very small area—say a square yard—extremely well. “To entertain him in the evening I produced a tape recorder, a solid early Ferrograph that is still going strong. He had never seen one before, and said whimsically that he ought to cast out any devil that might be in it by recording a prayer, the Lord’s Prayer, in Gothic—one of the extinct languages of which he was a master. He was delighted when I played it back to him, and asked if he might record some of the poems in The Lord of the Rings to find out how they sounded to other people. The more he recorded, the more he enjoyed recording, and the more his literary self-confidence grew. When he had finished the poems, one of us said, ‘Record for us the riddle scene from The Hobbit!’ and we sat spellbound for almost half an hour while he did. I then asked him to record what he thought one of the best pieces of prose in The Lord of the Rings, and he recorded part of The Ride of the Rohirrim.

“‘Surely you know that’s really good?’ I asked, after playing it back. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s good. This machine has made me believe in it again. But how am I to get it published?’ I thought of what I myself might do in the same difficulty. ‘Haven’t you an old pupil in publishing who might like it for its own sake, and therefore be willing to take the risk?’ ‘There’s only Rayner Unwin,’ he replied, after a pause. ‘Then send it to Rayner Unwin personally!’ And he did. And the result was that even during his lifetime, over 3 million copies were sold. When he got back to Oxford, Tolkien wrote to thank us for having him—a letter in Elvish that is one of my most valued posessions.”

#Tolkien #J.R.R. Tolkien #LOTR #The Hobbit #THIS IS SO WONDERFUL #YOU MUST LISTEN TO IT #I LOVE TOLKIEN SO MUCH #I'M SO GLAD LOTR WAS PUBLISHED #my post #recordings of Tolkien

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dickwheelie · 3 years

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sooooooo I wrote a sequel to that love entities jmart post that got pretty popular. all you really need to know is that post mag 200 jon becomes a local cryptid and listens to people's stories about encounters with the entities to help unburden them of some of their fear. please enjoy!

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Just inside the entryway of Old Fishmarket Close, hidden just out of sight of the street, there stands a shrine. It is not an old shrine of weathered stone, nor is it carefully crafted with intricate religious symbols, nor is it static, weighed down by years of collected dust. It is in many ways a living shrine; flowers bloom and wilt at its feet, while above it, against the wall of the Close, piles of paper, photographs, and keepsakes are haphazardly stacked and stuck. The shrine seems to breathe as each day passes, as innumerable and unsung hands replace its flowers and let their offerings crawl up its wall like vines.

The shrine is not marked, but everyone who looks for it, in the shadows of the entryway, knows precisely who it is for.

You arrive that day with only a piece of notebook paper in your hand. Upon it is written a short message, and not an uncommon one to see at the shrine: Thank You. A substitute, of sorts, for the flowers and other gifts that people often leave. You, like many others, are not well off, and you hope that a small note can make up for your lack of material offerings.

As you approach the shrine, a gust of wind whistles through the alleyway and rustles the pages plastered across the length of the wall. You’ve brought no adhesive, so you slip the piece of paper partially beneath a bouquet lying on the stone walkway. It’s relatively fresh, so you hope it won’t be moved anytime soon. You’ve no idea who replaces the flowers, but you suspect it’s never the same person twice. The locals all know about the shrine and the person it’s meant for, and they’ve grown protective of them both.

Dozens of other people have had the same idea before you; the ground is littered with short notes of gratitude. Thank you for listening, says one, transcribed in loving calligraphy, the i’s dotted with hearts. Thank You For Finding Me, Whoever You Are, says another. I rely lik yor hat, says one written in crayon. Another says, You’ll probably never read this, but thank you for hearing my story. There must be hundreds of them, and there are more each time you visit.

You had spent the better part of the morning trying to come up with something more eloquent to write, but you’ve never been great with words. Telling the mysterious person your story had been the only time you’d ever felt as though your words matched your thoughts, that what came out of your mouth was exactly how you felt, and that the person you were talking to understood you fully.

You suppose a thank you is better than nothing, and after one last fond look at the shrine, you turn to go.

A footstep that is not your own echoes down the alleyway. You turn, half-alarmed, but relax at once when you see who it is.

