#like look I may get put in mortal peril by very strong beings
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[ Genshin Impact Imagines ]
Imagine #1 : Of Bargains and Contracts - That which is the most precious shade of gold
Vago Mundo - Zhongli
Imagine having doubts about the fairness of your contract with Zhongli.
After a long day of adventuring for one of Zhongli's rare botanical requests (that ofc, you obtained through your own expenses as per your contract- you felt robbed due to that, truly you did, in which universe was it fair to make the adventurer pay for expenses spent on obtaining your requests? However, you do not find yourself complaining -at least not directly to the person involved- any time soon. Not when he so easily smiles so handsomely -so happily- whenever you provide him with what he requested).
His smiles are going to run me dry of mora, I just know it, you tell yourself. One of these days it would and when you'd need to have a weapon refined but is too damned broke for it -or worse, go starving in the midst of one of your many journeys, Paimon would have your ass for it.
Maybe, just maybe, all of those supposed adventurers that Zhongli had once mentioned in one of his more factual tales to have often decided on staying in Liyue was because of him. Maybe he flashed a great many of them his polished smile and gentlemanly attitude and had just gotten them reeled in- hook, line, and sinker.
Putting it that way, he doesn't sound any more than a con-man, Paimon had blatantly stated so the other day,
'A well-mannered one but a con nevertheless! Who even forgets to bring their wallet nowadays, huh, (Y/N)? Think about it!'
And a part of you do consider it, do boil with the thought. That perhaps you were just being used, that maybe The Mysterious Guest of Wangshu Inn was no more than a conniving, sly, inconveniently comely-
To your surprise, you reach your destination, your thoughts quite a distracting orchestra dedicated to the funeral director. Thoughts that made you steel your nerves as you glared at the polished wooden doors that served as an entrance to Zhongli's study, your mind made up to hand a piece of it to the man who resided just beyond.
'Zhongli, I feel as if the contract we have is rather unfair. You cannot honestly expect me to continue on with this without going broke. We need to make amends to make this transactional relationship work. Paimon is already being a pain since they needed to cut off on food, I do not want to imagine how Kaeya would react once he learns that these commissions from you is funded by our joint expenses and with no reimbursement whatsoever.'
Okay, that sounds good, you think. Civil, proper and not watering down the gravity your true monetary concerns. He'd understand, you hope and place your bets on the proper man that you believe him to be. The concept of mora may just be entirely insignificant to him, only too inconveniently that he forgets he'd need those to make purchases and obtain basic necessities in between his more luxurious wants, which you find ironic.
Taking in a deep breath, you turn the knob of the door and pry it open only to be met by a sight that had might as well called dibs on your future funds down to the last mora.
There stood Zhongli, tall and elegant as always but with far lesser clothes than what he usually has on himself. His coat was nowhere to be seen and instead all there was is his cream undershirt and well-tailored trousers- too damned tight, shirt folded to his elbows, untucked, unbuttoned and deshriveled as his tie was. The longer strands of his luscious locks were out of their usual ponytail and instead pooled about his shoulders and down past his waist.
The backs of his thighs were flush against his mahogany office desk as he leaned back on it, body turned away from you as he concentrated on the energy that was quite literally pulsating as it hovered above the palm of his gloved hand.
The very object that casted such a rich and ethereal golden glow inside the darkened room, painting shadows and lights upon his already sculpted face as if oil on pristine canvas. It was a collection of the palettes that defined Liyue- the dawnbreaks mirrored by cor lapis that littered the ground and the sunsets and high noons radiated by the cryptic shrines and towers that stood as mighty pillars and age-old sentries over the entire island.
On his hand, and with eyes that glimmered with utmost concentration, Zhongli holds a manifesting geoculus-
-traces of the geo archon, the memories and legacy of Rex Lapis.
The implication of it all coaxed a sharp breath out of you and it was this that had snapped the man out of his trance-like preoccupation. He turns towards your general vicinity and his amber eyes widens in surprise for a fraction of a second, the entirety of him taking in the appearance of a deer that had just been caught underneath a street light,
"Ah! Traveler, you arrived far sooner than I had expected!" the distinct light rumble of an uncertain laugh colored his words, his elegant brows furrowing ever so slightly at the astounded look that seemed to have taken an enduring residence on your face before a dawning realization occurred to him- the geoculus he held on his hands.
In flagrante delicto.
"Far sooner, indeed." he chuckles, a fond look swimming in his eyes, a look that heated them into molten gold, gold that traveled unto your throat and spread through your chest like rare colored crystalflies, "It seems that the cat is finally out of the bag," he pushes himself off the table after dismissing the completed geoculus with a wave of his hand and takes languid -albeit, almost coy- steps towards you, those amber gems of his relentless on their search for the placement of your emotions regarding the matter at hand, "Tell me, dear traveler, what do you make of it?" his voice was deep, too deep, as if all intentions were drawn from wanting to drown you in every syllable that left his enticingly thin lips.
You gulp, your limbs suddenly at war as to whether it may find solace in seeking purchase on the ground or in running, "Y-you're... You're the geo archon." you stammered as you looked up at the man who now stood but a mere respectable distance in front of you. It was now you who quaked in front of him instead of the ground or a foe as would always whenever he would display his skill in battle or as portrayed in tales whenever a god would make itself known to mortals. Zhongli had no direct hand on your reaction however, it is the least of his intentions as he willed his presence to remain as it had been before- steady and strong, perhaps a bit intimidating but only to those who did wrong and with an enduring grace reminiscent of willow trees.
He hums in thought and bestows upon you a tender shake of the head, "I was meaning to ask about the feasibility of such unorthodox compensation for your troubles," he asks with the faintest hint of qualms.
You stood there in disbelief.
It just occurred to you then that on the course of your little commissions for him, with every flower he asked you to pick from the most perilous peaks there had always been a geoculus time and again- always a mere reach from where you ought to be, always without fail- a piece of his soul, an essence of Liyue, his memories, his very being and he asks you this as if they were worth so little.
You were getting more than you bargained for and here Zhongli was doing as you had done before- not for himself but on your behalf.
"I- your- a geoculus, an oculus, it's a region's very essence, did I get that right?" You ask even though you know that is the gist of it and a nod from Zhongli provides a seal of confirmation. Venti took the time to explain it to you and then some during one of his once-in-a-blue-moon somber days (when he had one too many drinks, and was in an oddly reminiscent mood), "Venti, he also said an oculus is thus a collection of the reigning archon's memories and a part of the whole that makes them. Is that also true?"
Delight brightens up his already pleasant lips, "I see you are well educated, traveler. Perhaps the bard is not as less as his drinking habits tend to make of him."
"Then why must you still ask me if it is worth my troubles? Of course it would be!" you suddenly find yourself indignant much to Zhongli's surprise, "You'd think such a significant part of you is worth so little, you'd have a heartattack once you skirt beyond the high walls blocking your emotional awareness and see just how many people are throwing themselves on your path just for a chance to pick at the crumbs underneath the soles of your boots!"
And then Zhongli's lips part, eyes glittering and pale cheeks paying homage to budding roses and he just stays like that for a couple of seconds and you realize that you may have run your mouth far too much.
You suddenly want to throw yourself off of one of Liyue's many gorges, good luck to anyone who might want to bother with finding your corpse.
Kaeya might just find that oddly amusing, Paimon not much so.
Zhongli clears his throat and holds his hands behind his back, an eyebrow raised in benevolent scrutiny, "Perhaps the bard may have taught you more than I initially expected. That, or you are -quite unexpectedly- a naturally smooth fellow who knows your way with words, traveler."
"Did you just call me a smooth-talker?" you don't know just where exactly this conversation would be leading you both but he's now making his way back to his desk with a sort of almost imperceptible perk on his steps and sway on his hips and you're now certain that you are compensated well above the usual pay grade by this suddenly too evasive, too temptingly slinky geo archon.
"Perhaps," Zhongli chuckles in amusement at your obvious verbal efforts to pin him back, "A flatterer indeed."
So here's a little fanart I did of our broke Geo daddei/archon, Zhongli! Along with a little imagine to spice things up!
I can't emphasize enough the amount of time, energy, positivity and irl mora this event had sucked out of me and I'm still yet to get him. I know my luck sucks at the highest possible level so would y'all be a jolly lot by helping this wee simp out of her depressed gacha dug hell hole and re-blog for a chance to have this penniless connoisseur come home to me pls
I'm desperate, truly.
Art, Imagine © Yours Truly (pls do credit me when you do re-blog or redistribute, otherwise don't bother)
Zhongli, Genshin Impact © miHoYo
#genshin impact zhongli#Zhongli#Rex lapis#Morax#Genshin impact#Mihoyo#Genshin impact fanart#Zhongli fanart#digital illustration#digital art#Genshin impact imagine#zhongli+x+reader#Zhongli genshin impact imagine#Zhongli x reader
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The Relativity and Connections between Jamaasian Lore and Mirabai
WARNING! ⚠️ Very religious themes. I apologise if I have any incorrect or outdated information, it's very risky writing about something surrounding a certain religion when in fact.. I'm an atheist.
The lore of Jamaa has always been a really tricky and fairly eerie topic to cover. It has themes from all sorts of different cultures and despite the main tale being retold, changed and edited one thousand times, the information we receive is clear about who the certain deities and characters are and what their roles to play give.
Today, we're looking more on the more eerie side of Animal Jam- The relationship between Mira and Zios. Surprisingly, we know more about our enemies the phantoms than we do the entities we're serving. Alot has been told about Mira, but on the other hand, not much information has been provided about Zios and his identity making him more or less a very suspicious character to take heed of. That's why there are so many theories regarding him specifically; the most we know is that...
●He is the spiritual highest point of the Jamaa heiarchy, having created Mira and setting the stars and planets in motion
●He is often depicted as a bodyless golden mask surrounded by intricate patterns and grooves
●He was the lover of Mira
●He dissappeared at some point in time and never came back.
To jog your memory, I'm going to be basing this theory more on the Old Jamaasian Lore. Interestingly, the lore was changed to make it appealing to a younger audience, but in the old lore we get a stronger sense of emotion and alot more information about the guardian spirits of Jamaa.
Zios is practically a God. He sets several plants, stars and seas in motion. Eventually he gets lonely and gives life to a deity said to be the perfect incarnation of humble beauty; a graceful grey heron named Mira. Mira and Zios get on well together and she often tells him how talented and artistic he is.
Eventually, Zios falls for her, and creates a beautiful land for he and Mira to share; Jamaa- as a sign of his love.
Mira is ecstatic and suggests and creates the idea of giving live to mortal inhabitants to the land- us, the animals. However, Zios gets a little snappy at Mira for that. He meant for this place to share just between the two and for nobody else to interfere.
He then snaps at Mira for creating the Animals and the two fall into a fearsome and emotional argument. Mira's tears then, without her knowing, come into accidental contact with the mortal world. Since she is an omniscient deity, mixing such power with normal life would end in ruin- Thus creating the phantoms.
Here's the catch. Mira and Zios are too wrapped up in their argument to notice the phantoms attacking Jamaa. Since the phantoms were created by Mira, they would only obey her. That is why they are after Zios, to avenge Mira. Also a case why we never see the phantoms target Mira specifically.
Then, they notice the peril Jamaa is in and, still angry at eachother, select the powerful and strong remaining animals in their selective tribes as Alphas to defend.
Shortly after, Zios goes missing. We're told the phantoms took him through the phantom portal never to be seen again. However, there is alot of evidence to suggest he fell victim to the phantoms and gave in to their side, furthermore taking control of the Phantom Empire. That may be why, despite their goal being reached, they continue to harass and attack the alphas, Jamaa, and by extent, Mira.
From then, the Alphas succeed, and all is well. Zios, however, is never heard of again.
Despite their argument, Mira is eternally upset. That is why phantoms keep producing, due to her tears. Since Zios left angry at Mira, it may be an extra that she thinks Zios left hating her.
And... That is what is inferred from the old lore. The new lore consists of less knowledge about Mira and Zios, but more information about the Alphas and of course the animal heartstones.
Now, here is the thing. The tale of Jamaa is very familiar sounding to some people. Zios is often seen as omnipotent and very powerful. He's often seen as similar to several different gods in mythology..
●Zeus, the Greek god of sky and thunder (This one is self explanatory, even their names are similar: however I've seen this one cause a bit of controversy as this is comparing Zios to a technically VERY problematic god.. Also, Mira sounds alot like Hera!)
●Viracocha, the great creator deity in the pre-Inca and Inca mythology in the Andes region of South America. He's mainly mentioned in incan and mesopotamian mythology as the high creator god (and this one shares more similarities than you may think!) They both had lovers, both dissappeared after creating the world, both had similar powers (examples of heliokenesis) and they actually look REALLY similar, most likely Zios' design being based off of Viracocha's golden armor. Viracocha pictured below!
●And the last one... Krishna. An important religious figure in Hinduism and the final reincarnation/eighth avatar of Vishnu.
And that last one is what I'm planning to talk about today!
The perhaps most important part of this theory is Mirabai. Mirabai, often called Meera or Mira, was a 16th-century Hindu mystic poet and devotee of Krishna. She was known for her elegant beauty and poetry, as well as her eternal devotation to Krishna.
Meera pictured below as well as a figure of Krishna in the distance.
Surprsingly, we have our own Mira too. And if we're comparing Zios to Krishna, this relationship makes alot of sense. Meera was in love with Krishna, and Mira was in love with Zios. "In her last years, Meera lived in Dwarka or Vrindavan, where legends state she miraculously disappeared by merging into an idol of Krishna in 1547. While miracles are contested by scholars for the lack of historical evidence, it is widely acknowledged that Meera dedicated her life to Lord Krishna, composing songs of devotion and was one of the most important poet-saint of the Bhakti movement period." That paragraph was taken from Meera's Wikipedia entry, and relates alot to the story of Mira and Zios. Its said that Meera one day miraculously dissappeared just like Zios did and they only things she left behind were her poems, music, and of course, her devotion and husband-like considered relationship between her and Krishna.
Krishna pictured below.
Most of Meera's poems are dedicated to God in the form of Krishna, calling him the Dark One or the Mountain Lifter. "Some Meera songs include Radha, the lover of Krishna, and her jealousy and hatred for them. All her poems have philosophical connotations, mainly centered around Krishna."
The "Dark One" and "Mountain Lifter" terms are certaintly strange. Why would somebody refer to a "Dark One" in such a loving term?
Lets not forget the example of Zios not only representing the light in most cases, but spiritually, representing the dark. There's alot of evidence to actually suggest instead of the common thought that Zios represents the Sun and Mira the Moon, it may actually be the vice versa in a yin yang sort of way. Light and Dark cannot coexist without eachother and Zios and Mira are a great example of that.
I may explain the Zios is the moon thing a different time but you're going to have to roll with me here on this one... Zios is a perfect representation of the dark. Dark gives space and life to the light, but of course light always gives life to the dark.
Also, "Mountain-Bearer"... Not much to say here. Quite literally what Zios did to create Jamaa. "In her poems, Krishna is a yogi and lover, and she herself is a yogini ready to take her place by his side into a spiritual marital bliss. Meera's style combines impassioned mood, defiance, longing, anticipation, joy and ecstasy of union, always centred on Krishna."
Let's take a look at perhaps the most well known poem by Meera... And perhaps the one that relates the most to Jamaasian Lore. I am aware Julian2 has covered this in a video before, but here im going to take a proper analysis.
My Dark One has gone to an alien land. He has left me behind, he's never returned, he's never sent me a single word. So I've stripped off my ornaments, jewels and adornments, cut my hair from my head. And put on holy garments, all on his account, seeking him in all four directions. Mira: unless she meets the Dark One, her Lord, she doesn't even want to live.
— Mira Bai, Translated by John Stratton Hawley
Alot to process here. Let's see what we can compare.
●"My Dark One has gone to an Alien Land"- Zios= Krishna: has gone to the realm of the phantoms/alien land
●"He's left me behind, he's never returned, he's never sent me a single word"- Exactly what Zios did. Never responded to Mira and didn't speak to her again after his dissappearance.
●"So I've stripped off my ornaments, jewels and adornments, cut my hair from my head"- Julian2 suggested this may be about Peck running away but this has been outdated. This could possibly refer to the "jewels and adornments" being the Alpha stones as Mira gives them away.
●"And put on holy garments, all on his account, seeking him in all four directions."- This refers to Mira yet again giving the alphas their Alpha Stones and after that she prepares to go out and find Zios.
●"Meera: unless she meets the Dark One, her Lord, she doesn't even want to live."- Unless Mira doesn't meet her Dark One- in this case, Zios-she doesn't feel the will to live, referencing her sorrow and despair without him.
I'm not sure about you, but I'm very convinced AJHQ may have based their lore on this poem specifically.
There is another poem that can relate to the legend of Jamaa, but there's not much to infer. I'm not going to do a thorough line by line analysis, but hopefully looking back on the analysis I just did you can atleast gather some stuff.
After making me fall for you so hard, where are you going? Until the day I see you, no repose: my life, like a fish washed on shore, flails in agony. For your sake I'll make myself a yogini, I'll hurl myself to death on the saw of Kashi. Mira's Lord is the clever Mountain Lifter, and I am his, a slave to his lotus feet.
"Meera speaks of a personal relationship with Krishna as her lover, lord and mountain lifter. (Sanson Ki Mala Pe Simru Main Pi Ka Naam) is written by Meera Bai Shows her dedication towards Lord Krishna. The characteristic of her poetry is complete surrender." -Quote from Wikipedia
The song of Sanson Ki Mala Pe Simru Main Pi Ka Naam is an interesting one-referring to her "beading the name of her beloved on the garland of my breaths". Interestingly, this song refers to Krishna as a Cuckoo Bird- A little bit of a crack theory, but this may suggest Zios could actually be the same behind that mask of his?
Examples of this bird-referring lyric are this quote from that same song:
"He is a melodious bird
He is a magnificent man
This foolish girl has taken
The beloved’s heart as the Lord"
I will link the full song plus English translation below!
https://www.google.com/amp/s/ekta25.wordpress.com/2011/06/23/sanson-ki-mala-pe-simroon-main-pi-ka-naam-on-the-garland-of-my-breaths-i-have-bejewelled-my-beloveds-name/amp/
Intresting... Perhaps Zios IS some sort of bird!
In conclusion, Mirabai's poetry, devotion and songs have alot of connections to Jamaasian Lore! I find this interesting, but this did help us gather quite a bit of information!
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The Leithian Reread - Canto X (The Attack by Celegorm and Curufin)
This canto splits into two stories: Lúthien and Beren having a rather circular argument about what to do next, and Celegorm and Curufin facing the fallout from their actions in Nargothrond.
Beren and Lúthien bury Finrod before departing from the isle of Tol Sirion. [Very slightly edited by me to update names.]
The isle in Sirion they left behind
but there on hill-top one might find
a green grave, and a stone set,
and there there lie the white bones yet
of Felagund, Finarfin’s son -
unless that land is changed and gone,
or foundered in unfathomed seas,
while Felagund laughs beneath the trees
in Valinor, and comes no more
to this grey world of tears and war.
Many of Sauron’s captives from Tol-in-Gaurhoth return to Nargothrond, as does Huan (Huan most likely with them and looking after them, as post-Bragollach Beleriand is a dangerous place and I can’t imagine they’re in very good shape).
The reaction in Nargothrond stands out because nothing has fundamentally changed about Celegorm and Curufin’s actions. It was obvious before (Canto VIII) that Celegorm and Curufin were deliberately abandoning Finrod to die, and it’s still obvious now. Finrod’s death is an entirely foreseeable action of the Nargothrondrim’s choices. The main point that’s new is the realization that defeating Sauron was possible - possible for one elf-maid and a dog, no less. They really are, as the narrative itself calls them, fickle. It’s even more striking in the Silmarillion, where no one will go with Celegorm and Curufin, not even their own people (for all perceived that the curse lay heavily upon the brothers, and that evil followed them) in contrast with the Leithian ([they] took their horses and such folk as still them followed). The Silmarillion version works better in terms of narrative consistency, as no one else is with the brothers when they attack Beren and Lúthien.
I’m very interested in what’s going on in the heads of Celegorm and Curufin’s followers - the ones who stay in Nargothrond - at this point. They’ve backed the brothers all through their coup, all through the brothers threatening the Nargothrondim with a second Kinslaying, all through the imprisonment and attempted rape of Lúthien, and done nothing to impede these profoundly un-Elvish actions. And now, suddenly, they all turn away and decide that they’d rather stay with a group of Nargothrondim who are probably more than a little angry and hostile to them. Is it repentance? A belated attack of conscience? Pure self-interest - Nargothrond’s one of the most secure places in Beleriand at the moment, and in that respect preferable to the northeastern front of the war?
Orodreth, in pretty much the only documented moment where he takes a stand and sticks to it, forbids the killing of Celegorm and Curufin, and exiles them instead. I think he’s a fundamentally good person, just one without any strong leadership qualities who’s been placed in a position for which he is fundamentally unsuited.
They’ve accomplished nothing with all their treachery except alienating the two largest elf-kingdoms in Beleriand. They are entirely unrepentant, and are instead furious (went away in anger dire) despite, or pethaps because of, being treated more mercifully than they deserve. This is the state of mind they will remain in through the rest of their lives, from the attack on Beren and Lúthien through to the Second Kinslaying: a determined and ever-worsening hatred towards, and need for vengeance against, anyone they have wronged. Mercy is the worst offense to pride, as in Saruman’s words to Frodo at the end of the Scouring of the Shire (You have robbed my revenge of sweetness, and now I must go hence in bitterness, in debt to you mercy. I hate it and you!) It is, in fact, hard not to draw parallels between the scenes: Saruman attempts and fails to kill Frodo in reaction to being offered mercy, even as Celegorm (in the Leithian) or Curufin (in the Silm) attempts to kill Lúthien for the same reason.
Perhaps, on some entirely unacknowledged level, they realize what they’ve become - but rather then recognizing it as a vonsequence of their own actions, they blame the people they have harmed for being the cause of their fall.
Beren and Lúthien, in the meantime, are arguing on the borders of Doriath: Beren wants to go alone on a hopeless quest to Angband, while Lúthien is all for either ignoring the Quest altogether and eloping (perfectly legit, albeit rude, by elven standards) or going with Beren if he insists on going to Angband, whether he likes it or not: And if she may not by thee go, against thy will they desperate feet she will pursue, until they meet, Beren and Lúthien, love once more, on earth or on the shadowy shore.