You have only ever seen him once before, about a month ago when you told him your story, but he is difficult to forget; his figure tall and thin, his posture horrendous, his features hidden entirely by a long coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He stands now at the far end of the alleyway, hands clutched before his hunched torso, giving you the distinct impression he’s staring directly at you.

“Um, hello,” you say, haltingly. You’re not quite sure how to address him, but you figure a polite greeting is universal. You gesture at the shrine. “I don’t have, uh, another story or anything. I was just leaving a note for you.”

His hat tips curiously to the side, and he shuffles forward with his cautious gait, peering closer at the shrine. The dark brim of his hat swivels towards you, as though asking a question.

“The shrine,” you say. “I just left a short note. It’s no big thing, I just—I wanted to leave something.”

The words seem to mean nothing to him. He looks at the shrine, then at you, then back at the shrine. He steps a bit closer to it, and reaches out a long-fingered, gloved hand to touch the petals from a bouquet of daffodils. After the briefest of moments, he pulls away again, hands resuming their wringing.

A thought occurs to you. “Do you . . . do you not know what this is?”

He shakes the hat once.

“This is . . . this is for you,” you say, spreading your arms to encompass the garden on the ground and the sea of pages above. “The flowers, the little trinkets, the thank-you letters—it’s for you. From . . . from all of us, who’ve told you our stories. You’ve helped us so much, we wanted to let you know how much we appreciated it. How grateful we are.”

He doesn’t react, and so you reach out and pick out a card, one that says, Talking to you about how scared I was of the dark made me less afraid of it. I sleep better at night because of what you did for me. Thank you, mysterious stranger. Much love, E.M.

“Here,” you say, handing it to him, and he takes it with a shaky glove. The brim of his hat lowers as he reads. "That’s just one of them. There are loads more just like that.” You survey the pile and pick out another. “This one’s from a kid, thanking you for helping their mom . . . And this one’s just a simple thank you note but they did cover it in glitter glue, so, there’s that . . . And this person wanted you to know that their anxiety improved after talking to you . . .”

He takes note after note from you, reading them all, silent and unexpressive as always, but there’s something in his posture that is unbearably human. Somehow it reminds you of how people stand when they hold a baby chick in their hands.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know,” you say, not unkindly. You’re both sitting on the ground now, amidst the bouquets and piles of thank-yous. “Who else would this all be for?”

As he picks up yet another note, a tremor runs through his body. He raises a gloved hand to the shadows beneath the hat, and you watch as two drops of water stain the page in his hand. His chest convulses as more tears fall, his hand moving under the hat to wipe them away, but they keep coming. Still he makes no sound.

You didn’t know he could cry. You don’t know why you’re surprised; he’s strange, certainly, and perhaps not entirely human . . . but he has heard so many horrible things, and human or not, he deserves a chance to cry.

“Are you—are you okay?” you say, not sure what to do.

The hat nods once, and then shakes.

“I . . . I know it’s probably a lot, all at once,” you say, and you reach out to touch his arm. The movement comes naturally, without much thought; you would have done the same for a friend.

He flinches at your touch, and you immediately pull away, but then he relaxes again, and nods. Tears are still falling from the shadows down onto his coat.

You touch his arm again, gently, and he doesn’t move away. “I’m sorry if it’s overwhelming. But we really are grateful, and you have a bad habit of not accepting thanks. This was one of the only ways we could think to . . . to show you.” You take a deep breath, and gaze into the shadows of where his face might be, doing your best to look him in the eye. “We don’t really know who you are, or why you came here, or why you choose to listen to us. But somehow, we know you mean well. I think everyone who’s told their story knows that, me included. That you’re trying to help us, that you want to do good. And you do. We . . . we want you to know that you’ve done good.”

His chest rises and falls shakily, and though he still makes no sound you swear you can hear a sob. He reaches out and grasps your arm in turn, and suddenly you realize what he needs.

“Can I give you a hug?” you ask.

The hat nods, again and again, and you open your arms, and he falls forward. You would have done the same for a friend.

You almost expect the hug to be gentle, but it is not; it is tight and desperate, and feels so human you do not think twice about hugging him back just as tightly. He is not terribly warm, but you can feel a heart beating beneath his coat. A few tears fall on the back of your jacket. You know that if you just looked up, you would be able to see his face beneath the hat, but you keep your eyes shut tight.

When you move apart, a few moments later, he seems a little more composed, and no more tears fall from beneath the hat. He straightens his back a bit, growing taller even in a sitting position, and you can see just the barest hint of a mouth, which is smiling a delicate, wobbly sort of smile. He brings a gloved hand up to his chin, placing his fingertips against it, and moves them towards you, once, twice.

You are by no means fluent in sign language, but you recognize the sign for Thank you when you see it.

You smile back at him. “You’re welcome,” you say.

He looks back at the shrine, at the piles and piles of notes he has yet to read. You watch as he picks up a handful more, seemingly at random, shuffling them in his hands and pressing them close to his chest. After a pause, he reaches out and slowly picks up one of the bouquets, overflowing with small blue flowers. You’re not entirely sure, but you think they might be forget-me-nots. He pulls a single flower from the bunch and tucks it, carefully, into the collar of his coat, as though for safekeeping.

He nods once, satisfactorily, and stands slowly, giving a small bow in your direction before he turns and shuffles back down the alleyway, the bushel of blue flowers peeking over his shoulder, rustling in the breeze.

Just before he is swallowed by the shadows at the far end of the Close, you call out, “Thank you! Again. For . . . for everything.”

It’s certainly just a trick of the light, but when he turns back to look at you, just before the shadows overtake him, you swear you can see the light catch on a single, twinkling eye, crinkled in one corner by what must be a smile.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #gwyneth writes

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pepaldi · 2 years

Photo

Feb. 27, 2014

Guess who almost came to dinner at Tony and Honore Schiro's wedding in Milwaukee.

Harold Ramis mailed back a comical reply card saying that if he indeed showed up, he'd be bringing a hungry entourage and would need limos and hotel rooms.

This was back in 1997, but it's a story worth telling this week as we remember Ramis and his acting, writing and directing roles in funny movies such as "Ghostbusters," "National Lampoon's Animal House," "Caddyshack," "Stripes" and one of my all-time favorites, "Groundhog Day." Ramis died this week at his suburban Chicago home. He was 69.

You're probably wondering how the Schiros, both Milwaukee-area teachers, knew Ramis. He was curious about that, too. Perplexed by the invitation, he had an assistant call Honore and Tony and ask if they were relatives, family friends, old classmates or exactly what.

"I said, 'Look, Harold doesn't know me,'" Tony recalls. "'He doesn't know us at all. We just sent a couple hundred of these out to famous people that we liked.' He said, 'How did you choose Harold?' I said, 'We just love his work.'"

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Dozens of invitations came back as undeliverable, which tells you a lot about celebrity address books. Many others were probably just thrown away by managers and publicists and the like.

But 29 famous people — or more likely their people — sent back the reply card or letter offering their regrets. Some felt the need to offer a reason.

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All the replies were put in a book and displayed at the couples wedding reception at Turner Hall downtown on Aug. 16, 1997. A highlight was a transcribed phone message from Ramis' assistant in Chicago, complete with all the ums and uhs, and of course Ramis' reply card, which they're assuming he wrote on himself.

"Mr. Harold Ramis and entourage will gladly attend," it says, then adding they would need 13 pork chops, 22 beef tenderloins and 12 chicken salads as entrée choices.

"We'll also need hotel rooms and limos to and from the airport and wedding. We'll take care of our own air travel. In case we don't show up, try to have a good time without us. We wish you love and luck and all good things. Best, Harold Ramis."

"It was really sweet, I thought," Honore said.

(x)

#Harold Ramis #gonna need a #Harold loves his fans #yeah.. just like Peter again

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yr-obedt-cicero · 2 years

Text

"He was surprised, one day, to receive the following epistle, which is here transcribed from the original: "Aaron Burr : Sir, Please to meet me with the weapon you chuse on the 15 of May where you murdered my father at 1 o'clock with your second. 8 May 1819. J. A. Hamilton." To which he wrote a reply like this: "Boy, I have never injured you : nor wished to injure your father. A. Burr." On reflection, however, he thought it best not to notice the communication, and tore up his reply. He was afterward informed that the letter was a forgery."

(source)

While James proposal for a duel was fake, I think Burr's reaction to this letter is interesting. Aside from how hilarious it is that if James had actually been the author, he would try to be sincere and threatening as possible, and Burr's reaction is just "Boy the fuck are you doing?"