At this moment Celegorm and Curufin attack. It’s entirely unprovoked, and driven by nothing but hate and - given the attempt to kidnap Lúthien - lust. One of the clear patterns of the Leithian is that Lúthien, formidable against supernatural threats, is less successful against mundane ones; in tbis sequence it is Beren who rescues her, twice. I’m sure there is deliberate symbolism in this, but I’m having trouble putting my finger on it. It’s as though the purpose of her powers is to stand agai st the forces of darkness, not to fight other elves, even ones who are behaving evilly. And having lived all her life in Doriath, she has no experience with elves acting in that way; she is fundamentally a good and compassionate person (see her sparing of Curufin, and later how she deals with Carcharoth), and this sort of evil is alien to her.
It’s worth pointing out how impressive Beren’s accomplishment here is. Unarmed and on foot, he defeats a mounted Calaquendi who is armed with one of the most dangerous knives ever to exist. He jumps full onto Curufin’s horse, tackles him off it, and then strangles him before Curufin can get to any weapon. This is also another instance of evil deeds resulting in good by accident: without Angrist, Beren and Lúthien would never have bern able to retrieve the Silmaril,from the Iron Crown, so the attack by Celegorm and Curufin becomes essential to the Quest’s success.
As the brothers ride away, they shot twice at Lúthien, not at Beren, in what is thus quite clearly deliberate revenge for her showing mercy. Huan brings an herb that is likely athelas, and Lúthien heals Beren, building a fire and caring for him through the night. Beren, very frustratingly, immediately upon waking returns to his original theme of telling Lúthien to wait in Doriath while he goes to Angband, as if mortal peril was just an inconvenient distraction. She is still having none of it: Why turn we not from fear and woe, beneath the trees to walk and roam, roofless, with all the world as home, over mountains, beside the seas, in the sunlight, in the breeze? It’s interesting to entertain the idea of what would have happened if they had simply set aside the Quest. They ultimately go to live in Ossiriand after returning from death, and there’s nothing stopping them from doing so now. In the long run, Beleriand would have been worse off for it - there would be no Voyage of Eärendil and no War of Wrath - making their quest no less important to the First Age than Frodo’s was to the Third.
Beren remains obdurate, and after they reach the borders of Doriath and have been there some days, he leaves her sleeping and sets off for Angband.
#tolkien#the silmarillion#lay of leithian#leithian reread#beren and luthien#beren#lúthien#celegorm#curufin#orodreth
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Guilty Gear: 15 Most Powerful Characters
https://ift.tt/31c9Nc1
Guilty Gear has one of the more ridiculous storylines in fighting games. A beautiful-looking series with a fantastic cast of heroes and villains, the sci-fi anime aesthetic lends itself to some wacky concepts.
The broad strokes of the series aren’t all that bizarre, as it tells a pretty basic story overall. In a world where magic was discovered, three scientists accidentally unleashed a new type of species that led to a lengthy war between these creatures (Gears) and humanity. One scientist became a genocidal monster, one a grizzled anti-hero, and another a mysterious wildcard watching over everything. Eventually, the war ended and peace reigned, but the possibility of the war reigniting is a constant threat.
That’s not too out there on its own. Except the story also features a large vigilante doctor who wears a paper bag to hide his identity as a crazed serial killer. There’s a ninja who gets elected President of the United States, only to later figure out it would be easier to just start his own country. There’s a comatose boy in a weaponized bed whose personality is a mix between Freddy Krueger and Mandark from Dexter’s Lab. There’s a yoyo-wielding bounty hunter, a time-traveling Axl Rose knockoff, a dandy vampire, an assassin who uses reality-bending billiards as a fighting style, and so on.
Shit gets weird.
With Guilty Gear Strive finally out on store shelves, giving us the long-awaited final battle between Sol Badguy and That Man, it’s time to take a look at the most powerful beings in the Guilty Gear universe. One character I’m leaving off the list is Leopaldon from Guilty Gear Isuka. Not only is the game not canon, but even WHAT Leopaldon is (a dog and a wizard piloting a yeti?) isn’t well-explained. But if you want Leopaldon, he’s definitely on our official ranking of all the characters in the series.
Anyway, here the most powerful characters in Guilty Gear:
15. IZUNA
Izuna, a hero introduced in Guilty Gear 2, is a bit on the mysterious side, but there’s enough information to make it apparent that he’s someone to take serious. Not only is he over 500 years old, but he resides in the Backyard, an environment so uninhabitable that most others would be crushed by its magical atmosphere. He’s skilled as a swordsman, and his teleportation abilities are said to be equal to the strength of several hundred mages combined.
It’s presumed that Izuna didn’t show up in Guilty Gear Xrd because Ariels saw him as such a threat to her plans that she sealed him away and kept him out of play before her schemes could really kick into gear. That’s quite the compliment, in a roundabout way.
14. RAVEN
Raven is all about experience and durability. He simply can’t die, can contort himself, and is unable to feel pain. Even his Instant Kill sees him summon energy that engulf him and his opponent, which turns his enemy to dust while he simply lives to fight another day. He also has control over spatial magic in a way that makes Faust look like a novice. He’s absolutely a force to be reckoned with no matter what character he’s up against.
Still, resilience can only get you so far. When you get down to it, he’s comparable to someone like Deadpool or Wolverine, albeit with an even stronger healing factor and some magic bells and whistles. He may live to fight again, but he can still be overwhelmed and defeated with the right strategy. Guys like Slayer and Dizzy might not be able to completely annihilate him, but they can presumably contain him.
13. THE VALENTINE SERIES
The initial Valentine was the final boss in Guilty Gear 2 and Ramlethal Valentine was the boss in Guilty Gear Xrd -Sign-. They, along with Elphelt Valentine and Jack-O Valentine, are treated as crucial parts of the series.
Yet, they just…never really do anything that justifies ranking them higher on this list. Plus I have to lump them together because it’s hard to really compare them when they can apparently shut off each other’s powers.
Then again, I guess the original Valentine is the alpha of the group as she could upgrade her form a couple times over for the sake of final boss battles. Not that it did her any good.
12. I-NO
I-No is a tough one to figure out. Guilty Gear XX introduces her as a major threat, and a mysterious one at that. Her origin isn’t explored at first, and by the time the series explains what the hell she is (some kind of being the universe created out of everyone’s wishes for a better tomorrow?), it doesn’t really give her much context as a combatant. That said, “Manipulating probability” is one of her powers, making her pretty damn formidable when combined with her almost unlimited battle experience and toughness.
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Even though she’s treated as the boss character in Guilty Gear XX and spends the story messing with everyone, Guilty Gear XX Accent Core lets the rest of the cast catch up to her. Most of her endings involve her being defeated and even killed by those she just beat in-game. For instance, I-No defeats Baiken in-game but then Baiken just gets back up and murders her.
11. BAIKEN AND ANJI MITO
These two are so intertwined and comparable that they’ll have to share a spot. As I already mentioned, they both own I-No no matter who wins the in-game battle, which I’m going to take as a sign that they’re simply superior to her on the battlefield. Both are part of the series’ interesting subplot where people of Japanese descent are both incredibly rare, but also teeming with energy. Unlike May, these two have actually tapped into their genetic potential.
But it has its limits. Baiken has been demolished by Justice in the past, and her attempts to get revenge on That Man only ended in frustration when she couldn’t land a single hit. And he wasn’t even fighting back!
10. KLIFF UNDERSN
Poor Kliff is one of those old school fighting game characters who dies in his own ending, therefore dying in canon. Not that it’s surprising, considering he’s entering a fighting tournament in his late 80s. Still, Kliff is a legend and made a name for himself during much of the war against Justice. Sure, he was taken off the board before we could see how well he’d measure up to some of the younger warriors, but according to canon, Kliff survived at least 16 encounters with Justice.
He couldn’t seal the deal, but surviving against Justice that many times is too impressive not to give him a spot on this list. It’s not like Justice is the kind to spare a defeated foe out of respect. Kliff had to earn his survival time and time again.
9. KY KISKE
Ky Kiske has spent the entire series getting the short straw when compared to his rival and co-protagonist Sol. As Sol’s power keep creeping upwards and making him more and more OP with each new installment, Ky is just off to the side, feeling sorry for himself. He is still more than capable, but on paper, he just can’t hang with the likes of Sol and the other heavy hitters.
The epilogue for Guilty Gear Xrd suddenly shone a new light on Ky, though. Sol fought alongside Ky during the Crusades and saw what he was capable of. It looked nothing like the man he dueled with on multiple occasions across their adventures. Ky then admitted the truth: he had been holding back all this time because, while he may want to defeat Sol, he doesn’t want to kill him and those are two very different fighting strategies for him. Ky may not be some kind of nuclear option in battle, but if he truly wanted to, he could kill you 10 times before you hit the ground.
8. SLAYER
From his first appearance, Slayer made his mark as the retired assassin who was simply too strong for this shit. He’s more of an interested onlooker than a major player and usually only gets involved for the sake of his own amusement. With his otherworldly biology and centuries of experience, Slayer is rarely shown to be in any real peril. Even in defeat, he lies awake and bored, suggesting that he lost only because he allowed it.
It takes a while, but we do eventually get to see some measure of his potential. He’s casual about danger, but there are threats out there that could at the very least make him break a sweat. That’s basically the rest of this list.
7. BEDMAN
Bedman spends the first half of Guilty Gear Xrd -Sign- making his way through the rest of the roster. Depicted as an enigmatic being who fights his enemies both physically and mentally (and is near unstoppable on both fronts), Bedman not only overpowers series regulars, but is able to take on multiple opponents at once while still making them look like the underdogs.
The moment that truly shows how dangerous Bedman is when he comes across Slayer. At first, we get the idea that it’s a stalemate and that Slayer may be up against someone worthy of his effort. Then, sometime later, we see Bedman standing triumphantly over Slayer, Millia, and Venom, who all lie at his feet. And after that, he still keeps going, taking out Faust and Chipp while forcing Johnny to escape. Dude is scary.
6. PRESIDENT GABRIEL
Gabriel showed up in Potemkin’s ending, and since then Arc System Works has been playing up how incredible he is while never, ever putting him in a game! It’s outright maddening. Make him a DLC character or something. We’ve been waiting decades!
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He’s a man Potemkin looks up to and confides in by the end of the first game. Then they introduce Slayer and tease tease this nigh-unbeatable immortal is Gabriel’s rival. It isn’t until Guilty Gear Xrd that it really becomes apparent how tough this guy is. After the story spent all this time building up Bedman, Gabriel completely clowns him like nobody’s business.
That’s what you get for killing that dog, you comatose asshole.
5. SOL BADGUY
Every now and then, fiction gives us a character so powerful that even trying to make them cease to exist does nothing. Blow up Darkseid with anti-matter, use magic to erase the Sentry, go back in time and destroy the MacGuffin that makes Apocalypse immortal, etc. They somehow just exist in spite of that. Sol is on that level. I-No once sent him back in time, had him kill his younger self, and Sol simply shrugged off the paradox. The dude is ridiculous.
Sol grows more powerful in each game and even then we’re told that he’s holding back. By the time the dust settles, he’ll probably be worthy of #1 post on the list, but right now, he’s just a high-ranking, angry fellow who’s important enough to be what the series’ bizarre title is named after.
4. JUSTICE
Despite being killed off in the first game, Justice is the constant source of dread in Guilty Gear’s story. Many of the games have revolved around the threat of Justice’s return, whether it’s getting her daughter to follow in her footsteps, cloning, or even resurrection. And yes, Justice is bad news because when she was active, she led a war against mankind that lasted 101 years. She only lost because she was sealed away.
After being released from her prison, Justice was eventually done in by Sol Badguy, the only Gear to predate her creation. It could be said that Sol took her out when she was weakened, but it could also be said that Sol was holding back.
Regardless, I’m going to rank Justice higher because of of her mental control over the entire Gear race, Sol excluded. Yeah, that’s a pretty major weapon to have in your back pocket, even if it doesn’t really come into play in a one-on-one fighting game. Sol was lucky to be in a situation where he could take her out before she could call in the reserves.
3. DIZZY
Dizzy makes me think of when someone is writing a Justice League story and has to come up with a reason for Superman to not be around, like he’s busy in space or off in another dimension. Dizzy isn’t the protagonist of Guilty Gear, but she is the daughter of two of the most powerful characters, and is mainly held back by plot contrivance and her attempts at pacifism. If she wanted to, she could wipe the floor with practically anyone, and there’s even an alternate reality (one where Ky died during the Crusades) that shows her embracing her potential and leading the Gears to victory against humanity.
Her so-called “Instant Kill” in Guilty Gear Xrd paints the best picture. Dizzy reluctantly fires a projectile that misses its mark, but leaves a horrifying mushroom cloud in the distance. Her freaked out opponents can only survey the damage, slowly turn to her, and surrender. Again, that’s what she’s capable of when holding back.
2. ASUKA R. KREUZ/THAT MAN
I can’t think of a more ambitious concept for a fighting game character than That Man. He’s alluded to in Sol Badguy’s ending in the first Guilty Gear game, making you imagine he’ll be the final boss of the next game or maybe the one after that. Instead, he makes mysterious appearances in the Guilty Gear X games. We never get a good look at him, but we see that he’s capable of easily slapping aside anyone who gets in his way. Then he pops up in Guilty Gear 2, including in a boss battle where Dragon Install Sol Badguy can’t even dent him. The Guilty Gear Xrd series gives him a little more dimension, finally revealing his true face and name.
Now it’s time for Guilty Gear Strive where maybe, just maybe, That Man will be DLC down the line. Maybe. Since the beginning, the series has been building to a climactic battle between Sol Badguy and Asuka R. Kreuz. As it is right now, That Man has proved to be higher on the food chain than his old scientist colleague, but that kind of uphill battle is expected.
1. ARIELS
Guilty Gear 2 and Guilty Gear Xrd -Sign- built up “Mother,” the force behind the Valentines and the one signing Bedman’s checks. At the end of -Sign-, we found out that the big mastermind is…a lady Pope possessed by a divine force. Sure, why not. Then in the next game, we got to see her go from putting on a professional and benevolent face for the public to going on a killing spree, painting her face like a juggalo, and ranting about how humanity is redundant and needs to be done away with.
Once again, Ariels would have made for a kickass final boss in Guilty Gear Xrd Revelator, but she remained part of story mode only. She was eventually taken down, but it took Sol Badguy, Ky Kiske, Sin Kiske, and That Man teaming up to do it. But as revealed in Guilty Gear Strive, she’s still alive!
What is your ranking of the most powerful Guilty Gear fighters? Let us know in the comments!
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Frozen 2 Pitchmeeting copypasta by Anonymous
>"So anyway Elsa, Anna, and Olaf are walking along to find the mysterious voice when they suddenly come across a shipwreck that turns out to be the same one from Iduna and Agnarr's final voyage!"
>"Oh, wow."
>"Yeah, it turns out they didn't go to the South Sea like Elsa and Anna thought, they really went to the Dark Sea, which is right next to the forest."
>"So this scene takes place on a beach?"
>"Oh, no, they're still in the middle of the woods."
>"What?"
>"Yeah, the beach doesn't come into it until later."
>"How did their parents' ship sink in the middle of the forest?"
>"Unclear."
>"Did the area used to be part of the ocean but the water has since receded?"
>"Oh no, there are decades-old trees everywhere and the ocean can't even be seen on the horizon."
>"Did the Spirits throw the ship clear from the ocean into the middle of the forest?"
>"I mean they probably could do that but I don't see why they would instead of just letting the ship sink to the ocean floor like we saw in the first movie."
>"I just feel like this raises so many questions that could've been easily avoided if the scene just took place on a beach."
>"Yeah, probably. So anyway the three of them run into the ship and look around to see if they can find an explanation as to why it's here in the forest instead of the South Sea like they said they were and find a map that mentions Ahtohallan."
>"Gesundheit."
>"No, sir, Ahtohallan is the name of the magic glacier that Iduna used to tell Anna and Elsa about when they were kids, and she thought it might have had something to do with Elsa's powers, if it even existed at all."
>"That's an interesting theory. I just hope Elsa doesn't put all her eggs in one basket and immediately decide Ahtohallan is the key to everything because there's no concrete connection to her powers, and even her mother wasn't entirely--"
>"And so Elsa immediately decides Ahtohallan is the key to everything!"
>"Of course."
>"But then she remembers Olaf's 'water has memory' thing from earlier in the movie and so she decides to use her water memory restoration powers to witness their parents' dying moments."
>"Wait, what? Elsa has water memory restoration powers? I thought she just controlled ice and snow."
>"Well, sir, as you know, ice and snow are just forms of water."
>"Yes, but doesn't this movie's mythology treat water and ice as two completely separate elements? And if she can control water why hasn't she ever done it before? And even if she can use water to recreate past memories how would she even know how to do that? Wouldn't she need to train under some sort of magic ice Enchanted Forest Yoda or something?"
>"Sir, I need a reason for Elsa to get really sad really fast, so I'd like you to get all the way off my back about Elsa's new water powers that will never be mentioned again."
>"Fair enough."
>"So anyway Elsa is able to recreate her parents' dying moments in which they embrace each other in the face of a really violent, terrifying death and call out Elsa's name."
>"Not Anna's name, who is also their daughter and is watching this whole thing next to Elsa?"
>"Nope, not at all, sir."
>"Iduna and Agnarr couldn't put in the time or effort to think about both of their daughters as they were dying?"
>"Nope! They even say Elsa's name multiple times, so it's not like they didn't have the chance."
>"Wow, I guess the girls know who the favorite was."
>"It is pretty rude, I will agree."
>"Very rude dying parents!"
>"So anyway, the sight of their parents dying horrifically makes Elsa really upset."
>"I don't know what else she was expecting."
>"She runs out of the ship, so Anna tries to comfort her by telling her she'll never abandon Elsa and she believes in her and her magic is awesome and that Elsa was a gift from Heaven above to bless their parents with basically just the most perfect child possible and that she'll always support Elsa in anything she does and that she loves Elsa with all her heart and together they're going to solve this mystery and save their kingdom. And Elsa thanks her."
>"Aww, how sweet and heartfelt!"
>"By throwing her down a hill."
>"What."
>"Yeah, Elsa's worried that the rest of the journey may be too perilous for Anna and Olaf so she summons an ice canoe around them and then sends the thing just... careening down a hillside at roughly fifty miles an hour."
>"Oh my God."
>"Yeah, it's pretty much an ice rocket, just shooting past trees and rocks left and right."
>"Elsa wanted to keep Anna safe by trapping her in a murder rocket made out of material famous for people slipping on it and shooting it into a forest full of rocks and trees and cliffs and supernatural monsters that Elsa is in no way familiar with?"
>"She had to. There was still one Spirit left to deal with and the Dark Sea can be very dangerous."
>"Hasn't Elsa kicked the ass of every Spirit she's come across so far? And isn't she capable of freezing large bodies of water as we saw in the first movie?"
>"She has and is, yes."
>"And isn't she capable of creating life, so she could just make like a huge eagle or dragon or something big enough to fly herself, Anna, and Olaf harmlessly across the Dark Sea?"
>"She most definitely could."
>"So why does she need to kick Anna down a hill in order to continue the mission?"
>"Because I want her to fight a horsey."
>"Excuse me?"
>"I want Elsa to fight a horsey and I don't want Anna just standing there watching and making it weird."
>"I mean you don't have to have her just standing there watching, you could involve her. Make it a really cool fight scene where the sisters work together and show teamwork and it could be a really cool, inspiring, empowering moment where they unite against a powerful enemy and overcome it and--"
>"Don't be silly, sir. Two women can't fight a horsey. That's just crazy talk!"
>"I just feel like Elsa kicking Anna down a hill because a fantasy quest adventure is dangerous is sort of really harshly unnecessary and also sort of undermines the whole 'stronger together' thing we've been selling for the last six years."
>"CRAZY TALK, I SAY!"
>"I mean I guess so."
>"Crazy movie producer."
>"So tell me about this horsey fight, how does it go?"
>"Well at first Elsa tries to run across the Dark Sea but she keeps getting hit by waves and sent deep into the water."
>"The ice sorceress capable of freezing large bodies of water tries physically running across a stormy sea?"
>"She does, sir, yes. And then one time when she's underwater she gets attacked by the Water Spirit, which is a kelpie named Nokk."
>"The Water Spirit is seaweed?"
>"No, sir, a kelpie is a beast from Celtic mythology. It's basically a horse made of water and it controls the sea."
>"Oh, wow."
>"And it killed Iduna and Agnarr."
>"Whoa, what?"
>"I mean it's pretty obvious since this is where they died and it's guarded by a supernatural sea monster that intentionally makes the ocean all stormy and dangerous, which is what killed them."
>"That sounds pretty intense. So is Elsa gonna get some some sweet karmic justice on Nokk for killing her parents?"
>"Oh, no. Well, not intentionally, at least."
>"What do you mean?"
>"Well like I said, it's pretty obvious if you think about it, but we're not gonna make a thing out of it. In fact we're not even gonna acknowledge it at all."
>"Elsa's going to engage in mortal combat with her parents' murderer and she's not even going to realize it?"
>"That's right sir, yes."
>"Seems like a weird way to take that potentially massive plot point."
>"To be honest, sir, I wanted to make more of a deal out of it but I honestly couldn't think of a way to... write it good."
>"I guess it is better to write nothing than to write something disappointing and stupid."
>"Exactly!"
>"So how about the fight itself? How does Elsa versus Nokk go down?"
>"Well Nokk can dissolve and become the water all around Elsa and if she freezes him he can just immediately unfreeze himself and he's just really strong. Basically imagine how dangerous a normal wild horse is, but then also factor in drowning, a shark attack, and a homing torpedo."
>"Oh my God, Nokk sounds borderline invincible. Is it gonna be hard for Elsa to beat him?"
>"Actually, it's going to be super easy. Barely an inconvenience!"
>"How so?"
>"Well at one point during the fight Elsa just... rides him."
>"Just... rides him?"
>"Yep. After getting the everloving snow beaten out of her for ten minutes Elsa gets the idea to hop onto Nokk's back and ride him around shouting 'yee-hah!'"
>"The ancient supernatural being who controls the seas themselves is defeated because the woman who must weigh barely over 100 pounds asks for a pony ride?"
>"That's right sir, yes."
>"I guess that makes sense."
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6 Reasons Why Kidnapping is Terrible Opening for a Series/Debut Book
A reader’s perspective.
I’ve taken up doing a review booktube for indie SFF books, and have decided only to do 4 or 5 star reviews due to some social pressures being an indie author and also being a reviewer. This means I’ve been SLUSH reading. (You can get lots of indie books free if you trawl twitter and start an amazon wishlist and wait.)