I also think the tidbit of "—nor wished to injure your father" is notable. Burr's intentions and how he saw the duel between him and Hamilton is almost always conflicting. At times he seems to regret it, and others he doesn't. As he used to recall Hamilton as "my friend, whom I shot." which doesn't sound like he held any guilt or regret at all, yet he had moments like these.

#I wonder who tried to start beaf between James and Burr #amrev #american history #american revolution #aaron burr #james alexander hamilton #history #hamilchildren #hamilton children #hamilton family #hamilkids #Hamilton kids #cicero's history lessons

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uwmspeccoll · 3 years

Photo

The LEC Ulysses Saga

Hello! My name is Teddy. I am a graduate student studying Print and Narrative Forms. I am working in Special Collections as a Graduate Intern. I am interested in the many books in our collection which contain original prints. Studying these prints in person allows me to see the hand of the artist since they are original works of art. It is also exciting to identify the methods and techniques used to produce them.

This edition of Ulysses by James Joyce, illustrated by Henri Matisse, was published by the Limited Editions Club (LEC) in 1935. George Macy, the founder of the LEC, designed this book. Matisse’s etchings have a feeling of being drawn quickly and freely, which was only possible after many preliminary studies of the forms, which have been included as photogravure reproductions. The soft lines and tones of the etchings are produced by drawing on a sheet of paper laid over a metal plate covered with a soft waxy substance called soft-ground, the pressure from drawing on the paper lifts the grounds. The plate is etched, and the effect is a line with broken edges, much like a crayon. When first published the book was considered to be a failure regarding its typographic design but also with respect to the illustrations by Matisse, which did not illustrate Ulysses, but instead illustrated Homer’s Odyssey. Matisse privately admitted that he had never read the book, despite saying he had.

Whether the book was a failure aesthetically must not have mattered since it sold well. George Macy is said to have had a formula for creating desirable books: pair a scandalous classical text with a well-known artist. In this case Ulysses was primed and ready since it had just been released from a decade-long ban. It was banned after appearing in short segments within The Little Review, a small literary magazine that ran between 1914 and 1929. The sexual content that led to its banishment in 1920 would be considered quite modest today.

The publishing of the LEC Ulysses is very well-documented in letters and transcribed phone calls. After receiving permission from Random House, which had rights to publish Ulysses in the United States, Macy contacted James Joyce to secure his permission. Macy devised to pair Matisse with Ulysses. During a trip to Paris, he phoned Matisse and asked if he would make 8 lithographs for Joyce’s book. Matisse said he had never read the text, but he would think about it. Macy had a French copy sent to Matisse and Matisse later replied by phone to propose an alternative idea. He said he spent the night reading Ulysses and he understood that parts of it relate to Homer’s Odyssey, so he asked if he could make 6 etchings that illustrate scenes from The Odyssey. George Macy agreed.

Thus begins a year of miscommunication and frustration. There were many efforts on the side of James Joyce and George Macy to set up a face-to-face meeting between Joyce and Matisse but nothing of the sort ever occurred. Joyce wrote letters to friends expressing his excitement over Matisse illustrating his book. He wrote, “Apart from the usual U.S. edition there is to be brought out... an edition de luxe with.... a series of 30 illustrations by the French painter Henri Matisse. He is at present in the south of France doing them. He knows the French translations very well but has never been in Ireland.”

Joyce had conversed with Matisse over telephone once and approved of Matisse's ideas to make illustrations inspired by Homer’s Odyssey, however, excitement faded when the finished illustrations were presented.

After seeing the illustrations, George Macy wrote a letter to Albert Lévy, Matisse’s gallerist, “Will you say that it will be helpful for us if he will give us, with each plate, some statement of its relation to James Joyce’s Ulysses? While we understand, and admire, the idea by which the plates are to be illustrative of Homer’s Odyssey, it is essential that the incidents of the Odyssey which are illustrated must also relate to incidents in Joyce’s book.” He also wrote, “I believe these first plates from Matisse are superb.... I am worried over the fact that they do not seem to have a direct relation to Ulysses, the book by James Joyce. I think it important that Matisse must make illustrations for those episodes out of Homer’s Odyssey which actually have reference to Joyce’s Ulysses.”

Matisse provided a blurb saying, “These 6 plates are really the product of reactions of my mind before Joyce’s work..,” which sounds like something someone who did not read the book would say.

Macy wrote to Albert Lévy again saying “Privately, I can inform you that we are not at all pleased with the plates. It will be very difficult to persuade our members that these illustrations have any relations to James Joyce’s book...”

After working with strong personalities in the past, like Picasso, Macy started having backups. The artist Lewis Daniel was also commissioned to make illustrations for Ulysses. However, they proved to be as dissatisfying as Matisse’s—although Lewis’s illustrations illustrated Ulysses, the cartoonish style of the illustrations did not suite the text.

The book was published with Matisse’s etchings in 1935 but was not well received by book aficionados. John Ryder, a critic who himself designed the 1960 Ulysses published by Bodley Head, called the LEC version “a typographic travesty,” “idiosyncratic,” and “ludicrous.” This may have more to do with George Macy’s design than with the quality of Matisse’s illustrations.

Of the 1500 copies printed, Matisse signed each copy, while Joyce only signed 250. We hold two copies signed by both Matisse and Joyce.

For every juicy detail read ‘A Very Pretty Picture M. Matisse But You Must Not Call It Joyce’: The Making of the Limited Editions Club ‘Ulysses’. With Lewis Daniel’s Unpublished ‘Ulysses’ Illustrations, by Willard Goodwin.

View other posts on James Joyce’s Ulysses.

-- Teddy, Special Collections Intern.

#james joyce #ulysses #Limited Editions Club #George Macy #etchings #soft ground ethcings #Little Review #publishing history #teddy

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x--daughters-of-darkness--x · 3 years

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TARJA TURUNEN Opens Up About Her Stroke Scare: 'It Was A Shock For Me'

Former NIGHTWISH frontwoman Tarja Turunen has opened up about the stroke she suffered in late 2018 following the completion of her U.S. tour.

The 44-year-old Finnish-born singer, who currently lives in Spain (after previously residing in both Finland and Argentina), told Chaoszine in a new interview that she decided to address her experience in order to raise awareness of the third leading cause of death for women.

"Luckily I was at home [when it happened]," she said (as transcribed by BLABBERMOUTH.NET). "I just returned home from a U.S. tour. It was a quite difficult, demanding tour, and I felt like I was completely exhausted. Usually I am exhausted after tours — I need some days and really recovery time and all that. But I'm not 20 anymore — there is a change. Even though I've been always taking care of my body, physique and I feel like I'm in a good condition and all that, but still… I would have never thought that this kind of thing could happen to me, but it's absolutely possible for anybody — and very common, actually, today for women, even in their 40s.

"I decided to talk about it now — I didn't do it then — because I think it's something very important to talk [about]. The awareness of this thing is important. So it was a shock for me, certainly."

According to Tarja, it didn't take very long for her to get over the physical effects of the stroke. "I didn't suffer," she said. "I was super lucky. I didn't have any defects. Seriously, I was really lucky. And thank God I was at home; it happened at home. [My husband] saw what's going on and he brought me to the hospital immediately. And they helped me, and it was all good. They did all that was necessary. They didn't find out what was the cause of it; they didn't find out that.

"I left the hospital after three days," she continued. "I signed myself out and I said, 'Okay, I have 22 concerts to do in Europe.' And the doctor said, 'No, you're not going anywhere.' But I had to — I had to. And I wanted to. I felt good."

Tarja has just released her first book, "Singing In My Blood", via Rocket 88. Written and compiled over the past year of lockdown, Tarja has searched through scores of photos and memories to create a big, deluxe book about her life in music. There are contributions from friends and colleagues who've played a part in her music on stage, in the studio and at home, alongside lots of previously unseen intimate photos from childhood to the present day.

Turunen was fired from NIGHTWISH at the end of the band's 2005 tour by being presented with an open letter which was published on the NIGHTWISH web site at the same time. In the letter, the other members of NIGHTWISH wrote: "To you, unfortunately, business, money, and things that have nothing to do with emotions have become much more important."

NIGHTWISH keyboardist and main songwriter Tuomas Holopainen later called the decision to part ways with Turunen "the most difficult thing I ever had to do." For her part, Tarja said the way she was kicked out of the group proved that her former bandmates were not her friends. "Maybe one day I'll forgive, but I will never forget," she said.