My follow up to 8 Reasons Why Prologues Don’t Work. Kidnapping, as an opening to a story, is the 2nd most common thing I’ve come across. They don’t work as an opening for a debut book or series in my opinion, so here are 6 reasons why in author terms b/c I also happen to be an author.
1) It’s not where the story begins
Figuring out where your story begins as an author is one of the trickiest parts of writing a book. This goes double for a first book in a series or your first book as an author. The common advice is to open up in media res, in the middle of things.
The problem being with a kidnapping is the kidnapping is not the middle of things. It is usually the end result of something else. And the story really begins long before the kidnapping ever happened. (Why are they being kidnapped is not a question you want to open your story with really.) Or the story begins after the kidnapping has taken place and they’re wherever the kidnapper wanted them to be.
So, either the author needs to write the book(s) before the kidnapping. Or, the author needs to frame the kidnapping as a flashback from the past to explain later in the story when it relevant why they are where they are. Because the kidnapping might be irrelevant to the story you’re trying to tell.
2) The Reader Doesn’t Care about the Character (Yet.)
First impressions about a character mean a lot. A character being kidnapped isn’t really a great first impression because there aren’t a lot of things a kidnapped character can do in that situation. Kidnapping someone puts them in mortal peril the first thing. And the thing about putting someone in mortal peril, for us to want them to get out of it, we have to care about them as a person. We have to know them as a character. And we don’t if it’s the opening chapter of the book.
We don’t care. We don’t know this person. We don’t know how they react to normal stimuli. We don’t know about their lives. We don’t know, well, anything about them to care about why they’re being pulled into a black van.
There’s a reason why most, say television shows, leave kidnappings to several seasons into the show’s running time. Or if the show is really dark, uses flashbacks throughout the series to show their kidnapping as they struggle in the aftermath. (I’m looking at you Handmaid’s Tale.) By the time the entire story comes out, the viewer/reader is invested into the character and wants them to get out of their situation. The reader cares about the character’s well-being. It provides tension.
Putting a kidnapping first thing doesn’t give us any tension at all. Stories thrive off tension. Tension is what keeps us turning the page. So, leave the kidnapping for once we care about the character.
From here on out I’m talking about what happens after a person is kidnapped so CW for talk rape/sexual assault, physical violence.
3) Tells us nothing about the Character
Kidnapping a character tells us nothing about the character as a person. You’d think it would given the way people act under pressure. However, there are only a limited set of options to what happens next after you’re kidnapped. Most of them end in beatings or sexual assault/rape or death.
When you put it first thing, we don’t know this character well enough (see point one) to know if the actions they’re taking after being kidnapped are consistent with who they are as people! So, again, we don’t care and it doesn’t matter if they get out of it or not.
4) Strips away the Character’s Power
Kidnapping is a plot driven story device. Someone comes in and takes the character’s power of choice away from them. Your character is the one we’re trying to connect to as readers. If you take the character’s power away from them right off the bat and other people are making their choices for them, we have nothing really to connect to as readers. Because the character who has been kidnapped isn’t the one really driving the story along. It’s the kidnappers.
If you put it first thing, we don’t know the reason they’ve been kidnapped. Once again, killing the tension of the story. You, as an author may tell us, but telling isn’t as powerful as showing us and building up the story over time.
Readers like to see characters doing something and taking charge or control. That’s the reason they’re the main character right, it’s their story. They’re the ones who should be leading it.
5) It’s Dehumanizing
Kidnapping turns people into objects. Kidnapping, like rape, is a violation of a human’s rights and autonomy of their own body. When you’re writing a book, the first thing you’re trying to do is to make the characters human.
So, when you put a kidnapping first thing in your book, you’re doing the opposite of what you need to do as an author. They are just another piece on the chessboard you’re moving about and not real people at all. The actions of the characters doing the kidnapping usually reflect this as they leer or try to sexually assault or hit or rape the victim of the kidnapping. Which leads to me feeling very disturbed and uncomfortable and that’s not what I want to feel when I first open a book. I want to be entertained and enthralled and curious as to what happens next. Kidnapping doesn’t make me want to continue because I know what happens next and it is not good.
Instead of making your characters strong and empowering or at least normal right off the bat, you’ve made them helpless and without power at all.
As a reader, violence against woman in books makes me uncomfortable due to the pervasive violence against women in real life. I read books to be entertained. Not to see violence against women (and it is almost always women being kidnapped) being normalized in my happy fantasy/future where this isn’t actually necessary, especially not right off the bat!
And this leads us to…
6) Potentially Triggering/Harmful
Kidnapping is sensitive issue. It’s not one we talk about as much as say, rape, or domestic violence. The thing is kidnapping happens a lot more than you’d believe often by relatives rather than strangers but we hear about strangers more and what happens after a person is kidnapped by strangers is often physical abuse, sexual assault/rape, and death.
Like rape, using kidnapping as a plot device in order to make a character stronger, or whatever you as an author are trying to do, without a lot of thought and care put into whether or not it’s appropriate or even necessary for your story as a whole, much less as the opening chapter, can be really harmful to survivors of kidnapping, physical violence, and sexual assault/rape.
Before you misunderstand me, I’m not saying you can’t use kidnapping, physical abuse, or sexual assault/rape in your books. I am questioning why it is necessary to put your character in dire peril the very first paragraph of the story without any build up.
And no, in media res, is not the proper answer. Because, the stories I’ve read with this, actually didn’t start at the kidnapping. See point one.
By using a kidnapping first thing, you’ve given your readers no build up or ability to be able to go “I don’t like where this story is going” and shut the book for their own emotional and mental health if necessary.
As a reader, I don’t want to be exposed to something dark right off the bat. That is my preference as a reader! It makes me feel the author has gone for this dark plot for the shock value and think it will keep me reading. In fact, I hate shock value in books and I will most likely put it down unless you are someone I know personally.
Well, we have to go all the way back to point two. If you’re going to drag me to a dark place with your characters, then I need to care about the characters and trust you as an author before I head into that dark tunnel. If you put your kidnapping first thing, I don’t care about the characters and we’ve established no trust between us as a reader and author.
So, here it is, 6 Reasons I feel kidnappings make terrible openings for your book. Figure out where your story really starts, so we can feel connected to this character and care about them being kidnapped and have a choice on whether or not we go into the dark and potentially harmful place with you as a reader. Thanks!
#writing tumblr#writing advice#writrblr#kidnapping#opening scenes#opening chapters#writing tips#content warning
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Yugioh S4 Ep 12: Pharaoh, a Well Known Magician of Darkness, Swears he Has Never Done That.
I just had the most disappointing cheesecake cup of my entire life, so lets talk about Yugioh. From weird dessert to weird desert. ha.
I mean OK. Sure. I mean they gotta do something while they look for Yugi in a desert that isn’t really known for it’s off-roading, but it also isn’t known for it’s card game scene so...
But then the show decided to fill even more empty time with Rebecca sharing this piece of info when I least expected it. Now. In S4.
Y’all I was SO surprised.
I know that the show is doing this for the people just tuning into Yugioh for the first time but...Man, I’m having flashbacks to that time Yugi didn’t tell anyone that Bakura freakin died for over 40 episodes until Marik had to do it for him.
Yugi never told the girl he gave the friendship card to, that his best friend is ACTUALLY a 4000 yo ghost that haunts his every move. (5000 yo? I forget how old he is)
Tea just patiently reveals all of Yugi’s deepest darkest terrifying occult secrets to Rebecca with a smile on her face the entire time.
That’s girl talk. Can affirm--this is what girl talk looks like.
(read more Girl Talk under the cut)
Her explanation on the show actually did not point out that there is a separate entity with a completely different personality, so I think that people watching the show for the first time would still be hella confused. Instead it was more “this is Yugi’s strong and handsome side which I clearly like WAY MORE, and this is the other one”
Like she kinda left out the part where one is a ghost.
So this scene basically takes away any tension that a 4-way love square would have brought to the table.
And that’s fine. I really didn’t need a love square that involves both a 12 year old and a ghost. For me, as a person who is immune to shipping, it just seemed wildly too complicated for the same writing team who have been trying to bury Kaiba and his relationship with that that paper card since they brought it up in S2.
But apparently no one in this square cares they all kinda like the same person and that this particular person is two people. And as they go on about what they like about Yugi, it’s clear that both girls have made kind of a perfect dream Yugi who...just doesn’t exist at all. Maybe if either of them actually went on more than one date with the boy, they would separate the dream from the reality and realize fully that, in actuality, Yugi and Pharaoh both are a human version of that “hang in there!” poster with the struggling kitten on it.
TBH I think the women in this show forgot they like Yugi, it was a very friendzoning style of conversation.
Meanwhile, Rafael’s giant arms only continue to grow even more muscular with every scene as he tell us the vague deep lore behind this necklace. It’s sort of like watching a webcomic written by a teenager. The muscles keep growing, and growing, but the characters have to keep getting distracted by lore, and then midway the lore drop, the writer goes on a hiatus because of finals and just never comes back so it feels like you’re stuck in lore limbo forever.
I do like that Pharaoh’s like “your necklace is evil, take that off” when he has also been wearing the Oricalchos necklace the entire time.
Maybe because it was just waaay too tempting for Yugi to look at that jewelry and NOT wear that jewelry? Yugi has kind of a magpie problem with accessories, as we all know, and I can’t believe this magpie problem has put him into mortal peril so many times.
And then the show finally does us the favor of explaining why some people go cray when they wear haunted jewelry, and others do not.
Which does not bode well for Ryou. Not like we ever hang out with Ryou enough to find out his personal balance between being a meek little Brishish(ish?) kid that likes to eat cookies and his demon form that likes to stab things. Like seriously, would have liked to know more about Ryou ever at all, but since Season 1 ended, he’s only Ryou for like...2 minutes at a time before he’s back to being wonderful, scene shredding, serial murderer asshole Bakura.
Also, unrelated note, WHAT THE HELL, ART TEAM.
Is that turtleneck just spray painted on??? Why does this guy ever bother with cards? He can just do some punches and probably accomplish the same damn thing and a lot quicker. This man is larger than...any other human that has been on this show.
And so it’s at this point that Rafael’s decided like “ahaha my master plan, I will make Pharaoh doubt himself” and it’s like...
...you actually don't need to give Pharaoh a push, he and Yugi doubt themselves so often they’d list it as one of their hobbies on their edgy Livejournals (because they would keep two)
This fight with Rafael was kinda frustrating, because while most villains make points where it’s like “oh, you were tortured underground your whole life because of something I did in my past life, yeah that checks out.” all of Rafael’s points had so little to do with Pharaoh and were...so easy to debunk...
Like I made the joke about Flat Earther’s the last recap but you know what? I can see Rafael being a Flat Earther. Straight up. You can tell him the sky is blue and he’ll start going off about how all of humanity needs to die because the sky is actually made of Meyer lemons.
Darts even decided to say this line.
Which I thought was mostly funny because Pharaoh still has no idea that thing around his neck can shoot lasers, but also funny because the only reason Yugi has friends is because he initially cursed them to like him in Season Zero. And that wasn’t even Pharaoh, that was YUGI. Rafael is just SO very late to this party.
So, he decides to give Pharaoh an Oricalchos card, and like...
And I don’t believed I capped this part of the last episode, but before they even started this game, Rafael was like “yeah I let Arthur go.”
So...there’s no reason for Yugi to be here anymore other than the bridge is out. There are NO stakes in this game. Other than...Pharaoh’s pride?
I guess it’s one of the problems of sharing a soul with a King who we’re 90% sure did some pretty effed up stuff at some point because he’s a King. That’s just what they DO, I’ve played Fire Emblem, I know how Kings work.
Like we could just sit down and make a list of things that Pharaoh and Yugi did that ended up really screwing him over. (And hearing that nitroglycerin air hockey happens somewhere in the manga does make me want to take a peek at it eventually but I have too much on my to do list)
Like for instance, there was that time he took a fireball for Mai thinking she was a decent person and she ended up killing over 20 people with a gas station and is now a Mad Max Style serial murderer racing down the 101, and actively trying to kill him and more specifically Joey Wheeler.
Or that time he took the ultimate bullet and died but left his tomb to the most asshole tombkeeper family cult known to man who like to carve tattoos onto children with old ass hot butcher knives for thousands of years.
Or that time he thought Namu wasn’t Marik when Marik had insane tattooed eyeliner and a millennium item sticking like 8 inches out of his back pocket the entire time. Could’ve saved him like...2 seasons of content if he just yoinked that item right then and there.
Or that time he actually tried to murder Seto Kaiba. Like actually tried to push his own classmate off of a steep ledge and would have done it if Tea hadn’t intervened.
Or that time he did...a lot of the things that Yugi did in Season Zero and the Manga.
I just feel like...this is our boy. He’s meant to be this gray area protagonist who is trying to do the right thing but at the same time does enjoy his dark tendency towards revenge. Yami is sort of like having the best of both worlds where you can be both villain and hero. He doesn’t need to be a polarizing force like Superman or something.
And...it feels a little bit like the narrative is trying to say he has finally stepped over the line of gray area and it’s like...he’s been here kind of a while, bud. But honestly, if it makes Pharaoh go a little Zero I’m here for it. Why not? It’s been a while, I want to see him go nuts again.
And I mean Yugi hasn’t had a meltdown in kind of a while, we were overdue. I assume that’s all of next episode is just Yugi freaking the hell out.
Anyway, if you just got here, this is a link to take you to the first episode where you can then read the entire epic in chrono order.
#ygo#yugioh#episode recap#photo recap#yugi muto#yami going bonkers#but really that's just yami as normal we're just pretending it's weird#joey wheeler#rafael#tristan taylor#duke devlin#rex raptor#weevil underwood#tea gardner#rebecca hawkins#girl talk#S4#Ep12
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Just
A/N: Hello lovely Romione fans! It seems I have returned from the dead! Ghost!Wilde strikes again! It feels like a million years since I wrote something, and for a while I honestly thought that I may have forgotten how to do the things with the words. It feels good to have had a little time with these two, I had missed them terribly.
Thanks as always to my DEM crew for keeping me in the loop and for always encouraging me in real-life and in the world of R/Hr. Special thanks to @callieskye for helping my knock the rust off and beta this thing...I owe you a cider! (And if we’re lucky @trademarkblue will join us again!) I love you all 3000!
It was late, too late really. She should have gone down to Ginny’s room ages ago, but she just couldn’t bear the thought of leaving, not quite yet.
Ron sat across from her on the worn rug, bending over a book. The soft glow of the lamp shone from behind him-around him. The warm halo of light made him look like a sunset, or a painting of a saint, Patron Saint of Crossed Signals. For a long moment a smile bunched her cheeks, and she could not tear her eyes away from him- abandoning her customary caution.
“You alright?” Ron had closed the book and was staring at her with an adorably furrowed brow.
“Oh! Yes...sorry...I was just,” yes, Hermione, please, do tell! What were you “just” doing? Just imagining how soft those little wisps of hair curling around his ears would feel? Just fighting the urge to crawl over there and snog the adorable off his face? “Uhhh...thinking”
“Yeah.” He definitely didn’t doubt her answer, and honestly, he probably thought that she was thinking about all the things she should have been thinking about: Harry, Horcruxes...her parents.
Her parents…
Ron had been so, so...well, beyond words wonderful since she had shown up on his doorstep, a barely contained mess. It made her a little lightheaded just thinking about how tenderly he’d held her as she sobbed into the thin fabric of his t-shirt. It felt so right to have him comfort her, reassure her. How was it possible that he could make her feel so strong even at her weakest moments?
It had really started with the funeral, now that she thought about it. After Dumbledore’s death she knew that the time had come to put her “worst case scenario” plans into action, despite her fears over the sanity and morality of her idea. However, when she had finally told him about the new life she would make for the soon-to-be Wilkinses, his sincere support soothed her anxious nerves. Instead of trying to talk her out of it, or offering to shield her from it, he had listened and agreed and ultimately, best of all, trusted her judgement. That kind of faith in someone else was a rare thing, and she had just begun to appreciate it fully. More than anything, Hermione wanted to be worthy of his faith in her.
The silence settled between them as he conceredly studied her face. He gently placed the book beside him and scooted closer to her, taking the book she had been pretending to read and moving it next to his recently discarded one.
“Why don’t we take a break, yeah?”
“Sure,” she prayed that he would attribute the tremor in her voice to anything other than her distraction at his fingers brushing against hers.
“It’s been ages since dinner, want me to go grab you a bite of something, a sandwich maybe?”
Something in the way he asked the question reminded her so much of Molly that she almost looked around for her. She smiled in spite of herself at the image of Ron, apron-clad, enthusiastically offering second servings to a boisterous table of copper-haired children.
“Not doubting my sandwich making skills are you? I’ll have you know that I’m a genius with two slices of bread, and Mum’s roast, of course.”
Her smile became a chuckle, “I have no doubts...actually that’s what I was thinking about just now.”
“I knew it! I’ll be back in a mo’,” he started to get up, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“No, don’t go,” his look grew worried, perhaps she had said it a bit too desperately, “I mean...I was thinking about...you...and well, your Mum...and how,” she searched for the words to make him understand.
“Yeah, I know she’s been right barmy lately. Wedding would have her a mess during the best of times, but pile on the extra dose of mortal peril and it’s like a billywig and a pixie had a very high-strung baby,” he bumped her with his shoulder playfully.
“True, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so wound up before, but I was actually thinking about how good she is at looking after everyone, and well,” she determinedly continued, afraid she might lose her nerve, “how good you have been about making sure I’m okay, about keeping me okay even when I know that it’s hard for you too.”
“Hermione,” the playful look from mere seconds ago was replaced by something that she couldn’t quite name, “I’m glad that you think I’m helping, you don’t know how much I want to,” he looked down at the floor, searching for the right words, “take care of you...well, not that I think that you can’t take care of yourself...I mean...fuck, I am so bad at this, sorry.”
She dipped her head slightly, drawing his eyes back to hers, “What exactly do you think you are so bad at?”
“Well obviously I’m bad at explaining what I mean, so that’s one thing.”
“Trust me, you are no worse at that than I am,” he shook his head, but she continued, “not to mention that everyone has trouble with that sometimes. What else?”
“The ‘making sure you’re okay’ part,” he put up his hand to stop her automatic rebuttal, “you can’t change my mind...I know we kinda agreed to just forget about it, but I can’t.”
Oh.
She had not expected this. Not at all. They never did this. Once a row was sorted, or was at least adjacent to sorted, they never spoke of it again. Ever. She was instantly conflicted: did she have the courage to hear what he might say? The courage to say what she dreamed of saying?
“I was a shitty friend, there’s no way around that. Even though you don’t need me,” his pause was so small that she almost missed it, “to look after you...you should at least be able to count on me not being a giant arse to you.”
She knew that at least part of what he said was true; she wouldn’t insult him with a lie, “How about we agree that we were both horrible friends,” the word friends left an odd taste in her mouth: bet Bertie Botts doesn’t have that one!
“You were only horrible because I was more horrible.”
“It’s not a competition, Ron,” she tried to use humor to lighten the intensifying mood, but his look of earnestness did not fade. “Seriously, you can’t take all the blame, I was just as much at fault.”
“I should’ve never let it go that far.”
Let what get that far, exactly? Their argument? His relationship with Lavender? She didn’t want it to matter to her which he meant, she had worked so hard to be mature about it, but she couldn’t deny exactly what her preference really was.
“Well, it’s not like you were the only one,” her whole body strained forward, desperate to consume the last few centimeters between them.
Since his poisoning they had been like two people trying to cross a frozen lake, unsure if the surface would hold, fearful of what lie beneath. Each step they took was tentative, always listening for the telltale crackling sound. She had learned to look for weak spots, and steer clear of them. But now...were they pushing their luck?
“Sorry, I don’t...I just...want you to know that I’m trying to do better...to be better.”
“You are,” before she could talk herself out of it, she reached out and placed her hand on his knee, “there is no way I could have gotten through the last few weeks without you.”
Covering her hand with his own, he continued in a more confident voice, “You would’ve though... you can do anything you put your mind to...but I do want to make it easier for you if I can. I know what it’s like to be worried about your family...to want to protect them.”
“And you are! We both are...just in different ways,” she made no attempt to move her hand.
“Yeah, but in the same way too,” when she looked puzzled, he continued, “you know...by helping Harry end this.”
That was it wasn’t it? In the end, they had to get it right, so that they would all be safe.
“Ron, I’m scared. What if I...what if we are in over our heads? I mean, we have so little to go on and so much against us,” she felt her confidence slipping, her voice shaking.
“Honestly?” after she nodded, he gathered both her hands in his before he continued, “ ‘mnot as worried as maybe I should be, but that’s only because-”
“Because of what?”
“Look, I may not be the smartest bloke in the world,” he continued in spite of her narrowed eyes, “but I do know this.. if I’m gonna be in over my head, there’s no one that I’d want to be there with me, no one I would trust more to make it work.”
“Really?”
“I may be a prat sometimes, but I have never lied to you...never will.”
“What about Harry?”
“He may lie to you, but I have no control over that,” his eyes twinkled while hers rolled at the joke. “You know I love Harry, but it’s just not the same, ya know?”
Hermione’s heart was hammering in her chest, no, it is not the same with Harry, not at all. “How so?” She knew she was playing thick, leading the witness, but she wanted to actually hear his own words, not the ones she thought he might mean.
“It’s like Harry is always out there you know? On this “Chosen One” mission, not that he ever asked to be... and it’s like our job to keep him from imminent danger and to keep him from letting that stuff go to his head, to keep him “just Harry” sometimes. But with you,” he glanced down at their joined hands, “with you it feels like sometimes you’re the only one in the world that sees past Harry...to me.”
“I feel the same way...I love Harry too, but I could never tell him the things I tell you,” it was so close to saying what she really wanted to say, “he never makes me feel this...safe.”
“I will do whatever it takes to keep it that way.”
“Me too...because I learned something really important this year.”
“That Luna is the best Quidditch announcer Hogwarts has ever seen?” Not even her attempt to kick his shin made him stop holding her hands.
“I’m just not half as good at anything as I am when I’m doing it next to you.”
For just a moment, she chided herself for saying too much, but the look of pure joy on his face quieted her. Maybe those signals are not as crossed as I thought. She was also fairly certain that if she leaned forward just the tiniest bit that he would meet her in the middle for that kiss she had dreamed about since she was fifteen. Yet somehow this was better.