#Tarja Turunen #2021 interviews #2021 news #well damn #this is scary news #and a wake up call that we must slow down #life is more precious #glad she is ok and didn't have any physical effects

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nordleuchten · 2 years

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Georges Washington de La Fayette's Handwriting (among other things)

@echo-bleu and I lately had a discussion about Georges Washington de La Fayette’s (alleged) handwriting and I promised to find a sample of his handwriting - and I have been successful! Not only can the man’s handwriting be observed here, the letter is also quite insightful!

Washington city February the 17th 1825.

My dear Captain, when I last wrote to Mr. Whitlock I intended answering your Kind letter the next morning, and that very morning, I received from france the most melancholy piece of news; my friend, La Grange is no more what you have seen it. I have lost my wife’s respectable mother, and that young family which you have seen so gay and so happy, is now spending its whole days and nights in tears and mourning.

She was the tie, the life, the animation of all around her, and the thought of her death will always send my heart, which was here so much exulting in Joy and gratitude. however great has been the temptation of going immediately to Europe to weep in the arms of the best of [crossed out] wives, I had to consider that two sacred duties, enforced upon me the obligation of staying in this country. in leaving it I would have transgressed my duty towards my father, and perhaps might have appeared ungrateful to your admirable Countrymen.

I determined to stay, but my father himself is to

to good for his children, and grandchildren, and was such a friend to my venerated mother in law, that he has taken the firm determination of going away on the fifteenth of august. pardon me my friend, if I did not begin, by regretting with you that you think yourself obliged to get again in that fatiguing course of life which you had for a moment the hope of giving up, you will excuse me on account of my particular situation, be assured that if my father or myself could do any thing for to

contribute to the gratification of you wishes we would be eager to seize that opportunity of showing our friendship to you, but if you must go to sea again, with whom could we prefer

returning home, if an order of your countryman does not oblige my father to go in a public ship.

I calculate that the Cadmus will sail again for france in the month of may, and will be back to new yorck towards the end of July. am I

mistaken. do write me aline to let me Know what will be her regular course.

I depend on your friendly care for to forward our letters to us, as we proceed on our southern tour. You will I am sure, have the Kindness to

calculate the time which will be necessary for the to reach us from new yorck, to the general places, which I will indicate to you in two or three days by a letter.

I now receive a Kind note form Mr. Whitlock. informing me that he has received and forwarded my last letters, be so good as to thank him on my behalf

my father requests to be most friendly reminded to you, Levasseur [La Fayette’s secretary] and myself join with him, in the hope that you Know that we shall be yours forever.

G. W. Lafayette

While initially this letter “only” served as an example for Georges Washington de La Fayette’s handwriting, I made a number of interesting discoveries while transcribing this letter. First of all, I had no idea that G. W. de La Fayette’s mother-in-law died while he was in America, nor that he contemplated leaving the United States earlier than he did. It once again shows you how tight-knit the La Fayette’s and their extended family were.

It is also interesting to see that G. W. de La Fayette named August 15, as their date of departure when in actuality they sailed on September 7, 1825. This change of date though made sense, because La Fayette’s birthday was on September 6 and if they would have sailed as they had originally planned, La Fayette would have likely spend his birthday (seasick) somewhere in the middle of the ocean.

The really interesting part of the letter though is the persona of Captain Francis Allyn. Allyn was a veteran of the War of 1812 and served later as commander of the Atlantic merchant vessel Cadmus. It was the Cadmus that brought La Fayette and his entourage from France to America. The Marquis de La Fayette, his son, and apparently other members of the travel group as well, became friends with Allyn and this friendship lasted for the rest of their lives. The relationship was so close indeed, that Allyn’s wife spend several months with the La Fayette’s at La Grange. There are numerous letters between Allyn and his wife and La Fayette, G. W. de La Fayette, his wife Emilie and his daughter Nathalie.

My personal highlight from these letters is that one time during their travels where G. W. de La Fayette asks if Allyn could arrange the shipment of four opossums from America to France. They were intended for a scientist in Paris and had to be kept alive during the crossing if the Atlantic.

#marquis de lafayette #lafayette #la fayette #general lafayette #french history #american history #history #georges washington de lafayette #captain francis allyn #cadmus #war of 1812 #letter #handwriting #1825 #triumphant tour #farewell tour #echo-bleu

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