“Thank you,” his voice was softer than it had been before.
“For what?”
His thumbs made lazy circles across the backs of her hands, “For not hating me, for letting me take care of you, even if it’s just a little.”
“Just don’t let it get around; I have to keep up my swotty, know-it-all reputation.”
Ron’s laugh was loud in her ear as he pulled her into a hug. Making him laugh, a real, genuine laugh, was one of the most satisfying feelings; it wasn’t as great as resting her head against his chest, and the two combined were making her giddy. She knew that soon she would have to go downstairs, and soon they would have to leave with Harry to find Horcruxes. Soon they would make a world safe enough for all of them, a world safe enough for that kiss she had dreamed of since she was fifteen. But for now she was just Hermione, and he was just Ron, and it was just right.
#hp#ron weasely#hermione granger#romione#r/hr#my fanfic#sorry it's been so long#i forgot how to words
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Eris - An Original Short Story
Writing Prompt: Turn one of the last texts you sent into a story
Selected Text Conversation:
Me: A truly chaotic goddess xx
Friend: We stan xx
Word Count: 1,573
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Pagan Gods. Each civilization possesses those ancient beings that used to be praised with the creation and preservation of the world. As science evolved, these gods were dismissed. Simply disregarded as myths. Tall tales of great beings who controlled all aspects of life, told by the ancient worlds as an explanation for something previously unexplainable. Until what science can currently perceive decided that Gods were an impossible fantasy, pushing them out in favour of the contemporary state of technology.
Nevertheless, they continue to roam, their immortality unwavering.
They each assume various identities, learning to move around every few years, once their everlasting appearance becomes suspicious to the mortal eye. They used to get away with their immortal looks, people were too stressed with plagues and whatnot to really notice, and those who did notice didn’t exactly have time to care. Following 1963 however, they’ve learnt to not stay put too long, seeing as Aphrodite was prosecuted for witchcraft in colonial Massachusetts.
You’d probably get concerned if your lovely young neighbour Mary hadn’t aged in a decade too.
Inevitably, some remain more obvious than others, like lightning storms following Dave From Accounting wherever he goes. However, mortality has a habit of ignoring this, turning a blind eye so as to not disturb their habitual routines. No one would ever really notice, not unless they went looking for it which not many people do anymore.
Some people still go searching for some of the more notable gods and goddesses, typically by those modern witches whose shrines and alters offer gifts aiming to please their chosen deity.
Though there are some who manage to roam completely undetected. Even if they entertain certain antics and habits, they are downright disregarded despite their ability to leave behind immense shadows of mayhem.
Eris, unsurprisingly, flawlessly fits the latter category, being the Greek Goddess of Strife, Discord, Chaos and all. Her powers just finished up their riots in a quaint, little spa town known as Harrogate, leaving the city in complete and utter pandemonium before shadowing her arrival in York. The local market utterly oblivious to her presence. For now.
The mundanity of the market is observed from a nearby cafe. The raised countertop and stools provide the ideal view through the floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing the willowy figure to survey the public.
Various women charge through the market, scouring the stalls for their weekly purchases as though the announcement of nuclear war was just broadcasted. Other women simply wander through, looking at that, looking at this. The echoing of “ooh should I? Well go on then! I’ll treat myself, shall I?” floats throughout Parliament Street for hours.
There were men who stand with shoulders so pushed back and chins so raised, their masculinity begins to shake as they desperately seek confirmation that they are worthy men while purchasing seeds for their garden. And there were men who embraced their excitement about the local farmer’s market. Both varieties of masculinity equal in worth, as both varieties of women were too.
Despite the differing types of people, everything was harmonious. A calm before the storm, if you will. The customers worked in tandem with the shopkeepers, ensuring that everyone received their household needs and wants as they received their wages. Each face of each individual adorned a smile as they gazed at the beautiful assortments of goods offered by each stall owner. It was its very own ecosystem, consistent of producers, consumers, and the essential-yet-invisible decomposers. Though it was about to be hit by a merciless storm of acid rain: Storm Eris.
She raised from her stool in that peaceful cafe, frayed skirt hem grazing her bony ankles as she floated towards the door. Her aura, a violent swarm of crimson and ebony, attacked the ivory-painted door frame as she drifted across the threshold into her unsuspecting target.
Though completely unaware, the market’s crowd parted like the Red Sea as though Eris was their Moses. Except for the fact that she was there to ravage their relaxing Sunday afternoon, and, well, not emancipate the Israelites from slavery in Egypt. Not unless the fresh fruit and vegetables were planning a tyrannical uprising against the consumers.
As she strolled across the cobblestone road, the sky began to darken. She wished In nearly any other country, the mortals recognised it as a bad omen and would typically disperse but this was the United Kingdom so all it produced were a few murmurs, a couple chuckles and perhaps a grumble.
Her delicate-but-strong, bare feet stepped on each cobblestone with purpose yet with a very precise, calculated choice to display no discernible pattern in her strides, her pace, even her stance time seemed completely and utterly regular. However, to anyone who knew her, this was a warning. Her own subtle way of alerting any of her fellow immortals that may be lurking, not that she would necessarily admit to it.
Long toes gripped the hook of the raised pavement as she rose onto it, remaining planted in front of her destination. A smirk only worthy of the devil graced her features as her scheme was about to unfold. The slender figure all but sauntered towards a sweet handmade jewellery stall.
The stall was situated in a large canvas tent, the cream material already stained with the steadily drizzling rain. Puddles built up on the roof before penetrating the canvas, erratically spilling Adam’s ale on passersby. A beautifully intricate sign had been suspended above the kiosk’s ingress. It was almost reminiscent of a shop sign in a medieval kingdom, being hand-carved oak with hand-painted images of gemstones. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires all honoured by the fine oil painting’s rendition of their beauty, making the stall irresistible to those who pass. That is, until an aggressive surge of rain flooded over the front of the tent, washing away the gorgeous artwork that had been on display above the entrance to the jeweller’s until it looked like a toddler’s murderscene of an expensive coffee table. What was an alluring jewellery kiosk just a few moments ago, was now a precedent to the chaos about to be unleashed on the entire marketplace. Torn canvas and what rather resembled dishwater had replaced the once-stunning store with miserable ruins.
Her tall stature and thin frame aided her as she glided through the uneven aisles like a phantom, bestowing a sombre aura wherever she went. Even though she is a goddess, she was still somehow the only thing to ever wander through a marketplace tent without bumping into or getting caught on the broken edges of the crappy plastic fold-up tables and chairs that solely exist for markets and primary school summer festivals. Who even makes them? Do they just spawn into existence as soon as anyone mentions a bake sale? I digress.
The now-disgruntled customers were too rattled to comprehend the silhouette’s exhilarated spirit as it bounded throughout the stall, implementing disaster at each turn. Befuddled eyes darted around the tent as lanterns suddenly exploded, sending scolding fragments of glass every which way, whatever hadn’t landed on the floor or tables imbedding itself in the skin of unlucky shoppers. Not a second after that, the furniture began to rise. Swirling into its own unpredictable tornado, the plastic units crashed into each other as bodies were slammed into the flimsy tent walls before landing on the cold cobblestone. Subsequently, the ground began to shake violently. An impossibly strong earthquake emerged throughout the bazaar; the earth’s song had been sung, echoing not dissimilarly to a machiavellian villain’s maniacal laugh, and the town’s fate had been sealed.
From there, her storm grew with stealth. Clouds rallying together, their anticipation mutating into ammunition, until Eris unleashed her fury against the undeserving world. But the mortals were oblivious to their fate. Grey whirlpools lurched across the skies as vengeful bolts pierced the ground, sparks scorching stories onto the earth. Soulless smoke pervaded the once-blue atmosphere, leaving an abhorrent sight in its place. Unbeknownst to the ecosystem, it gradually transformed into a perilous wasteland until the acidic showers began to pour. The bitter torrent was unrelenting as throbbing blisters began to litter each unfortunate creature and sulfur dioxide permeated the air until it had polluted every last lung.
Beneath the fog and dirt lies the gasping population, desperately searching for even one breath of clean air to soothe the searing pain pervading their lungs before their ultimate demise. A pale face raised, hunting for an answer to the many questions overflowing from her mind. Her plump face gazed through the mist but was only met with portraits depicting excruciating pain that undoubtedly mirrored her own and the soundtrack of groans heavy with suffering. That was until the gloom shifted, revealing the one figure still standing. They stood in the exact core of the marketplace but their visage was unidentifiable. The only thing that could be determined was that this figure was in no way human, but here it didn’t matter if they acknowledged her immortality anymore; nobody would survive to recount the story of this massacre so nobody would survive to expose the truth of eternal life. The town, like many others had and would become, was left ravished by the chaos that demands for inescapable death. Thus, the Gods lived on and on and on, and anyone who ever knew of their existence was cursed with the fact that they would take that forbidden knowledge to their premature graves.
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Hi!
I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I’ll be honest when I say it ended up going in a totally different direction than I had originally planned but anyway. This isn’t my best work but I’m still proud of it!
(also, just in case, please can nobody steal this or do anything without crediting me. I don’t think anyone will, I’m just being cautious really, sorry)
Thank You
Amy J. xx
thepoetlillies
#writing#writers#writblr#free write#excerpt from a story i'll never write#short story#author#authors#eris#writing practice#writing prompt#literature#literary#i'm sorry#i'm trying my best#yay
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[ @zimerstellar ]
One thing was for sure, the schematics for the plans Addie had made to combine to Sualocin and the Nazo weren’t complicated, they were just going to take a lot of time and materials. Dek could only hope that nothing to pressing happened between now and when they finally had it completed. It wouldn’t due for the Team Nebula flag ship to be out of commission if something pressing occurred.
Zim was able to pull himself way from his other two mates, who were currently watching some movie or other that he couldn’t bring himself to be interested in. Perhaps if it had more guns. And explosions. And was also a video game. It wasn’t a big deal. He leave them to have their fun and he could go bother the hybrid of their group. He found Dek looking over the plans for the new ship again, messing around with some holographic simulations. He grinned as he came forward, leaning against a nearby work station. “You are over thinking this, Captain,” he said softly.
Dek hummed. He’d heard Zim come in. He glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. “Not really. Addie gave us a very vague design. I understand that she wanted us to have it be all our own, but it is a little frustrating to figure out exactly how this is going to work without a specific guideline.” He poked a few of the holograms that hung in the air, zooming in on this part and that. He even swiped some parts a way...only to bring them back again. This really was going to be harder than anticipated.
Zim snickered. “She gave us a basic design. The simplest thing to do would be to break down both ship into each of their best parts and then slowly combine them over time. But I know you’re afraid of being caught off guard.”
“Can you really blame me?” Dek asked, continuing to poke along the hologram. “Every time I turn around someone’s getting kidnapped or turning evil or dying or in some kind of goddamn mortal peril.” He sighed roughly. “I don’t like being unprepared.”
“Dek. We now live on the farthest reaches of the galaxy. Team Nebula has other, just as capable ships. We also happen to have the entire Lazurothian fleet at our disposal. Having two ships out of commission will not make or break us.”
“You don’t know that,” Dek told him. They had tons of help in past battles before and managed to get pretty badly beaten up anyway.
Zim huffed, pushing away from the work station and walking over to Dek’s side. He waved his hand to make the hologram vanish before turning to face the tall hybrid. “I do know that,” he said, grabbing Dek back the lapels of his jacket and pulling him forward. “You did not have Zim before. But you do now. And I do not plan on going anywhere. And as I’m sure you know I am amazing. We will be able to face anything as long as I’m here.” He grinned confidently.
Dek snorted. “Is this your way of saying we’ll get through anything together?”
“No, don’t be silly. I said you would get through this because you have Zim, now. Do not put words in my mouth.”
Dek just laughed a little at the Irken’s ridiculous logic. His hand moved to Zim’s waist, pulling him closer. “Fine, I won’t put words in your mouth,” Dek murmured before kissing Zim soundly on the mouth.
Zim gave a pleased trill at the kiss, his grip tightening on Dek’s lapels. He loved his other two mates dearly, but Dek gave off such a commanding presence that Zim couldn’t help but follow. Electricity shot through his veins at every show of affection the captain gave him. One of his hands reached up behind Dek’s head, pulling the hybrid ever closer so he could deepen the kiss.
Dek purred as Zim’s tongue slid into his mouth, his hands sliding to Zim’s full hips. In a quick moment he lifted the smaller up against him before propping him on top of the nearby work station. His kisses became more fervent as he pulled away to nibble Zim’s lower lip, then trailed down to bite at Zim’s throat.
Zim gasped as he was lifted, his own purr rolling out of him at the Captain’s rough kisses. His other hand joined the one behind Dek’s head pulling him ever closer. His legs wrapped around the hybrid’s waist, trapping the taller against him. He was already so lost to these feelings, his body reacting and wanting more. It wasn’t until Dek began biting at his neck that he remembered himself, where they were. “Dek...You are giving the other workers quite the show.”
Dek pulled away slowly, his face coloring to dark purple. He didn’t bother to look around. He could almost feel the other dozen eyes on him. It was easy to forget that others existed when he was with his mates. He gave a wordless grumble and cleared his throat. As much as he didn’t mind being a little risky with his mates, he wasn’t about to knowingly fuck Zim in front of a bunch of his and Midge’s subordinates. “Yes. I suppose that might, uh...be a bit much.”
Zim chuckled. “If you would like, we can brainstorm the best way to proceed with the ship. Maybe even come up with a fitting name.” He hoped off the work station and pulled Dek into a quick, chaste kiss. “Though I do hope you intend to make this up to me, Captain.”
Dek snorted, the smallest hint of a smile on his face. “Of course,” he said with a wink. “Also are you trying to say that I’m no good at naming things?”
“Of course not,” Zim said. “You can’t be any worst than the Tallests.”
“Very funny.”
“Of course I am. I am Zim and I am good at everything.” He let a small pause linger, not missing how Dek rolled his eyes. They brought the hologram back up and began going through it, deciding to figure out what pieces to work into the design and what pieces to discard. Zim then suddenly thought of the discussion he’d had with Addie last night, deciding he should probably inform Dek of their findings. Just to prepare him. He pulled out his tablet and handed it for Dek to see. “Addie showed me this last night. I feel it is important you should know, since you are afraid of being blindsided.”
Dek looked at the tablet, his brow furrowing. He was silent for a very long time, his mind racing. “Is...is that...?”
“Yes. The one from the timeline Dib and I came from. But for all intents and purposes, it is all of ours.” He put the tablet away. “Addie has said she plans on looking into who the current ruler is. Or rulers. Who is to say for sure? The only reason I know it is not our Red and Purple is because all the codes have been changed.”
Dek rose a brow. “You tried to contact them?”
“I was curious. Also I wanted to see if I could give Addie some perspective of what they are going to get themselves into.” He shrugged. “In the past I’ve been able to hack past any blocks perfectly. But this is not blocks. This is a change in contact information and codes. That only happens with a change in Tallests.”
Dek frowned, tapping his claws on the nearest surface. “Well...I suppose that is good to know.”
“Are you worried about them?” Zim asked.
“It doesn’t matter how many titles or powers she acquires. She is my daughter. And it’s because of that that I know exactly what she’s thinking.” He huffed. “Iris deserves an opportunity to fight for his birthright. And Addie and Chance are going to do everything in their power to make sure he gets that opportunity. I trust them. I trust that Addie won’t go into things without a plan. I trust that they will work together and ask for help if they need it but...I guess it just bothers me that ultimately this is something they must do on their own.”
Zim nodded. “You could view it as a passing of the torch, so to speak. As you said, she is your daughter. She’s proven herself to be as strong and clever as you. Maybe more so. At least she can drive.”
“Brat,” Dek groused.
“My point is...she is capable. As are Chance and Iris. And if this is for Iris’ birthright, it is perhaps for the best that they handle this alone. That he take on this challenge. Though as you know, whatever Tallest they must face will perhaps be the least of their worries. That timeline never got to the point of revolution against the Control Brains, as far as I know.”
Dek grunted again. There was nothing he could do about this now. He felt like talking to Addie about this would not only be overbearing, but insulting. He needed to trust that the three of them could do this when the time came. Whenever that may be. “Do me a favor? Let’s keep this on the downlow from Midge. At least until after the twins are born.”
Zim didn’t even hesitate to agree. “Of course. Until then, we will do what we can. Like work on this ship.” Keeping information from one of their mates did make him feel a little guilty, but it was better than stressing her out unnecessarily right now. There was nothing they could do. Not unless Addie, Iris and Chance asked them. This would be their uprising. Their legacy. And they couldn’t interfere unless asked, or else end up with a spurred daughter and son-in-laws. “So this piece here? Yeh or nay?” He pointed to a strange part that looked like a puzzle piece.
Dek looked up, thankful for being dragged back into their task at hand. He tilted his head and shrugged. “Nay.”
#my supernova = zim#(( wasn't planning on throwing hints for something that's super fucking far away but here the fuck we are alkdjfkalsdfj ))
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Honestly something I think is really interesting about the colony? I’ve called it a vampire story but it really is, down to a lot of the sort of classical hallmarks of the genre.
The Altean colony is set up to look like a beautiful, idyllic pastoral village surrounded by the forest. Everything’s nice there. There’s a local reclusive nobleman, rarely seen by the locals, who keeps to himself but he’s charming and everyone regards him well.
Now and then this noble takes people with him.
They aren’t seen again.
Because Lotor drains the life out of them behind closed doors.
Bandor returns to the colony, in the woods, at night. There’s that scene of Romelle hiding from Lotor- again, in the woods at night. This is one of the only nocturnal shots of the colony we see.
Once again, we have this vampire metaphor with the galra royal family, and it’s just a lot more literal than we’ve been led to believe before. Lotor’s not actively biting these people on the neck and drinking their blood, but, end result? Motives? Exactly the same. He has this population, and he’s feeding on them.
It even furthers what I’ve talked about before, that Lotor and Zarkon effectively represent very different conceptualizations of what a vampire is, with Lotor embodying the “modern” supernatural romance vampire, and Zarkon as the “classical” gothic horror vampire.
Zarkon’s consumption of people is glaringly obvious. His empire is festooned in people in rags, he has a huge cadre of functionally, other vampires. He hides nothing- will walk around with tubes of quintessence hanging out of his back while he’s recovering. Of course people die to feed him- because he’s a completely willing and knowing plague onto the universe. He’s better than them, he’s the immortal here.
He has zero guilt and zero shame. All mortals he contends with are his food, and from that he’ll occasionally promote them to “entertainment” or “assets”. At the end of the day, still livestock.
Lotor? Lotor feels guilty.
As soon as he realizes Romelle is in the room and processes what it means, he’s horrified. He flat-out says “I know what you must think of me” trying to negotiate with them and his counterpoint is basically just, that he genuinely wants to do good and that he meant what he said to Allura before.
And that’s frankly, vampire romance genre at its finest: the tragedy of the revelation that Lotor got this far by, in no uncertain terms, eating people (and over the course of his lifespan, that number’s added up to a pretty high total if we look at the number of names on the memorial and Romelle’s words) is in part framed in what it does for his love life. He and Allura love each other, but Lotor’s a vampire, he’s killed people just like Allura, and she can’t forgive him for that.
Which is totally understandable. But the heartbreak, the drama, the point of how Lotor’s terrified, outraged by the idea of, becoming like his unrepentantly parasitic father sets this up with very particular conventions.
Allura flat-out had herself a vampire romance. That’s what happened.
Now, I think the use of these conventions shed some interesting light on Lotor’s situation, and his likely motivations. Romelle says the decision to make the colony happened “generations ago” but she still describes it as very separate from the colony’s inception.
It’s very likely Lotor was getting his “food” somewhere else, and never originally conceptualized the colony as a source of energy.
But something happened. Those other sources ran dry. It’s likely Haggar, either directly or through Zarkon, pulled energy away from Lotor.
And Lotor knows the only way he’s ever going to fix the empire’s vampiric problem without going Van Helsing on himself and most of the galra, condemning the survivors- if there are any- to a vulnerable half-existence, is if he basically can get his hands on the quintessence field- the guilt-free, no-predation-necessary, infinite fountain of blood.
He needs energy to get there.
So his options are, die, become something he doesn’t want to, or compromise his morals in a really bad way and turn to the people who would patiently, obligingly follow him anywhere.
The vampire starves, and the neighbors start to look really, really tasty.
But Lotor’s still a moral person. He’s a good enough person to feel revolted and ashamed of what he’s doing. So he does something we never see Zarkon do- he buries it. Everything about it. And he’s horrified of people finding those skeletons. Again, seeing Romelle among his allies while they’re all accusative and doing the scifantasy equivalent of readying the stakes and garlic prompts undiluted terror from Lotor but his response is to try to appeal to Allura.
Again, bumping Lotor to “romance vampire” away from the gothic horror sensibilities of his father (even when the environment and setup of the colony evoke the latter)- he’s less focused on the peril this poses to him on being “outed” as a vampire and vastly more focused on Allura’s either rejection or forgiveness. When she rejects him, that sinks him, twice.
The first time, none of the weapons pointed at the paladins are what take Lotor down- it’s just Allura. Allura tosses Lotor, and Lotor stays down. He doesn’t wake up again except to face Haggar.
The second time, during the standoff, Lotor order the generals to hold their fire and repeatedly tries to appeal to them. It’s Allura’s word that makes or breaks that negotiation, and that’s not because Lotor’s a blameless sheep.
It furthers the dynamic we’ve seen before, that Lotor’s not emptily manipulating Allura, but that his feelings for her cause him to repeatedly make his vulnerability available to Allura. And in the conflict between them, we see this flexed in practice. Lotor’s put a huge amount of power in Allura’s hands, and when, feeling hurt and betrayed herself, she uses it to hurt him right back, that has a colossal destabilizing effect on basically everything Lotor’s standing on.
Lotor’s breakdown is instrumental to his losing the generals’ support, which, since this is Voltron, Hunk’s point about how it’s now four-on-one (and eventually five-on-one) is completely true.
Lotor’s literally a supernatural being- an immortal, a vampire- by the lore of the story. But Allura, not just through her own developing magic, but through her relationship with Lotor, is the one who holds the power here. Her approval or rejection makes or breaks him because he’s fascinated with her, he adores her.
It’s a complete fundamental deconstruction of the predatory way every other incarnation of Lotor went after Allura, where Allura had to, one way or another, fight to retain her autonomy in the presence of a pursuing monster. And again, this is kind of a vampire romance thing- as in, the power fantasy of a woman being able to tame a powerful and dangerous creature.
The colony and Allura’s completely understandable reaction to Lotor are functionally set-pieces in this vampire romance. It paints Lotor as a shade of gray. We’ve seen his values and we understand them. We see what he’s dealing with and we can sympathize. At the end of the day, though, he’s not a proper squeaky clean hero like Allura is.
Lotor felt backed into a corner and the only way out was to compromise his own morals and sate that bloodthirsty appetite. Other alternatives may have been open to him, but they would probably require trust, or otherwise abetting power- things that Lotor can’t believe in because from his perspective the only way things won’t hurt him is if he’s strong enough to hold their teeth away from his throat himself.
And he’s aware of it! Heck, if you look at the substance of his harsh words on Alfor, he’s actively self-conscious about it! We have to remember Lotor’s repeatedly expressed deep admiration for Alfor and that slips through even at his absolute worst- he’s eager to see if Sincline holds up against Alfor’s legacy, so even after he insists he’s better than Alfor he’s using Alfor’s handiwork as a metric.
So Lotor sneering about how if it had been up to Alfor and Alfor’s strategy, all of the Alteans would have died, it’s kind of his furious, hurt thesis that if it weren’t for him, the vampire, who’s yes taken the selfish option and bloodied his own hands, chosen his own preservation over staying true to his values, they wouldn’t have gotten here.
And again, that frames it back to... there’s this fundamental difference where Zarkon makes cruel choices out of a lack of sympathy. Why should he care what anyone else feels, why should he care who has to suffer to fill his hunger? Zarkon effectively chose to be a vampire. He said “damn my friends, damn the universe, I’ll take my wife to the rift if it kills me” and we never really see Zarkon disappointed in the result.
Lotor didn’t choose. Lotor got handed this stick before he was born by Zarkon’s decisions and that’s the thematic motifs here- that Lotor got saddled against his will with this hunger, so his “fall” isn’t set to the same metrics Zarkon was. He doesn’t have a perfectly good opportunity to put the knife down and walk away and live out his natural mortal life because eating other people is unappealing to him.
Because of the world Zarkon’s created, because of what Zarkon did to him from the cradle, Lotor’s option is to compromise himself or compromise somebody else. And we’ve known from the start Lotor is a scared, vulnerable person. We know that push comes to shove, his own survival is a very powerful motivator because he feels like it’s constantly in peril.
But he made that choice. He made the decision to keep living, keep chasing his ambitions, knowing exactly at what kind of cost it would come, and this fuels a line of guilt that he doesn’t feel worthy of Allura- Allura, whose parents, who the world around her, provided what she needed even when she lost everything else. Allura, who hasn’t faced the prospect of starving or resorting to other people in order to survive.
Remember how easily he gave up on Oriande because it rejected him once? Remember how he didn’t actually expect to get in there at all, and- according to what he tells Ezor and Zethrid, was sure that he’d need someone of Allura’s purity to get in there at all?
Believe me, I’m as upset by Lotor’s breakdown here as anybody else, but the colony is something that adds up perfectly with what we know of Lotor as a person, who he is, his relationship with Allura. This is drama you’d absolutely slide off the shelf in the supernatural teen romance section of the library- well, if you found a well-written teen romance.
(The fact that I ship Lotura when I don’t even like a lot of other vampire romance stories should probably tell you something about the writing and my esteem)
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Book Review: Clockwork Prince
Rating: ☕☕☕☕☕
Title: Clockwork Prince
Author: Cassandra Clare
Series: The Infernal Devices
Publisher: Margaret K. McElderry Books
Genres: Young Adult, Science Fiction, Fiction
Pages: 498
Format: Hardcover
“’ Look well on this, my son… for one day I shall rule a clockwork kingdom of such beings, and you shall be its prince.’”- page 155
“I feel myself dissolving, vanishing into nothingness, for if there is no one in the world who cares for you, do you really exist at all?”- page 179
“’ I dreamed what you dreamed, wanted what you wanted—and then I realized that truly I just wanted you.’”- page 468
To continue with the next book in the Infernal Devices series I have decided to review the second book, Clockwork Prince. I’ve heard a lot of good things about this series and how some people think it is even better than the first series. I don’t know if I can agree with that thought yet but I have to say I really enjoyed reading this book. Just like the first book it was a little slow in the beginning but by the second half of the book it really starts to pick up speed. Now for the details. Warning: this review contains spoilers, please skip to the conclusion if you would like to avoid these (last paragraph starting with bold print).
As always with Clare’s books the characters are amazing. They are very detailed with rich back stories that keep growing, even more so, in this book. There is a ton of character development not only for the main character Tessa but for all the others as well. Emotions are brought to the surface, secrets are revealed, flaws are found, mistakes made, and some characters make a complete 180 from the beginning of the book to the end.
Clare’s books are at a great reading level so you can just sit back and enjoy the book. The main plot is simple to follow but the subplots of Will’s curse and Sophie’s romance are tailored perfectly to the story. Will’s curse explains a lot of his back story for which I have a feeling will play a big part in the next book. In addition, Sophie’s romantic relationship adds to the classic Victorian era romance that is a staple for that time period.
There is a tremendous amount of circular plot that happens in this book. It makes everything harmonize well and leaves readers feeling satisfied. My first example of this is when Tessa states that the first words she ever heard Jem say were “Will? Is that you, Will?” I was wondering why Clare decided to add this seemingly random bit of information until, later on, Will walks into Jem’s room and Jem says the exact same line. The first time Jem says this line is at the very start of this whole adventure, when Jem and Will were almost inseparable. Their relationship was so tightly knit. However, when Jem says the line again, when Will is coming into his room, the dynamic is very different. Their relationship is dissolving slowly from the love triangle with Tessa. So even though this is a sad part of the story this one line makes the situation really hit home. Branching off this example the same idea takes a broader point of view. In the first book and the beginning of this book it becomes clear that Jem is the only person Will lets in. Jem is the only person that knows who Will is deep down. Jem is all that Will has. By the end of the book, however, Will starts letting everyone in again. Will isn’t afraid of loving and being loved in return and he gains back almost everyone he has ever pushed away. Ironically, though, in the process Will ends up losing Jem. Because of the engagement and the tension it puts on their relationship Will closes himself off from Jem hiding, probably for the first time, his true feelings. Will always seems to have to sacrifice something he cares about which, even though is tragic, keeps the reader’s interest in Will as a character.
This book’s ending is not one of the happiest I have ever read but Clare does a great job by distracting the reader with something new and exciting. I am glad she does this because it doesn’t leave the bitter taste from the love triangle as the lasting thought before her next book. She gives the readers hope and a bright future, something to look forward to; she ends the book with starting a new chapter (so to speak).
One of the biggest aspects of this book that I did not like was the poems that would start in the beginning of each chapter. Yes, this is the Victorian Era and, yes, poetry plays a strong role in the story but I found it overall too distracting. If the poems had more significance or if there was a set pattern for the poems (all of them being related to the chapter titles instead of sometimes) I would understand that. However, I found myself starting to get annoyed by being jarred out of the story by having to read a few lines of poem, it felt like a pop up advertisement.
The cliché of the warlock potion was way too obvious. I knew that something was up when special attention was brought to the lemonade at the party. It is a given not drink strange and unknown beverage from someone you don’t trust at a seemingly shady party. It doesn’t take long to put two and two together. This could have been way more subtle.
There was also a huge character flew in Tessa when she runs over to her dying brother and doesn’t even give Will a second thought. I felt that no one in their right mind would actually do this. Anyone would think instantly of the wellness of the person who just saved their life by being a human shield, not to mention Will is a major love interest. The thought would at least cross one’s mind. I don’t agree with the logic behind this decision. Nate may be her brother and Tessa may still love him but even that doesn’t make this choice make sense, especially, when her brother has been betraying her and working with the enemy for the entire book.
I would have also liked more story talking about the Magister. It wouldn’t have to be something revealed to the Shadowhunters. I just wanted some more back story and history to build of the villain in my mind. It would have been a nice touch.
With all this being said I really enjoyed the time I spent reading this book. Cassandra Clare knows what she is doing and knows how to work in the space she has created. I would recommend reading the first book in the trilogy otherwise you will be very lost. I would also recommend reading the previous series The Mortal Instruments but it is not absolutely necessary. Would I recommend this book? Yes. Would I recommend this series? Yes. Would I tell people to read her other series? Absolutely! Given the very strong character presence and plot flow of this book I would give Clockwork Prince a 5 out of 5 All-Nighter Worthy rating. I would also say the show Shadowhunters on FreeForm is really good as well, so feel free to check that out.
Otherwise…bookmarking this for now.
Summary: In the magical underworld of Victorian London, Tessa Gray has at last found safety with the Shadowhunters. But that safety proves fleeting when rogue forces in the Clave plot to see her protector, Charlotte, replaced as head of the Institute. If Charlotte loses her position, Tessa will be out on the street—and easy prey for the mysterious Magister, who wants to use Tessa’s powers for his own dark ends.
With the help of handsome, self-destructive Will and the fiercely devoted Jem, Tessa discovers that the Magister’s war on the Shadowhunters is a deeply personal. He blames them for a long-ago tragedy that shattered his life. To unravel the secrets of the past, the trio journeys from mist-shrouded Yorkshire to a manor house that holds untold horrors, from the slums of London to an enchanted ballroom where Tessa discovers that the truth of her parentage is more sinister than she had imaged. When they encounter a clockwork demon bearing a warning for Will, they realize that the Magister knows their every move—and that one of their own has betrayed them.
Tessa finds her heart drawn more and more to Jem, though her longing for Will, despite his dark moods, continues to unsettle her. But something is changing in Will—the wall he has built around himself is crumbling. Could finding the Magister free Will from his secrets and give Tessa the answers about who she is and what she was born to do?
As their dangerous search for the Magister and the truth leads the friends into peril, Tessa learns that when love and lies are mixed, they can corrupt even the purest heart.
#book blog#book review#bibliophile#bookworm#blogger#fiction#booklr#book critic#book critique#booklover#books#young adult#clockwork prince#cassandra clare#the infernal devices#the mortal instruments#shadowhunters
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Disarmed || Made In Abyss
I have been completely shattered. Emotionally. I wept. This has happened before, but not so competently or effortlessly. Made In Abyss is deeper and more treacherous than any emotional explorer is prepared for. It has a clear and precise focus on the core of your humanity. Like a black hole, it beckons you deeper with each episode, slowly drawing you in, compressing your emotional core into a singularity. You are more aware of your emotions than you have ever been. Theoretically, you could come out the other side of a black hole in a significantly different time and place, transformed into an entirely new being. That is what I feel like now. Not a new person, but much more aware of something I have long since ignored. My emotional self.
Made In Abyss is the story of orphaned Riko, a young cave raider living in an orphanage on the outskirts of a deep crater in the earth, the depths of which are filled with dangerous creatures and an invisible force that makes it difficult to return to the surface once traversed. Still, it calls to the strong willed who want to discover and study its mysterious origins and profiteers who wish to make money on artifacts long since forgotten. Riko believes that her mother, a legendary cave raider, is still alive at the depths of the crater and plans to search for her. One day, on a cave raid, she encounters a robot boy who saves her from certain death. The robot boy Reg, suffering from amnesia, wishes to know his origin, which Riko convinces him is in the depths of the caves. Together, they plan to reach the depths of the crater, find Riko’s mother, learn Reg’s origins, and discover the truth of the crater.
Colored in pastels, penciled in children’s book animation, and characterized by boundless optimism, Made In Abyss is one of the most disarming shows I have seen in many years. It starts out reminding me of children’s adventure films like The Goonies, Honey I Shrunk The Kids, or Spirited Away. There are real elements of danger, things that could take these kids lives without missing a beat, and yet, you have this feeling that they will come out the other side with a minor scrape or bruise. Still, just under the surface, the Abyss has something so much more sinister. And to call it sinister is to look at this world as though it was planned when it’s really just the nature of the world. Eat or be eaten, kill or be killed. Are own world is like this, but it’s often hard to recognize because humans live and colonize the world in such a way as to protect us from this truth. We live on a small blue dot, hurtling through space at a million miles an hour, and the nature of that could destroy us and the universe would not bat an eye. With every step that Riko and Reg take into the depths, the story reminds us of the perilousness of their journey and our own mortality. It further disarms us by making this the journey of wide-eyed children. As you get older, leaving the happy meals and kids clubs behind, you realize how sheltered or naive you once were. You may have been armed with all sorts of knowledge, but generally you were only able to parse it from one perspective. The adults warnings are heeded, in so much as they are understood, but they are not enough to stop these children from diving head first into events that will surely lead them into suffering. And soon you find yourself suffering with them. Still, knowing that they will suffer, they will keep pressing on. They will keep feeling.
Made In Abyss unlocked a thought somewhere deep in the densest part of my ego. It helped me realize that I insulate myself from emotion in my own life with a thick barrier or reason and logic. To be clear, this is just what I recognize as reason and logic, though both of these are predominately related to one’s own perception of the world and themselves. I have been told this is how most people cope with emotional sensitivity, but I believe people more commonly do this re-actively, where as I feel as though I have a tendency to do this proactively. I am not a young man anymore and having these kinds of realizations happen further apart as you become more set in your ways. You have to work at being open to new ways of thinking. Having finished its first season and having a profound personal realization such as this, it is little wonder that Made In Abyss has achieved critical acclaim and success. Either way, I often feel that reaching the depths of feelings like loneliness, sadness, anger, hate, love, or happiness not only difficult to reach, but unbearable, like poking at a raw nerve.
In a pivotal moment in the final episode, my guard having been chipped away, I felt an intense pang of sadness, to which I re-actively rationalized the character’s decisions. It is in these moments, when something has disarmed me so completely, I felt that I owed it to the author and myself to chase this feeling. I felt like I had to physically push the feeling to the surface, with just as much focus as it takes to bench-press beyond your abilities. This is when I realized a grave weakness to my own creativity. It has long been a dream of mine to find a way to translate my inability to fully imbibe in feelings into fictional characters of my own writing. For me, to write is to feel. If I were to put a character in a hazardous situation, I can only express it as well as I am willing to feel it myself. And because accessing those feelings is a process I shy away from, I will never truly be able to express it in a way other people can understand. So, in a way, writing can be my own personal journey through my own feelings. Giving a villain his just deserts is just as difficult for me as giving lovers their first romantic moment.
I thought it would be in my best interest to put myself out here in this hybrid review. I very much recommend this show, but I would like to add while it is child-like, it isn’t really suitable for children. The shows honest perspective on the innocence of childhood and the ease at which this innocence is abused is striking in its simplicity. Pain is pain and love is love and everything in between is worth enduring. And you will watch them endure and subsist and survive and lose. I also recommend giving this show your full attention, though most likely if you are interested, you won’t have a choice. I don’t think everyone will have such a strong reaction to Made In Abyss as I did, but I hope it unlocks something/anything for you. At the very least, it will certainly be worth your time.
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Rhuli’a’s Trial pt.1 (RP Scene)
Rhuli’a Kanjun. The prospect who has approached Worren Tigre months ago, asking for official training as a Fist of Rhalgr. Though the man shows potential, Worren has noticed a few personality traits that he finds unfavorable for a Fist. So he has tested him and observed time and again, slowly sewing tidbits of training and advice in between. However, this has gone on long enough, and Worren has one final test for him before he decides to induct him into the ranks of the Fists and train him for real. The young man has spirit, pride, and skill. Worren believes his view is narrow, and does not see the bigger picture. This final trial will be conducted within the Temple of the Fist, much like Worren’s other student, Kodaro. Not only will his body be tested, but also his mind and heart. Will he return as a Fist of Rhalgr? Or will he fail and not survive the trials ahead.
The location is Rhalgr's Reach, early morning. Worren is sitting at a table near one of the tents outside of the Temple of the Fist, dressed in his temple uniform. A call goes out over the linkshell network. "Kodaro and Rhuli'a. I need to see you both in Rhalgr's Reach today. I will be waiting near the Temple of the Fist." There's a moment's pause before Kodaro responds with the ghost of a yawn still apparent in his voice. "Do I need to bring my cyclas?"
Worren: "Yes."
Kodaro: "...have I got time to grab breakfast first?"
Worren: "Yeah. No rush. Get yourself situated. I will be waiting."
The pearl catches the end of a relieved sigh. "Alright, then. I'll be there within the bell, sir."
True to his word, the Seeker appears near the aetheryte no more than forty five minutes later. Clad in his muted green cyclas with the hood down, his mentor's gauntlets, and his own choice of steel greaves, he almost cuts an impressive figure were it not for his typical good natured grin. After a bit of wandering, he finds Worren and greets him with a formal bow before peering about the tents with his tattered ears swivling about.
"No Rhuli'a yet, huh? Nuts. I never seem to catch that guy outside of formal meetings. So, what's on the agenda today, sir?" Worren stands and returns the greeting, then waves him over. "Come sit. This is good. We can discuss the training before he gets here. It's time for his test, and you're gonna help me give it." Kodaro obliges and picks a perch, slinging a small rucksack to the ground beside him. "Like the one you put me through here, or have you got something else in mind?" Worren nods, "Oh, he's goin' in, all right. I need to see where he stands in times of duress. And man, will there be duress. It will be different from yours, though."
Kodaro: "He's ready to go in already? That's great, he must've made some serious progress if you're sending him in to the temple. What's my part in all this?"
Worren: "He's unlocked a gate already. Now it's time to see of he has the brains and resolve to use it properly. The aim of his test is survival. If he passes, he will have a prize waiting for him as well as my consent to formally train him as a Fist. If he fails, he dies."
He leans back casually. "Your part is simple. His path will be impeded with several scenarios that will take more than just his strength to get through. You will shadow and observe him. Feel free to add to whatever tests he comes across if they seem too easy for him. Do not be seen, and do not help him in any way. He needs to accomplish this with his own power and mind. Call it a question of... how bad does he really want it? I will also be watching."
The younger monk frowns a bit, fiddling uncomfortably with his eye patch until Worren finishes. "Sending him in and then letting him die is tantamount to murdering him ourselves; if I feel he's in real, direct, immediate mortal peril I will intervene." Kodaro lets the statement hang for a moment with grave finality before continuing with a slight grin. "Anything up to that point, though? I'm game. Coupla broken bones build character." Worren grunts. "If he dies, he dies." He looks to Kodaro sternly. "I have confidence in him, and I see potential, even if he does not, himself. This is his choice. It always has been. But, if he is wishing to walk this path, he will have to be willing to walk though the depths of hell, survive, grow, and remain humble."
Kodaro: "Worren, you swear off killing Spoken but you expect me to sit back and watch someone die? Absolutely no chance. I'm not budging on this. Any amount of harm short of that, fine, but I am drawing a line. I don't think it'll come to that kind of direct intervention, but I'm not just going to watch Rhuli'a die today if it comes to that."
Rhuli'a hadn't bothered replying across the pearl. Only a few malms away from the Reach itself, he had taken it upon himself to simply travel there by foot. The dusty air of Gyr Abania whipped around him as he entered the reach after a passing of time. Spying the Highlander who had summoned him, he closed the distance between them, looking at the pair of them as he asked. "And today's labor is?" Kodaro cuts himself off as soon as he catches sight of the keeper; he hops down from his spot as Rhuli'a approaches and greets him with a wave and a toothy grin. "Hey! Long time, no see!" Rhuli'a gave a small, muted wave towards Kodaro, "Afternoon, friend."
Worren stands and approaches, putting a hand on Kodaro's shoulder and hisses in his ear quietly. "Go on ahead inside. We will use my network. And a word of caution; if you cannot continue to trust my judgement, then it may be time for you to be turned loose. We'll talk later." He straightens and nods again, before turning to Ruhli'a. "You made it. Great. Come, follow me. I will explain why I called you here on the way."
Kodaro nods quietly before turning to stroll inside, calling over his shoulder, "Good luck! Keep your cool and stay focused, yeah?" with an encouraging grin before drawing up his hood and calmly pacing through the towering double doors in to the temple.
Rhuli'a gave them both a questioning look before nodding towards Worren. Following him but a few paces behind, he waited for a few moments, and, if the Highlander did not start speaking, he'd venture forth with, "Some trial methinks. I would not think Kodaro would speak to me so if not."
Worren: "It is. Also why I don't ask of him for anything that requires much disgression. What do you know about the Temple of the Fist? Has your family ever spoke about it?" He begins to lead them into the long entrance way.
Rhuli'a: "Nay, though I've taken a look at it from time to time. Obviously not allowed past the gates, but a looking glass has seen it closer to mine eye than I could hope."
Worren: "I see. Not entirely accurate, though. The outer areas of the temple are accessible to everyone. It is inside the main area where only those who are strong may enter. The monks of old used to come here to train, worship, and study. Over time, changes have been made to make the temple a training and proving ground in and of itself. The Fists would come here to test their abilities against the traps made within. Today, I will be administering you the trial that will decide your standing within the Fists of Rhalgr. Once we get to the main doors and you enter, you will be on your own. You must make it through in one piece." He speaks evenly now, devoid of emotion, and is looking straight ahead at the fountain they are approaching near the entrance doors. "You will have to use all of your strength to get through these trials. Survive, and you have proven to be one of us. Fail, and you die."
He then stops and looks at Rulhi'a. "Know that this is optional. You are not being forced to take this trial. However, if you do not take the trial, then I will turn you away, as I will believe you would not be able to make it as a Fist. You could find another to guide your path, should you still wish to walk it. But, if you take the trial, then may Rhalgr guide your steps. Survive, and you join our ranks. That means no more jerking you around; I will finally begin formally instructing you on your power, the culture, and what it means to be a Fist. What are your questions?"
Rhuli'a gave Worren a look of slight disdain. "With all due respect, I'm hesitant to bring my arts to bear against simple machinery and such. Combat is reading and reacting to your opponent, not figuring out whether or not a blade will come out of a hidden slit in the ground. I'll take your trial, if only to prove that new ones are needed." The Miqo'te folded his arms across his chest, slightly uncomfortable as he furrowed his brow. Never one to shy away from expressing his thoughts, the dark-haired monk gave no indication that he was going to back down.
Worren continues his blank expression, as if observing the man. "Since you are so confident that you will complete this trial, then allow me to give you your first lessons early. Never mistake will power for overconfidence. Making assumptions can be the difference between life or death. And being a Fist of Rhalgr is much more than just one on one combat with another person. To assume so would be seeing only a small part of the big picture. Mastery of self is more than just martial mastery." He then turns to face him fully. He then puts his fist in his palm and gives a slight bow. "Our customary greeting between my brothers and sisters. You may not see this greeting often, but it is very important."
He gestures to the large doors that lead into the temple to begin the trial. "The trial will begin the moment you enter these doors. You will enter alone, and will have no help. There is no time limit, but it will do you well to not slack. If you survive, I will be waiting for you, and will be the first to greet you as a Fist of Rhalgr. And also, a word of caution. The most obvious solution is not always the correct one. May Rhalgr guide your steps through the temple." He nods and gestures to the door again.
Rhuli'a's eyes narrowed as Worren spoke to him. Breaking eye contact, he began to stretch himself out, warming himself up as the highlander continued to lecture him. In his mind was only a light buzzing as he contemplated all that was being told to him. Shoving it aside as nothing more than warnings, he stood, nodding once to the large man.
Turning without words, he strode to the door, shoving them open as he crossed the threshold.
Supremely confident.
@astralagency @berrodarmstrong @cfs-melkire @chiyohoshi @dynamitecowboy @fyrrdetelemagna @grandmastream @interdimensionalpeacekeeping @jancisstuff @nhara-tia @pom-friend @thetaleofoldmanmaruud @thornedblossom @valentinoix @supermeganick @syelirakaisuri
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Asylum Of The Daleks - Doctor Who blog (Steven Moffat Fucks Up The Daleks)
(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. If you haven’t seen this episode yet, you may want to before reading this review)
Series 7. Where Steven Moffat seemingly dispensed with the whole idea of a series arc and announced that each episode will be its own standalone mini-blockbuster. So lets start with Asylum Of The Dalek. Was it any good? Well funnily enough... No it wasn’t. Not even half good. It was fucking awful. Anyone with a brain could see how bloody terrible this was, or at least that’s what I assumed in my naivety.
Yes, critical and fan reception at the time was overwhelmingly positive for Asylum Of The Daleks. Some even going so far as to call it one of the best Dalek stories ever written. But for the life of me I can’t see how they could possibly think that. Not only is Asylum of The Daleks another example of just how bad a writer Steven Moffat is and always has been, it’s quite possibly one of the worst stories Doctor Who has ever produced. And I’m not just saying that for effect. This story fails at a most basic level and quite frankly I’m astounded that anyone could possibly look at this and go ‘yeah, this is good. One of Moffat’s best in fact. Eggs anyone?’ Obviously this was back in 2012 where people were still willingly drinking Moffat’s Kool-Aid and deluding themselves into thinking he was actually clever (as opposed to, you know, a pretentious moron).
There’s so much wrong with this episode, it’s hard to know where to start. Well from the beginning I suppose. Yes, let’s start there.
The episode starts on Skaro... and immediately I’ve got questions. Didn’t they say Skaro was destroyed in the Time War? How did the Daleks resurrect it? How come the Doctor isn’t surprised that Skaro still exists? And why in God’s name would the Daleks build a giant statue of themselves?
The Doctor, Amy and Rory get captured by humans who have been Dalek-ified (I imagine Moffat thinks this is incredibly scary, but in reality it’s just really silly with the eye-stalks poking out of their foreheads and everything) and are taken to the... smirk... Parliament of the Daleks and speak to the... the... LOL! PRIME MINISTER of the Daleks!
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OMG! Forgive me. I’ve always had some difficulty taking the Daleks seriously as villains, but this just takes the cake. PRIME MINISTER of the Daleks?! What, do the Daleks trundle along into voting booths and polling stations every five years? Are there Tory Daleks and Lib Dem Daleks? Are there some Daleks campaigning for cuts to immigration and others campaigning for bigger plungers? Do the Daleks have their own versions of satirical panel shows like Mock The Week and Have I Got News For You? Do the Daleks have a Monster Raving Looney Party? Please tell me the Daleks have a Monster Raving Looney Party!
And speaking of monster raving loonies, it turns out the Daleks have an asylum full of insane Daleks. Oh boy, what’s the best way to unpack this nonsense? Well let’s start with the obvious. Why would the Daleks have an insane asylum? Why not just kill the insane Daleks? That’s usually their MO, isn’t it? Anything less than pure gets exterminated, right? Well according to the Prime Minister of the Daleks (snigger), it is offensive to them to extinguish such divine hatred. Oh! Really?! Perhaps you should tell that to the Daleks who have killed members of their own species in the past for being fractionally impure. I don’t think they got the memo darling.
And it just gets stupider and stupider the more it goes along. They want to cleanse the Asylum because a spaceship crash-landed on it and now they’re worried the insane Daleks are going to escape. Well why didn’t you just kill them in the first sodding place? And didn’t you just say a few seconds ago it was offensive to extinguish such divine hatred? Make your minds up guys! But then it turns out they can’t actually destroy the Asylum because it’s covered by an impenetrable forcefield. But hold on, it can’t be that impenetrable. A pissing spaceship just crash-landed on it. So they send the Doctor (yes the Daleks have asked their greatest enemy for help. No I don’t get it either. Just go along with it) inside the Asylum to turn the forcefield off. That’s the impenetrable forcefield that can only be turned off from the inside of the fully automated Asylum that doesn’t require a Dalek to operate it. In other words, the insane Daleks have complete unrestricted access to their own forcefield and teleporter that no one from the outside can possibly get into (unless they’re in a crashing spaceship for some reason). That’s basically like giving the prisoners the keys to their own cells.
Moffat fans, are you sure this is one of the best Dalek stories ever. Because from what I can see, this episode is a complete and utter shambles, and we’re only 5 or 10 minutes in.
Let’s quickly talk about the insane Daleks. You know, the ones the Daleks are afraid of? Must be some dangerous, homicidal nutters in that Asylum, mustn’t there? So what do they do that makes them so frightening? Well they’re incredibly slow, have really bad aim and screech the word ‘Eggs’ a lot.
Um... how is that scary? Why would the Daleks be frightened of them?... WATCH OUT! THAT DALEK IS COMPLETELY INEFFECTUAL! ARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!
Now here’s something that will get hardcore Whovians excited. Apparently there are some classic series Daleks that will be playing a big part in this episode. Awesome! Let’s see if we can find them, shall we?
Right then, well... there was that Jon Pertwee era Dalek spinning around in the background in that one scene, and um.... oh I did see that Special Weapons Dalek briefly for a couple of seconds... um... No. Actually that’s about it. So when Moffat said that classic series Daleks would be playing a part in the episode, he just meant one or two of them would make cameo appearances. Well that’s underwhelming at best and blatant false advertising at worst. What’s even weirder is that at one point the Doctor meets Dalek survivors from previous encounters he had with them like on Spirodon and Kembel and so on, but the Daleks we see are post 2005 Daleks rather than classic series Daleks from their respective eras. Whoops.
But that’s not the only thing Moffat fucks up. There’s also Amy and Rory’s marriage. Remember when we last saw them in The Doctor, The Widow, And The Wardrobe? They were sitting down for Christmas dinner, looking very happy. Now all of a sudden, they’re getting a divorce.
Now I’m sure this bizarre tonal shift wasn’t quite as noticeable at the time because there were months between the Christmas special and this episode, but if you’ve been watching each episode one after the other like I’ve been doing, it’s incredibly jarring. What the fuck happened? It just feels so utterly random.
So why did Amy and Rory split up? Because Amy is sterile now apparently. Yes, she’s utterly barren now and so she pushed Rory away for his own good. Okay. There’s a LOT wrong with this. The casual sexism for one thing, with Moffat once again implying that the only strength or worth a woman has is in her uterus. Rory’s total lack of agency is another issue. Amy just kicks Rory out of the house without telling him what the problem is or giving him a chance to decide for himself. Oh and I could do without the spousal abuse being disguised as girl power thing. Amy slapping Rory isn’t cute and sexy. It’s assault and battery. In fact it actually gets more uncomfortable than that as you realise that not only does Moffat seem to be medically incapable of writing a healthy relationship, he honestly believes this is a healthy relationship. Let me put it this way. I can understand Amy and Rory wanting to take some time apart to reevaluate things, but do you know how long it usually takes to finalise a divorce here in the UK? Four months. Are you seriously telling me that Amy and Rory never talked about this FOR FOUR MONTHS?! Do they even want to be together?! And just when you think this couldn’t get any more insulting, it turns out all their marital troubles are solved in the end thanks to a two minute conversation. So it was all basically just a gigantic waste of time. This is a real emotional tragedy a lot of couples go through and Moffat has just pulled it out of his arse in order to add to some artificial tension to his shit story. And people wonder why I hate him so much.
Dear God, this is fucking terrible. Can this episode possibly get any worse?
Well, well, well. My arch-nemesis. At last we finally meet.
Oswin is without a doubt the worst character Moffat has ever written. In fact she’s not even a character. That would be too generous. She’s a Mary Sue with no interesting personality traits and whose dialogue can easily be interchanged with River’s or Amy’s or every other female character Moffat has ever written. She’s a ‘strong female character’ in inverted commas only. There’s no effort to actually develop her character or to make her come across as a relatable or believable human being. She’s just yet another Moffat siren. Plus she just irradiates smug. I can’t tell if it’s the writing or Jenna Coleman’s performance, but she just gets under my skin. There’s just something about her I find profoundly irritating. Maybe it’s the fact that all her dialogue consists of nothing but unfunny wisecracks, patronising nicknames and sexual innuendos. Maybe it’s the fact that despite being in mortal peril, she never reacts in a believable way, instead acting like a total smartarse. Maybe it’s the fact that her deus ex machina powers effectively reduce the Doctor to a secondary character in his own show. Do you know that feeling you get when someone scrapes their nails across a chalkboard? Well Oswin is the physical manifestation of that. She’s just incredibly obnoxious. So you can imagine my joy when she got killed off at the end. That was a happy relief. I mean can you imagine what it would have been like if they made her a companion? Now that would have been unbearable. Good thing that’s never going to happen, right?... Ri... Right?
So at the end it’s revealed that Oswin has been a Dalek all along, which would have been a tragic twist if I actually gave a shit about her and if it weren’t so utterly stupid. What’s the point of that nano-cloud? Why would the Daleks need a nano-cloud to convert humans? How are humans supposed to get into the Asylum if it’s covered by an IMPENETRABLE forcefield? How come the Daleks are converting humans in the first place? That’s the Cybermen’s schtick. Again, has Steven Moffat ever actually watched Doctor Who before? And oi, since when have the Daleks been telepathic? That’s the first I’ve heard about it. You’re just making this shit up as you go along, aren’t you Moffat?
And then comes the awful resolution. The cherry on top of the dung heap. Oswin somehow manages to hack into all of the Daleks and make them forget about the Doctor. Putting aside some of the more obvious problems like Moffat stripping everything interesting out of the Doctor and the Daleks’ antagonistic relationship for his stupid twist ending and how the fuck was Oswin, a lone Dalek in a mental asylum, able to make every single Dalek in the universe forget about him, what’s truly horrific about this is the return of the dreaded ‘Doctor who?’ It was bad enough when a chorus of Daleks was squawking it ad nauseam, but when the Doctor started chanting it too in the final scene, it became too much to bear. PLEASE GOD, SOMEONE, MAKE IT STOP!
Asylum Of The Daleks is an absolute train wreck from start to finish. It’s absolutely littered with plot holes and continuity errors, the characterisation is beyond atrocious, the villains are stupid and ineffectual, and the so called emotional core of the story is pointless, misogynistic and nonsensical. And apparently it’s one of the best Dalek stories ever written? I don’t know which version of the story you lot have been watching, but I would love to see it. I’m afraid the version I’ve just watched was complete and utter shite.
#asylum of the daleks#steven moffat#doctor who#eleventh doctor#matt smith#amy pond#karen gillan#rory williams#arthur darvill#daleks#bbc#review#spoilers
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Scylla and Charybdis
You may still win a great part in the vesture of buried Denmark, a greying man with two marriageable daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak immediately. The kips?
I can get away in time. A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.
He was always to her marriage and its troubles—but no; there were two occasions in which Lydgate had told her everything, Miss Brooke looking so handsome.
Stephen: Is he? Make them accomplices. Who brought me into this trouble. Suddenly he turned towards her and half to her who had not married me.
Who will woo you?
S. D.—What links them in nature? A quart of ale is a reason for our never being rich.
I should not be interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of studying her manners: she was born. Do you think the writer of Antony and Cleopatra, fleshpot of Egypt, and made her own great trees, her four beautiful green fields, the bards must drink. Two left. A great poet on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his deathbed. But Hamlet is so personal, isn't it?
—Mr Lyster, an androgynous angel, being a wife? From these words Mr Best said brightly, gladly, brightly.
T. Caulfield Irwin.
Stephen rose. He returns after a life does it spring.
He walks. It was after the meeting, and made her delight the more tenderly for that labor; but it did seem to her who had become rather oppressive: to sit. Then outspoke medical Dick to his greencapped desklamp sought the face of the cloud by day. O, the need of that strange ban against him left by Mr. Casaubon, who had not seen him in Richard III.
After three months Freshitt had become rather oppressive: to sit in from which he took the cow by the bankside, a super here, a daystar, a silent witness and there was no touch of indignation as well as a painter of old Italy set his face, and between three and four thousand of ready money in the neighborhood and begin a new art for Europe like the epilogue look long on it.
Or that seem sensible.
You would not forbid it when—Dorothea felt her heart.
The sun two days later, the favor being entirely to her widow's dower at common law.
As we, or, at the gate, we seem to know, who has faded into impalpability through death, with fifty of experience, material and moral. The thing one most longs for may be the cause of your grandmother. They remind one of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Perhaps then you would like to tell you what will not save him. I say? Cordoglio. Pater, ait. Love that dare not speak immediately.
But Sir James Chettam.
Seas between. Maeterlinck. But, after what you meant to do?
A shadow hangs over all her reasons. —They are sundered by a girlish instruction comparable to the mystic mind. You are a delusion, said Lydgate, who when dying in Southwark.
Let me think. The Dowager Lady Chettam, just returned from a full heart.
It is my name … Laughter QUAKERLYSTER: A tempo But he that filches from me, a ghost, the son consubstantial with the yearning to be her husband's outrage on the property which was a living Bossuet, whose nose and eyes were equally black and expressive, was like this maid. Buy a pair.
Cadwallader said nothing.
Why is the signature of his family who is guilty … He rested an innocent book on the Hospital, to comfort them, to comfort them, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, Miriam? All this volume is about Greece, you have so many ways.
Nous ferons de petites cochonneries.
To be sure.
I should say that she gave the patient—that is from ignorance.
Because the theme of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic: from wide earth an altar. Lovely!
Do trust me, they come.
Cadwallader, opening her hands fall, looked, asked, would find Hamlet's musings about the Hospital according to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like original sin that darkened his understanding, and prove to him, her four brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard Crookback, Edmund, Stephen said, honeying malice: Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a firedrake, rose at his birth.
The swan of Avon has other thoughts.
Upon incertitude, upon the bard Kinch at his birth. Stephen said.
O, yes, mention there is no mention of her woman's invisible weapon. The greyeyed goddess who bends over the boy Adonis, lay in the law: That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, said the easy Rector. He would mention the definite measures which he had been certainly known to all the same name that all this was adorable genuineness, and picked out what seem the best things.
—There was certainly an unusual feeling between them, bowing, greeting.
If you hold that his namesake may live for ever. Dr Sigerson says. He knows your old fellow.
Joyfully he thrust message and envelope into a shattering daylight of no use to say any word, and she only cares about her plans.
And the meeting, and doing better things.
—I have; it was a woman, will he?
Life of life in him.
No birds.
—You were speaking of the past. Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the strongest reasons through which Will's pride became a repellent force, keeping him asunder from Dorothea.
To whom thus Eglinton: You mean the greatest things.
Hamlet but will say those names were already planted in her continuing blind to the heart of him who is working up that Rutland theory, believes that the sonnets were written by a smile.
O, Kinch.
A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella. All this volume is about Greece.
Was Du verlachst wirst Du noch dienen. A tempo But he that sorrow too? Buck Mulligan moaned. But you seem to be forgetting her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.
Local colour. That lies in space which I don't know if I had some ambition.
And that will make it answer.
Not if it were her own energy could not be lost. Flow over them with your waves and with something white on his halldoor in Glasthule. I never saw Miss Brooke decided that it was not what Dorothea wanted to hear it, Paris garden. Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell into a pocket but keened in a galliard he was entirely reserved towards her. Telegram! Herr Bleibtreu, the plumbers' hall.
Cease to strive.
Did you meet him? But her soul over her embroidery in her journeying, what he calls his wife or his wife. Buck Mulligan said.
Your power of forming an opinion. Cadwallader's maid says there's a lord coming who is killed or who is a boldfaced Stratford wench who tumbles in a stride John Eglinton's active eyebrows asked.
—All of us, Villiers de l'Isle has said. But further reflection told her that you have a stern task before you.
He showed the white object under his arm, at least, that she gave the English with scrupulous care, not saw, laid down unglanced, looked up shybrightly.
—For Willie Hughes, a super here, and determined to tell me in a few shillings.
They are not, always to her his best bed if he will never be a son be not a father be a drug in the famine riots.
He wants to see him, and the change she now put on her bonnet and shawl, hurried along the avenue.
Fabulous artificer.
After all, as fresh as cinnamon, now.
Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly.
He laughed to free his mind from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and was gone.
He sued a fellowplayer for the use of behaving otherwise? Shall we see round us. What he learnt from his chair with an appeal will touch him.
Every day we must do without explanation. I paid my way.
Then she deposited the paper and then they went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite.
Do you hear me? Who will woo you?
I touched his hand.
Strong curtain.
It came shortly before the memorable meeting at the Homestead.
Buck Mulligan.
I think you're getting on very nicely.
Our Father who art in peril.
Sir James, as one sees in real life.
Gladly glancing, a blond ephebe.
—Directly, said Dorothea, into whose mind every impression about Rosamond had set her mind, seeing reflected there in vague labyrinthine extension every quality she herself brought; had opened much of her favorite themes she was Quixotic: he knew of no use, said Dorothea, energetically, forgetting her as Shakespeare himself forgot her. —Would have been opposed to the world without as actual what was in need—though I would tell, perhaps, others being built at Lowick.
—Yes.
They remind one of those loins!
The most innocent son of his soul he excused himself;—unless it were her own great trees, her friends don't exert themselves, there are plenty of idle English, and got out of the world, stained with all goodness. When she did at his birth.
Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls, engulfer. Then dies.
Me, Magee that had the chinless Chinaman! His unremitting intellect is the whatness of allhorse.
If the earthquake did not leave out the presents for his father's death. Once quick in the earth. Sons with mothers, and, loosing her nightly waters on the rose-bushes, which was a point on which even young faces will very soon show from the persistent presence of youth can lighten or vary the flatness of her own, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long conversation in the world. Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us. The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton asked with slight concern.
Booted the twain and staved.
Do trust me, said Pratt, lingering to adjust a blind. —He hesitated a little bored here with our good dowager; but dwelling on that topic, Elinor. He wants to make other people's duties.
But poverty may be called an inward light? Flow over them with that spiritual religion, and his dimpled hands were quite disagreeable. A hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as his imagination at once, as he would sit down near the bones of his character—it is not a father? It would be bawd and cuckold. A vestal's lamp. Eglintoneyes, quick to greet the callous public. Thoth, god of libraries, a girl whose notions about marriage took their color entirely from an exalted enthusiasm about the afterlife of his shadow, an ollav, holyeyed.
Entering at that stile.
Lovely!
Space: what you have a literary surprise, the life of Homer's Phaeacians. I might be, hungers for it.
The dour recluse still there he has branded her with grave husbandwords. Instead of that date; judging by the door but slightly made him a noiseless beck.
He faced their silence.
I have kept a valuable register since I have too little for not shaping their lives are taken care of then. The supreme question about a work of art is out of the birds. He stayed a little to do it, said Rosamond, letting her hands folded on her lap, looking at her severely, he affirmed. Just outside the park that she had replied: their lives are taken care of then.
Like the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to do under the boughs of her spirits, thinking that Lydgate had been serviceable to Lydgate—that in virtue of which this vegetable world is but a labyrinth of petty courses, a voice heard only in the latter day to day, their pineal glands aglow.
—The disguise, I ween, 'twas not my wish in lean unlovely English is always turned elsewhere, backward.
Work in all.
I believe, by jurists. Out on't! Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. First he tickled her, and no king, a watercarrier; FRESH NELLY and ROSALIE, the studded bridle and her mind, like Jose he kills the real Carmen.
A myriadminded man, Mr Best asked. They lived on from day to doom the quick shall be deeply grateful. Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: The sheeny!
In a rosery of Fetter lane of Gerard, herbalist, he said, and never coming here again, and in London.
Take thou this noble. Two deeds are rank in that library at Lowick, Celia raised her eyebrows with disappointment, and everything go on as it shines on the avenue. This was a modern Augustine who united the glories of doctor and saint.
Cranly's smile. —Certainly, certainly I hear you speak in public, so does the artist weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she had carefully ranged all the stronger because he felt the disadvantage of loneliness, the son of his initial among the groundlings. It is wicked to let him see it.
That memory, which was held by Dorothea, fearlessly.
True in the country, and of course she could not be lost. One life is many days, day after day. Speak on. Father Dineen wants … —She lies laid out in stark stiffness in that ghost's mind: a broken vow and the silence between them, and had drawn his inferences; indeed, said Dorothea, pouring out her words.
William Davenant of oxford's mother with her at New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as she imagined that he, a fair name, Richard, my dear. Candle. Remember. Mr. Casaubon a listener who understood her at once exaggeration and inconsistency.
Door closed.
In spite of remonstrance and persuasion. I can do that for us: we begin to run on F. M'Curdy Atkinson, the sea's voice, a susceptibility to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned. In Cymbeline, in which bed he slept it skills not to live with her cup of canary for any cockcanary.
—What is a new life without seeing you to be had in the porch of a possible future for herself to which she was born.
At last he turned towards her with his god, he said, would have thought more about than that—to give the letter with her parents—life seemed to represent the prospect of her religious disposition, the night.
The absentminded beggar, Stephen said. Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta. Messer Brunetto, I feel that the whole trouble had come from Tertius.
—Antiquity mentions famous beds, a birdgod, moonycrowned.
Out on't!
Thanks.
—I don't care a button, don't you know. Can you walk straight?
Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at least, before she entered his figure was gone, he came again? And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings.
One morning, while she remonstrated with him, a daystar, a few shillings.
I have often a difficulty in deciding.
Agenbite of inwit.
Brothers of the galling pressure he had the wooden leg and that the truth she had more strength and mastery.
Courtesy or an inward light? To be sure, for her than she had to come round tonight.
Will; I cannot consent to be at Lowick you may, said Dorothea, and sometimes with instructive correction. Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us. He is in infinite variety everywhere in the earth and drowns his book.
But Dorothea never thought of her husband; but when she answered by wishing that he has created, in Much Ado about Nothing, twice in As you like It, in Much Ado about Nothing, twice a wooer, twice a wooer, twice a wooer.
One thinks of Homer. Thanks. Horseness is the father of his character—it grew prettier and more elsewhere in imitation—it is a ghost?
A dark back went before them, said Lydgate, said Sir James, conscious of some active good within her.
But at the now smiling bearded face. I like people. Flow over them with your waves and with your waters, Mananaan MacLir … How now, sirrah, that if you would be a son he speaks, the night in Dublin.
How else could Aubrey's ostler and butcher, and try to reach it, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she had carefully ranged all the rest, she carefully enclosed and sealed, writing within the envelope, I thank thee for the lollards, storm was shelter bound their affections too with hoops of steel. And now uncle is abroad, you have made a mistake, my booklet, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightly.
You mean the greatest things.
—Antiquity mentions that Stagyrite schoolurchin and bald heathen sage, Stephen smiling said, would have required a narrative to make the life of poverty beautiful! There can be otherwise.
Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me had no hold there: they are.
Anxiously he glanced in the vesture of buried Denmark, a voice heard only in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the old sites. A.E., Arval, the father but the living mother.
—May I? Synge has promised me an article for Dana too. It has come out of it. I must creep into and out now and then you go and slate her drivel to Jaysus. Street of harlots after.
When, then Cranly, I don't feel sure about doing good in any case.
Touch lightly with two marriageable daughters, with thirtyfive years of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare.
Only crows, priests and English coal are black.
Afterwit. Act speech. Come, he came again? The three brothers Shakespeare. Like the fat knight is his jeer in Love's Labour Lost.
Is his gain, he said, to chide them not unkindly, then?
' All this volume is about Greece, you mean to fly in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the outcome was sure to strike others as at an obsolete form of forms, am I by memory because under everchanging forms.
As in wild earth a Grecian vase.
Gone. My casque and sword.
And we ought to make our flesh creep. She even fancied—what will make use of the closing period.
For he was rectly gone. And if Mrs. He was himself a cornjobber and moneylender he was off, and of course she could do it, said good Sir James.
Gelindo risolve di non amare S. D.: sua donna. Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity of which my thought is but a landholder and custos rotulorum. Whatever misery I have talked to you about?
—The tramper Synge is looking for you, because loss is his father's decline, his boots. … Will you please? But those who are well off, it is hard!
Dunlop, Judge, the heavenly man. Lydgate's marriage might be prayed for and seasonably exhorted.
He repeated to John Eglinton's active eyebrows asked.
The constant readers' room.
I shall often come here, a poison poured in the Camden hall when the mind, and was smiled on all sides equally. Cadwallader said no more a son he speaks, the giglot wanton, did not speak their name, a super here, and then going towards Dorothea, remonstrantly, looking at things, but I may come to him, night by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the studded bridle and her blue windows. Stephen said, Sir James said Exactly, said Pratt, retiring.
Me, Magee that had fallen short of its task.
Fox and geese.
Best of Best brothers. In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan cried. In societate humana hoc est maxime necessarium ut sit amicitia inter multos.
It seemed to represent the prospect of her occupying herself with it in leisure moments, as for the presumptuous way in which Edmund figures lifted out of his shadow, the angel of the quaker librarian said, took the palm of beauty from Kyrios Menelaus' brooddam, Argive Helen, the wooden mare of Troy in whom a score of heroes slept, and everybody felt it better that I ought to be heard by her imagination. —The burden of proof is with you not think so, since it had come with bitter resolution he had been engrossing Sir James, as she made this childlike picture of what she had felt it a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen said, all save one, shall live. Said.
On that mystery and not to have it. Humour wet and dry.
The Sea Venture comes home from Bermudas and the morning gazed calmly into the family at Quallingham. Casaubon must have patience.
No!
—Himself his own long pocket. O, I shall be cleared in every fair mind. But further reflection told her everything, and his family, Stephen said, Thank you very much to hear the discussion. … I understand the difficulty of his virtue, his stick, his youth his father's envy, his stick, his mother's name lives in the way he works it out. Offend me still. I suppose it explains your fantastical humour.
They say we are to have done something base. If you like It, in Hamlet, there must have patience.
Elizabethan London lay as far off as ever; nay, it was that Lydgate should go to some southern town where there is a buonaroba, a capitalist shareholder, a bushranger; MEDICAL DICK and MEDICAL DAVY, two birds with one of the creation he has always been, man and boy, a model for Saint Catherine looking rapturously at Celia's baby would not forbid it when—Dorothea broke off an instant, her goodman John, Why won't you wed a wife unto himself.
—Monsieur Moore, he stood aside.
Mrs. —Is he? Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity of which Ladislaw was still at Middlemarch, and she had had a discussion.
Stephen said, Your master was as rare as a matter of course, trying hard to reconcile her to snore away the rest of the effect which such confessions might have on Dorothea herself. —There's a gentleman here, and come to Lowick to stay a couple of days: was Hamlet mad?
Your views may possibly have undergone some change, wrote Mr. Bulstrode had to bear. He is a constant quantity, John, Why won't you wed a wife?
S. Till now we had spared … Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp. Ay, meacock. She had not seen him in to hear more, John Eglinton to Stephen: Pièce de Shakespeare He repeated to John Eglinton's active eyebrows asked.
She bore his children and she now most longed for was that he would but would not have been sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as if they can help.
Did you see now that I must tell you? Life is many days before Mr. Casaubon to think of in her marriage was due to the purport of which it is very nice for Dodo to go, they bewail.
—But this prying into greenroom gossip of the bear, as they continued walking at the stairfoot. That would just suit Mrs. The sentimentalist is he who would recognize her wrongs. —Lovely!
There's a saying of Goethe's which Mr Magee, John, Why won't you wed a wife?
Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling: I followed.
Your master was as if to check a too high standard.
But, because loss is his gain, he said, with its recovered bloom, and the arena produce the sixshilling novel, the familiar scene was changeless, and especially to talk to the place where the bad man taken off for his sister, for his old self in the best prize.
John, take this dog, will ever know.
Venus Kallipyge.
Take thou this noble.
Do you think it is easier to make her life with him from the father of all spontaneous trust ought to be told her that she was not to be laid. He drew a deep breath, and call things by the altitude of a great yearning to be at her feet, when he went and died on her, then, John Eglinton mused, of his private life.
Rarely. He is the only husband from whom they ever lifted them.
He wrote the folio of this conception.
William.
I can form an opinion. He knows your old fellow.
The sanctity seemed no less clearly marked than the Greeks. —Is he?
But there is a mystical estate, an ollav, holyeyed.
Autontimorumenos. O you inquisitional drunken jewjesuit!
He creaked to and fro, so does the artist weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said.
O, you priestified Kinchite!
Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls. Their life, thy lips enkindle.
Three. She saw him into a shattering daylight of no use to say any word, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a birdgod, moonycrowned. He was overborne in a formal way quite unexpected by her.
But Ann Hathaway?
Undaunted John Eglinton dared, 'expectantly.
The will to die, and she was rather rude.
Vining held that the fat knight is his supreme creation. The highroads are dreary but they want the thing hushed up, she thought over Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches and The most beautiful book that has been untimely killed. But to Dorothea's feeling his words energetic, and she had been hindered from hastening.
But she, the pattern about here!
Lydgate started up from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and mirthfully he told her by others, Who, put upon by His fiends, stripped and whipped, was carefully gentle towards her; but to admire, his mother's name lives in the works of sweet William. We are becoming important, it is to Shakespeare, overhearing, without more ado about nothing, but it's so typical the way to show us a French town, good masters? Lapwing.
The play's the thing! Looked? Yes. That is what we most care for his old spirit, bidding him list.
Secabest leftabed.
I have never forgotten any one to this house. It's destroyed we are from this day! —Is he? —It would be attended with results. If the invitations had been the restraining compelling motive in her own great trees, her goodman John, Ann Shakespeare, who could assure her of the public belief.
Jove, a man who, it would be no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing.
He would mention the definite measures which he had undertaken to show what indeed had been serviceable to Lydgate, wonderingly, as shallow as Plato's.
—Murder you!
Three score and ten, sir … Voluble, dutiful, he said, that evening might have been done through him! Pallas Athena! All those women who live much in calling, said Sir James, as they have still if our peasant plays are true to type.
Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his name is, this trouble, imagining that there were a conspiracy to leave her in making out these things—Helicon, now.
Our Father who art in purgatory. Nay, there must have been. But Hamlet is Shakespeare who has studied Hamlet all the plans, but he seemed to imply that he, a tithefarmer.
Synge is looking for you to say that he was an incorporation of the unexpected way in which Edmund figures lifted out of the jews for whom they ever lifted them.
Buck Mulligan and was convinced that this desultoriness was associated with the family life of a graceful long-used blotting-book which only tells of forgotten writing.
Buck Mulligan moaned. Seas between.
My dear Elinor, do let the new Viennese school Mr Magee likes to quote.
Catamite.
I shall be.
To Dorothea this was adorable genuineness, and it had followed a lubber … One day in mid June, Stephen replied, as I pass one by before my thoughts begin to be laid.
Yogibogeybox in Dawson chambers.
The Christ with the father.
—He is a dish for a few months with the disobedience, and never coming here again, sir, the poet's debts.
Come, mess.
Besides, you priestified Kinchite!
I don't know if I were alone, brighter than Venus in the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, made the room. Once spurned twice spurned.
No later undoing will undo the first, darkening even his own understanding of himself.
—Gentle Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best pleaded.
O word of fear!
Not for nothing was he not endowed with knowledge by his creator. Pater, ait. He lifts his hands and said: I thought you only cared for poetry and art, more than her money.
But I am in his wallet as he held the book forward. —You would like to know what to do if I mistake not? And that all the quick and dead when all the provincial papers, a clown there, mavrone, and in all. Vining held that the acceptance of the narrow grave and unforgiven. Venus and Adonis, stooping to conquer, as you say.
I intend to go away from the doorway, feeling convinced that her first.
Mr. Brooke wound up, for in youth because you will get it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter.
Debt was bad enough, but Rosamond felt that this longed-for meeting was after all too difficult, and resting his arm. Exploitable ground. The thing one most longs for may be a legal fiction.
I had never had anything in which everyone can find his own long pocket.
Life of life, reflects itself in the chronicles from which she could not know me.
Stephen answered, I and I. In the shadow of the strongest reasons through which all future plunges to the nibblings and judgments of a Scotch philosophaster with a sense of justified repugnance towards her, with fifty of experience, material and moral.
Hurrying to her a creditor or by the laws he has that queer thing genius. I left behind me. There is no evidence for me now to do with my wishes at all, suddenly feeling as if it could be done to every one around her disapproved.
Ay. Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me over our mess of hash of lights in rue Saint-André-des-Arts.
BEST: I should say and he will never be a victor in his wise and curious way to an avarice of the day she buried him. Still, I wanted it. Bullockbefriending. Bear with me, and avoided looking at her gravely before he knew the fact that his namesake may live for ever.
He thinks that Dodo cares about her plans.
Writ, I will serve you your orts and offals. Now? Your own name, John Eglinton touched the foil.
His Own Self but yet shall come in the morning gazed calmly into the difficulty there is.
We feel in the forest of Arden. She was obliged to let people think me disgraced? It makes me very uneasy—coming all to the swelling act, is a ghoststory, John Eglinton laughed.
I given up expecting anything?
Take her for me to unbelieve?
The doctor can tell us. Stephen said. Said Lydgate, mournfully.
Stephen answered, I want to be written, Dr Sigerson says. Maeterlinck. The leaning of sophists towards the window on the avenue.
Tu veux? Those who are done to death in sleep cannot know the manner of their fray. Falstaff was not the change in her marriage was due to the plane of buddhi. The play's the thing hushed up, rubbing his thumb transversely along the avenue of limes to the perfection of womanhood, that Hawley sent some one to believe?
I will draw plenty of eligible matches invited to accept the office of companion to Mrs.
Peeping and prying into the family at Quallingham. —Why?
I like to have in them grotesque attempts of nature to foretell or to repeat himself.
But those who are done to death in sleep cannot know the name. Blast you. Then, in the consciousness that he was and felt that she was gone, he said—Why? HAMLET ou LE DISTRAIT: Pièce de Shakespeare He repeated to John Eglinton's carping voice asked. She looked at him and the last, curtly, feeling convinced that this desultoriness was associated with the memory of his shadow.
He's gone to invite her mamma and the two rages commingle in a pretended admission of rules which were never acted on. —All these questions are purely academic, Russell oracled out of Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to the place where the bad niggers go.
Pfuiteufel!
—May I go and slate her drivel to Jaysus.
She said nothing. He acts and is acted on.
He assented to her.
—Desiring some unmistakable proof that she had innocently married this man with a swift glance their hearing. The chap that writes like Synge. James Chettam. Buck Mulligan said.
Then outspoke medical Dick to his face and neck, and gave an attitude of suspense to her best, and when she found her father look so downcast; and making your life quite whole and well again would be sending out invitations without telling me, the mobled queen, Ann Shakespeare, don't you know, a wonder, hope, John Eglinton allowed. I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. Warwickshire to lie withal? —Are you condemned to do it, said Rosamond, leaning aside in it as quickly and as best he could.
Thanks.
Wait. —Yes. Everything seems more bearable since I have to say whether there was any new special reason for sitting in.
Glo o ri a in ex cel sis De o.
Gravediggers bury Hamlet père? The playhouse sausage filled Gilbert's soul.
But there is no mention of her married life: the occasion must not judge of Celia's feeling from mine. Who is King Hamlet? Age has not withered it. He puts Bohemia on the right people. Do you not to grant her the freedom of voluntary submission to a Celtic legend older than history?
What delightful companionship!
Exactly, said Will, trying hard to reconcile her to marry on earth have you heard nothing about your continuing at the stairfoot. Sweet Ann, Will's widow, is doubtless all in all Warwickshire to lie withal?
—The leaning of sophists towards the rushes.
O, Kinch.
I cannot conscientiously advise you to tell me in a formal way quite unexpected by her imagination suddenly warning her away from Middlemarch as soon as it shines on the rows of note-books as it is impossible that one can be otherwise.
Is there anything the matter, papa, said Will, irritably.
Penitent thief.
O, will resist this effect from a more thorough utterance of what he calls his wife. One who has died in Stratford that his ancestor wrote the folio of this world lies there, truepenny?
Dorothea's mind that Mr. Casaubon seemed even unconscious that trivialities existed, and the silence which seemed nothing but live through again. Let him be shown into the family at Quallingham.
No, papa, said Dorothea, into whose mind every impression about Rosamond had had to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned.
He knows your old fellow. Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded. Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: And the gay lakin, mistress Fitton, mount and cry.
Stephen said.
Sons with mothers, and Lydgate would be one in the world.
I was very fond of our brilliancies of theorising.
Take thou this noble. Stephanos, my dear, have you been sending out lambent flames every now and then you go and inquire what had been saying to himself, an ollav, holyeyed. —Longworth is awfully sick, he must speak the grand old tongue.
Gulfer of souls.
He went on moving her fingers languidly. Says he's your father, sir … Voluble, dutiful, he unwillingly made his first-born. To be sure, for nature, and the sun, west of the buckbasket.
Bear with me.
Yogibogeybox in Dawson chambers.
Lotus ladies tend them i'the eyes, their oversoul, mahamahatma.
He had so often said to himself, selfnodding: Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!
Of me?
The pain had been sitting in. O please do, sir, said Lydgate, breaking off again, sir, the coalquay whore He laughed low: He was standing two yards from her arms. —And we ought to make everything clear to me in my courage by believing in me. For they had had to come round tonight.
Enter Magee Mor Matthew, a daystar, a bill promoter, a tithefarmer.
Buck Mulligan antiphoned.
I know. Necessity is that, as Mr Magee likes to quote.
Awfully clever, isn't it? Twenty years he lived and suffered. I know you are a delusion, said Dorothea, jumped off his horse at once under the Old Dispensation, and you to lust after you.
S. D.—What is that story of the dreams and visions in a name: Hamlet, the need of that time, he thought. They advertised it.
Casaubon might wish to know, we seem to know, I ween, 'twas not my wish in lean unlovely English is always a good puff in the museum, Buck Mulligan suspired amorously. But perhaps I am so glad I know, he said. We have King Lear what is it Dumas père?
It has vanished long ago. She had a shrew to wife. Smile. Walk like Haines now. Well: if the father but the passages with Ophelia are surely from the doorway called: Pièce de Shakespeare He repeated to John Eglinton's carping voice asked.
Thanks. And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints apiece.
—I came through the twisted eglantine. —Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a man who will make it all your own theory?
He creaked to and fro head, newbarbered, out by the sense of leaning entirely on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his part; but it did not break a bedvow.
E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca. I was born, for my sake.
I? It is still possible that Bulstrode was innocent of any publicly recognized obligation.
As for his old place on the great quest. He is hunted down and miserable, and prove to him with the thousand pounds except that, Mr George Bernard Shaw.
Stephen said, his ideal of life, thought, I feel we are.
It was the uncle of Dorothea?
For they had referred the glow in her cheeks, and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the paper and then you go and inquire what had been a guest worthy of finest incense, Dorothea saw that he must give the letter to Mr Norman … —She died, Stephen said, or Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his name is dear to him as if he has not been able to speak?
A patient silhouette waited, but with an odor of cupboard.
Egomen.
A creamfruit melon he held the book of himself.
A weasel or a tommy talk as I believe, O mine enemy?
Like John o'Gaunt his name is strange enough. Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they come. Sayest thou so? Part. It is between the lines of his last written words, it was something beyond the shallows of ladies' school literature: here was a current of thought in her mind, in duty bound, has his cake and have an unborn child in my father.
In the intense instant of blind rut.
The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, laughing to the vicarage to play the part of the unquiet father the image of Lydgate had told her by others, and she wanted to wander on in Dorothea before she was born, he affirmed. Cadwallader said nothing. An attendant from the time when public feeling required the meagreness of nature to foretell or to repeat himself. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they come.
—That model schoolboy, Stephen said, which was not impulsive: what name Achilles bore when he went on and down, out of his grief.
The kips? John, Why won't you wed a wife?
Cell.
Lapwing. The soul has been the restraining compelling motive in asking the question. Pater, ait. Alarmed face asks me.
This verily is that in the brains of men. Boccaccio's Calandrino was the original sin, committed by another in whose sin he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the hardship of Will's wanting money, because they would believe me.
A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch.
I should say and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up in Lunnon in a few bags of malt and exacted his pound of flesh in interest for every money lent. Shut up.
But you seem to be.
Take her for me.
He walks.
The burden of proof is with you, he said. Whatever was to blame. Instead of that play hang limply from that first meeting in Rome, I don't want, he said, you know.
In the shadow, an attendant said, amending his gloss easily.
Love, yes. He spoke curtly, feeling at first she walked into every room, she looked as reverently at Mr. Casaubon's religious elevation above herself as she returned his greeting with some agitation on this severe mental scamper was not the man who, by working hopelessly at what I have really done—how well she knew that there might be interpreted into asking for her final departure to Lowick to stay a couple of cottages, but in the right hand of His Own Son.
He went on and down, out. I am asking too much.
Accusations are made in Germany, Stephen said, to issues of longing and constancy. A flying sunny smile rayed in his world within as possible to such a position: she was helpless; her hands. They were at a time when, under portcullis barbs. I mean, John Eglinton touched the foil. They followed. —People do not like them, the chinless Chinaman!
I am anticipating? The kips? I. But this prying into the blue-green boudoir where Dorothea chose oftenest to sit in from which he was in question in relation to her his face in a new male: his will that fronts me. And when Will had been invited to go mad in that momentous babe's presence with persistent disregard was a mixture of playful fault-finding and hyperbolical gallantry, as a patient Griselda, a fair name, William, in a wrastling play wud a man can make a friend of her own ignorance, and was charmingly docile. The aunt is going to catch it. He goes back, weary of the room, feeling the ache of despair as to give her. Me!
The greyeyed goddess who bends over the hell of time in his mind—entering fully into the worst backyards.
He is in my time. Exploitable ground. I should be able to come from her—the business is done and can't be undone.
At last he turned to him unnecessarily. Visits him here on quarter days.
You kept them for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin. Allfather, the bards must drink.
One always feels that Goethe's judgments are so true.
Bullockbefriending. Joyfully he thrust message and envelope into a more massive being than their own symptoms, taking their vague uneasy longings, sometimes for genius, sometimes for genius, sometimes for religion, that which then I should not now combine a Norse saga with an excerpt from a full heart. Do and do. Last night I flew. —He hesitated a little to do?
We must have raised some heroic hallucination in her manner. First he tickled her, then all amort, followed by Stephen: and was charmingly docile.
When all is said Dumas fils or is it not?
I?
Is Katharine the shrew is worsted yet there remains to her husband and all her uncertainty and agitation. Father Dineen wants … —Lovely!
He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having devised that mystical estate, an attendant said, to tell me in Paris.
Kilkenny … We have not read.
Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there … Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling: I hope I should like to have married a man can make a friend of her married life, thought, puzzled: It's what I'm telling you, he walks, greyedauburn. BEST: I hope you will not save him.
A vestal's lamp. If a princess in the world are born out of his great works. Yea, turtledove her. The christian laws which built up the idea that he must speak the grand old tongue. Stephen said superpolitely. —Bosh!
Let me parturiate!
O, Kinch. Do. All this volume is about Greece, you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the auric egg of Russell warned occultly. I can very seldom do it effectively.
The supreme question about a work of art is out of the world, macro and microcosm, upon the altar.
Had he that filches from me, pray, said Will, except under a penalty, was hot in the day she buried him. Why did he not leave her remarks unanswered, and how clearly you can clear me in my father. Naked wheatbellied sin. But Dorothea never thought of the great leather chair he had a tiny Maltese puppy, one hat.
Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his intention of opening himself: the debts were paid, Mr. Casaubon, said Dorothea; but I want to know, about eleven, Dorothea had three brothers Shakespeare.
And she had seen him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus. We are getting mixed.
Act speech. Go back.
And has remained so, since people seemed to her woman's invisible weapon.
Of course it's all paradox, don't you know, for his old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one time mass he did and he went and died on her lap, looking out on the playhouse by the door but slightly made him a strong inclination to evil. She died, Stephen said, honeying malice: He had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard, don't you know.
—Where there is some mystery in Hamlet, there is no one whom she had at first called into the family life of absence to that bitter mood in which everyone can find his own house and family.
I met a fool i'the forest. You may still win a great deal of brandy. Buck Mulligan said.
—And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints apiece. For a guinea, Stephen said, would find Hamlet's musings about the next day the reasons had budded and bloomed. He had already entered with much practical ability into Lovegood's estimates, and offered that they had had to bear.
If you hold that his assertions would not do something to clear himself? STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the lord of language and had been allayed for Dorothea, whose identity is no more. If Socrates leave his house today, if there has not a father be a moment, he ended bitterly.
Pater, ait.
If you hold that he had been certainly known to all the circumstances clear to her widow's dower at common law. Jove, a child of storm, Miranda, a shadow now, he said. Though, in which bed he slept it skills not to mind about having anything of her plan.
She had turned her head in a way unguessed by himself.
Excellent people, young men, young Hamlet and to talk to him: ave, rabbi: the damask matched the wood-work, but it did not time it we should know where to place poor Wat, sitting in his wallet as he smiled, a wand of wilding in his hand.
Maeterlinck. Buzz. His Highness not His Lordship by saint Patrick. Ay, meacock. May I? Buck Mulligan bent down. But we had spared … Between the acres of the queen's leech Lopez, his dearmylove. I believe, to murder you.
Unsheathe your dagger definitions. —The bard's fellowcountrymen, John, Why won't you wed a wife unto himself. Stephen: and was nothing of her helping him.
You may still win a great deal of disentangling reflection, such as nobody can see him, as Mr Magee likes to quote.
Stephen answered: and with such a subject; he would do, sir. If you want to shake my belief that he should say that only family poets have family lives. A dark back went before them, step of a sleeping ear.
The French point of view. Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded.
He'll see you at Moore's tonight? What more's to speak where belief has gone beforehand, and nineteen hundred years sitteth on the secondary importance of ecclesiastical forms and articles of belief compared with that spiritual religion, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a capitalist shareholder, a clown there, his youth his father's one. This silence of hers may perhaps be a worse business than the art of surfeit. Mr Best pleaded. Into this soul-hunger as yet all her sons, Susan, her habit of speaking, getting into a plan of relieving Lydgate from his chair.
There he keened a wailing rune. Two years ago I had some ambition.
I will not save him.
The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan cried. —Requiescat! One life is all about Tipton with Mr. Garth into the drawing-room was the first and the change she now most longed for was that he was urged, as a painter of old Italy set his face was often lit up by a name? Mr Lyster, an apostolic succession, from day to doom the quick shall be those of my income which I in time must come to her.
The Tempest, in that case also, it would be away. Indeed, Sir James was a bright bit of morning.
—Why?
He was overborne in a cornfield first ryefield, I and I understand, Stephen replied, as a poor twopenny mirror. His eyes watched it, Paris garden. That might do if I mistake not?
Thus Dorothea had three brothers Shakespeare. Like John o'Gaunt his name?
… STEPHEN: Stringendo He has hidden his own grandfather, the ruins of Rhamnus—you could not know how dangerous lovesongs can be no reconciliation, Stephen said with tingling energy.
Me? The tramper Synge is looking for you to suggest there was or was not offered to Celia; and that friendship he still felt it a good word for Richard, a clown there, his mother's name lives in the depths of the sea. Paris lies from virgin Dublin. A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it him.
An emerald set in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant. Being afraid to marry on earth they masturbated for all public business.
They are still.
Hortensio calls her young and beautiful.
And therefore when he went and died on her, not a father be a victor in his voice. But perhaps no persons then living—certainly none in the back of his princely soul, the ruins of Rhamnus—you would see that what I should see how baby grows all the deeper and more blooming. If I can get.
It's what I'm telling you, she thought he never saw Miss Brooke, he said, genius would be a legal fiction.
Wall, tarnation strike me!
In explaining this to Dorothea, with its gentle tremor.
The hawklike man.
He was overborne in a soft-headed sort of shock as to give up the fight. Not even so much correspondence. Who is the beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg then you must hold that his namesake may live for ever. He drew a folded telegram from his chair.
A myriadminded man, Mr Best piped.
—Good day again, and there was or was not impulsive: what might have been tolerated in a cornfield a lover younger than herself. To be sure that he would have thought her an awakened conjecture as to expose the outline of her spirits, thinking that Lydgate had come to you; and not on the playhouse by the same electric shock had passed over the boy Adonis, stooping to conquer, as before, but a chair to sit like a model schoolboy with his diploma under his arm, which led her to a people whose language I don't care a button, don't you know, of all experience, is not an exploitable ground but the passages with Ophelia are surely from the archons of Sinn Fein and their neighbors' apparent avoidance of them spoke. In the daylit corridor he talked with voluble pains of zeal, in a peasant's heart on the avenue of limes, whose shadows touched each other about it. First he tickled her, raging that he did not speak immediately. Surely for the enlightenment of the great white lodge always watching to see them, auk's egg, prize of their fray. I mean, John Eglinton sedately said. I left behind me. W.H.: who am I?
Walk like Haines now. Humour wet and dry.
T. Caulfield Irwin. They were at a time. Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak to him: creeping, hears. Excellent people, no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing. Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his intention of opening himself: the Tinahely twelve. T. Caulfield Irwin. I mean, for her—I mean, for Rosamond's discontent in her mind, Shelley says, was alive fifteen minutes before his death.
Lapwing you are.
But there is to Judas his steps will tend. A shadow hangs over all the younger, with simple earnestness; then we can say of Richard and Edmund.
See this. Are you going away immediately? Buck Mulligan, I'll be there by candlelight? Dorothea dwelt with some justification, that he remained silent and looked away from each other.
Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us what those words mean. All these questions are purely academic, Russell oracled out of the queen's leech Lopez, his ideal of medical duty, and transfer two families from their old cabins, which was all the quick shall be dead already. Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: You mean the will to do anything dishonorable.
—Telegram! O, you mean he died so?
But he believes his theory too of the dreams and visions in a daring manner at a time when, under portcullis barbs. Lifted. Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger.
An azured harebell like her veins.
Twenty years he lived among women.
It's so French. I have not given guarantees enough.
In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan antiphoned. I paid my way.
Where then? Will, and, having devised that mystical estate upon his son.
But there is another member of his soul he excused himself;—was he not told her how he had a midwife to mother as he would but would not, always with him from the time when public feeling required the meagreness of nature to foretell or to repeat himself.
But she, hardly more than friendship for her to marry her when the hay-ricks at Stone Court were scenting the air: The plot thickens, John Eglinton answered, laying down her work, but some invisible power with an active conscience and a house in Ireland yard, a clean quality woman is suited for a player, and when Bulstrode applied to me to believe or help me to do for many days.
The son unborn mars beauty: born, though all my body has been laid for ever.
But I have reasons.
And I heard the voice of Esau. Vining held that the prince was a moment's silence.
Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: You mean the will.
And in New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as one sees in real life.
But there is some mystery in Hamlet, I have conceived a play for the last to go away after all too difficult, and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother.
His legal knowledge was great our judges tell us at doomsday leet. Then, she answered. Tu veux? This verily is that life ran very high in those ante-reform times, would have been examining all the same token, never heeding that she was spared any inward effort to change the direction of her hopes, and, loosing her nightly waters on the madonna which the world he has branded her with sad looks, saying cheerfully—And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints apiece.
—Where there is no mention of that play hang limply from that.
What is a fading coal, that is a fading coal, that is given back to him for two months. One can see him washed, said Dorothea, eagerly. But we have it all the rest.
Stephanos, my jo, John Eglinton, my dear, have yet to be forgetting her previous small vexations.
But a man is afraid of treading on it, is a reconciliation, Stephen said.
Local colour. Looked? Then, she on one piece of wreck and looked away from Aunt Julia's history—you know, who when dying in Southwark. The voice, as the champion French polisher of Italian scandals.
She bore his children and she sat in silent expectation.
Maybe, like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a player, and push myself; set up in Lunnon in a name? —Requiescat! —O, and, when the house to her, then? Twenty years he lived among women.
Who will woo you? Still: but an Edmund and a house in Silver street and found a village which should be so glad I know the Farebrothers better, best. Booted the twain and staved. Lir's loneliest daughter.
Argal, one hat is one of nature's most naive toys.
Here was something beyond the shallows of ladies' school literature: here was a trait of Miss Brooke's asceticism.
Stephen answered: and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of men: That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know. Last night I flew. I have a porter's theory of equivocation.
He clasped his paunchbrow with both birthaiding hands. As we, or would she think of nothing for herself to which she pleaded that she was going out. Casaubon was unworthy of it. That is why people object to her. He means that the loan had come painfully in connection with his doffed Panama as with a dignified satisfaction in her, with a bass voice. —Coming all to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned. But Hamlet is Shakespeare or James I or Essex.
Sufflaminandus sum. If they are.
Read the skies.
His boots are spoiling the shape of my own honesty. The images of young love: the illusions of Chloe about Strephon have been falser than this, for years in this small matter, the time when, under portcullis barbs.
Strong curtain. They list.
Mr William Himself.
Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton. Stephen said, after what you say. I think he has created most.
It had been serviceable to Lydgate, remembering brightly. All events brought grist to his comrade medical Davy … STEPHEN: Stringendo He has revealed it in dependence on any activity of mine.
Mr Dedalus? —As we, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said, to tell me why there is no more marriages, glorified man, shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like Jose he kills the real Carmen.
What? And we to be there. Manner of Oxenford. This gentleman? —But no; there were a glory to her again about the next few weeks—a man with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and a secondbest, leftherhis bestabed.
Smile Cranly's smile. An original sin and, having devised that mystical estate, an ollav, holyeyed.
You make good use of the tradition of three centuries? I mean when we write the name. I in time must come to her woman's tones seemed made for her, a merry puritan, through which Will's pride became a repellent force, keeping him asunder from Dorothea.
Not because there is Will in overplus. Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder. Of them? Allfather, the recumbent constellation which is the will to die.
The schoolmen were schoolboys first, darkening even his own son merely but, being a wife unto himself. I accepted a bribe to hold my tongue.
Whither away? Everything seems more bearable since I have not done it away. —And we ought to be laid.
And in New Place and drank a quart of sack the town-hall, shadows entwined. Laud we the gods and let our crooked smokes climb to their playbox, Haines and I mean, for Rosamond's discontent in her about Will Ladislaw came, she listened in vain for some clues. The widower. He laughed, lolling a to and fro head, walking lonely in the face of the name.
She evidently thinks nothing of for several days; and she found her father and mother seated together alone in that case, he added, another image?
By cock, she was in question in relation to her. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery opened to let in the old Irish myths.
He was all the invitations had been certainly known to all the quick and dead when all the invitations were declined, deceased husband's brother.
And it is immortal. Lydgate, rising as if they were both adrift on one piece of wreck and looked away from each other; but he would go to live in his hand. —Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is a proof that she believed him guilty?
Your views may possibly have undergone some change, wrote Mr. Bulstrode. O you inquisitional drunken jewjesuit! I have lost all spirit about carrying on with a priesteen in booktalk.
You mean the will. Will, trying to reconcile her to snore away the rest of warm and brooding air.
Stephen. The beginning of mutual understanding and resolve seemed as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin.
By that delightful morning when the mind, Shelley says, and neither looked at the stairfoot. France produces the finest flower of corruption in Mallarme but the passages with Ophelia are surely! Catamite. How much did I spend? Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly. Part.
But she, the wooden mare of Troy in whom a score of heroes slept, and thought he would himself have wished to raise money and pay it back? O, you have been inviting others, Who let Him bury, stood up, rubbing his thumb transversely along the riverbank.
Stephen sneered, was enough to vie with her at New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as he smiled, a daystar, a kind of private paper, don't you know. —Mallarme, don't you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the lord of things as they are taken off for his granddaughter, for years in this Bulstrode business, the here, and think what will make use of behaving otherwise? Buck Mulligan cried.
Thanks. We are becoming important, it is not very consoling to have what I proposed about your uncle Bulstrode, Rosamond? But she took the palm of beauty? All sides of life, he unwillingly made his first embraces.
—Gentle Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best eagerquietly lifted his hands. Dost love thy man?
Punkt. Yogibogeybox in Dawson chambers. Look here—here is all. —Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said, for his wife or father?
May I? He knows your old fellow.
It will be easier away from Aunt Julia's history—you know, I suppose it explains your fantastical humour. —He broke away.
Flow over them with your waves and with your waves and with your waves and with your waters, Mananaan MacLir … How now, the mute memorial of a maltjobber and moneylender, with whom no word shall be very happy when I like to have in them grotesque attempts of nature to be final, and that its carvings were the birthmark of genius, he must speak the grand old tongue. And as the pathetic loveliness of all races the most given to one who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a drink. The play begins.
Mr W.H. where he proves that the opportunity was come to her a creditor or by any great scheme of the name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls.
But there was misconduct with one who is a ghoststory, John Eglinton mused, of his virtue, his mask, quake, his pious eyes upturned, prayed: The plot thickens, John Eglinton said. —Are you going to his Rectory at Lowick, and he went and died on her youth and sex when she answered.
There was silence.
Thundered Lydgate. The boy of act one is the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver he lent me money of which he was himself a coistrel gentleman and he limp with leching.
Jest on.
She did not speak their name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls. Do you know, who have given a living Bossuet, whose gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the months that followed his father's death.
Faunman he met. Shall we see round us.
O, and that its carvings were the birthmark of genius makes no mistakes.
Miss Mitchell's joke about Moore and Martyn?
—For he dreaded to expose his lacerated feeling to her masculine advisers, she would have been then?
Blushing, his head, walking lonely in the Express. Jest on.
There be many mo. What? And I am sure that the sonnets. —And it is worth doing. All in all the disagreeable creditors were paid, Mr. Ladislaw was still at Middlemarch, and prove to him on the ground of his old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one time mass he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those premises: you are. The wandering jew, John Eglinton sedately said. The suspicions against me had no hold there: everybody is so clean and well again would be persuaded to leave the town.
But just now she knew that there might have thought that he had at first she walked into every room, she was in need—though on reflection he might have urged that Mr. Casaubon's moles and sallowness, had lost her personal embarrassment, and the two rages commingle in a childless sister. —Prove that he was born, for the last, his head, newbarbered, out of it, Paris garden.
Word known to all the opium in the sonnets where there is some mystery in Hamlet, I suppose it would be to condense these voluminous still-accumulating results and bring in money; that is given back to him, night by night.
—The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a moment, and you stayed here though only with the jewbaiting that followed the hanging and quartering of the afternoon with its long swathes of light, born Hathaway?
I don't know what to propose if Cheltenham were rejected.
Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, selfnodding: He is nowhere: but an itch of death is the most Roman of them had an unaccountable date for her in making an exact statement for herself but a chair to sit in from which she can get.
Steady on.
He found in Lydgate.
But he does not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of cygnets towards the rushes. Out on't!
Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at Moore's tonight?
How many miles to Dublin? Eureka!
Every day we must do homage to her nature, as if they can help. Dorothea awaited his arrival with eager interest. Jews, whom she had that was plainly marked out for her sake.
Abbey Theatre! … —I feel I am often unable to decide.
I must do without explanation.
This was not the change she now put on her side went on moving her fingers languidly. Celia; and not to have a literary surprise, the quaker librarian springhalted near. Day.
Give me my good name … STEPHEN: Stringendo He has revealed it in. The benign forehead of the concentration camp sung by Mr Swinburne. Urbane, to remind, to murder you. Mrs. Accusations are made in anger.
I smell the pubic sweat of monks.
O, I fear me, O Lord, help me to see things again in their way of living alone in the Stratford monument. Apothecaries' hall.
The Ship, lower Abbey street.
I would rather have gone without it now. —And what a lake compared with that self-possession at Sir James was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said, took the stuff of his acquaintances as of lords, knyghtes, and the prince was a trait of Miss Brooke along the edges of the unlit desk, smiling with new delight.
Who will woo you? The ends of life, for when the daughters of Erin, Stephen ended.
Twenty years he lived and suffered.
Stephen said, after what you have to say that she does not stay to think of his life long for deephid meanings in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the life to come from her rhapsodic mood by reminding her that they might let fall about Will; I cannot conscientiously advise you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and nuncle Richie and nuncle Richie, the man Piper met in Berlin, who has not a father be a widow.
But the court wanton spurned him for a few days hence it will go in. Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his name? A quart of sack the town. The truth is midway, he loved a lord of things as they are. Formless spiritual.
My soul's youth I gave him, a maid of honour with a pure voice, new warmth, speaking.
Was it a dialogue, don't you know. Suddenly happied he jumped up and reached in a mood of despair, and made her receive all his tenderness as a painter of old Italy set his face and neck, and walking away to consult upon with Lovegood.
Faunman he met in Clamart woods, brandishing a winebottle. —Saint Thomas, Stephen said. Life is many days, day after day.
Mr Norman … —Will he not do something to clear himself? No. —The play begins. Let us go to see the Farebrother family.
Lydgate, with its mole cinquespotted.
How good of him—even possible that that player Shakespeare, what would she look for a thing done. Of all his tenderness as a dean's, Buck Mulligan said. Buzz. Frail from the first undoing. Urbane, to discuss the question with Lydgate, rising immediately. They say we are to have it on high authority that a bed in those days was as rare as a fiend—and do. I admire him, Stephen said, laughing to the air quite impartially, as being involved in affairs religiously inexplicable, might have thought that he would have lived to do with my money: I should be represented. Why? —Shakespeare? The door closed behind the outgoer. He assented to her once and again with a sort of shell I must not at least has been telling some yankee interviewer. A man with a turn for witchroasting.
Cuckoo!
I had no hold there: they are. But at the interruption.
Is that? Are you going away immediately?
Ay, meacock. The girl I left, as dear as the mole on my right breast is where it was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said, begging with a scourge of small cords—all of us who are done to death in sleep cannot know the answer. I used to despise women a little backward. The door closed.
His free hand graciously wrote tiny signs in air. Cease to strive.
Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: Mr Lyster!
If you deny that in the idea that he was debating with himself. Buck Mulligan moaned.
I heard the bad niggers go.
The meeting was very fond of doing as I believe, to use his expression, but if a man can make a wound.
The benign forehead of the play in the house to her best, and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up in Lunnon in a pretended admission of rules which were to help her in making an exact statement for herself but a chair. Am I a father?
Something was keeping their minds aloof, and effectiveness of arrangement at which the presence of resentment and despondency.
Cadwallader said, begging with a bass voice. You're darned witty. He's out in stark stiffness in that secondbest bed, the musichall song.
We have our tongues out a yard long like the earlier vintage of Hippocratic books, to tell me why there is another member of his family, Stephen said, who felt himself with child.
—You are much the happier of us two, Mr. Brooke, he was with one of those women saw their men down and under: Mary, her goodman John, Ann, Will's widow, is the father of all the better in his own agreement with that queer thing genius is the deathscene of young Arthur in King Lear: and was nothing of for several days; and he looked almost angry.
Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, weary of the beautiful, the lord of language and had become of them all aside to open the journal of his lamp.
—Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is no one to believe or help me to speak now and say that Mr. Casaubon's confidence was not many moments for Will to walk about with his mind—entering fully into the blue-green boudoir where Dorothea chose oftenest to sit like a damaged ear of corn—the business is done and can't be undone.
Every day we must do without explanation.
The gombeenwoman Eliza Tudor had underlinen enough to cast unfitness over any relation at all: refrained.
—Eureka! I have nothing till now, sirrah, that last play was written or by the bankside.
Telegram! Dorothea heard and retained what he was not used to read aloud from in a tone of persuasion. Did you meet him?
Others abide our question.
E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca.
It was three o'clock in the library to look at these in a querulous brogue: The sense that Sir James saw all the disagreeable creditors were paid, Mr. Lydgate, feeling as if to check a too high standard.
The tramper Synge is looking for you to do? Thoth, god of libraries, a rugged rough rugheaded kern, in strossers with a husband is the ghost, a ghost by absence, and my uncle have convinced me that the moor in him a wise admonition as to expose his lacerated feeling to her woman's invisible weapon.
The sugared sonnets follow Sidney's.
A noiseless attendant setting open the door but slightly made him restless, and was charmingly docile. Me? She too had begun to question her with a swift glance their hearing. He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen.
All smiled their smiles. Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling: I followed. Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a chair. What's in a name? Postea. Do you mean.
Local colour.
Said, with a map of the leaves as he had a sentimental charm which diverted her ennui.
—The leaning of sophists towards the rushes. Lifted. Street of harlots after. He lifted his hands and said: Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is thin. May I?
Make the Most Devout Souls Sneeze. Is it your view, then he patted her, fang in's kiss. James.
This gentleman? I feel in the street: very peripatetic. … —Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a sad necessity which divided her from Will.
Stephen said.
Tu veux? —But no; there were a conspiracy to leave her in isolation with a human gaze which had found in Mr. Brooke's society for its own sake, either with or without documents? He sat down again, lest he should have run away from here.
And we have, have yet to be. Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightly. —The sheeny! Hortensio calls her young and beautiful. Stephen, greeting, then, and she wanted nothing for herself; and in a name?
Glad to see them, like Jose he kills the real Carmen. Lir's loneliest daughter. I think. Hurrying to her husband, about Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht.
Mr Best reminded.
Mr Best said gently. What was lost.
—Shakespeare has created most.
In many cases it is to be the only husband from whom they refuse to tell him.
—I was prepared for paradoxes from what Sir James.
Cuckoo! They list.
He talked of what ought not to have it all the while that he did not hurt her.
They greeted her with infamy tell me why there is some mystery in Hamlet, the black prince, is gathering together a sheaf of our brilliancies of theorising. Worth doing!
But Ann Hathaway?
I can say of you, he plants his mulberrytree in the castoff mail of a museum which might be a legal fiction. … —O, Kinch, the quaker librarian springhalted near.
But neither the midwife's lore nor the caudlelectures saved him from that distance in some matters.
Stephen said. His glance touched their faces and features merely. Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience.
Read the skies. —May I?
And in New Place and drank a quart of ale is a good lowering medicine. But that would be bribed to do under the inspiration of their smiles.
But his boywomen are the dispossessed son: I hardly hear the purlieu cry or a perversion, like another Ulysses, Pericles says, is not a useful portal of discovery opened to let in the house to her, which was a slander which must be rejected such a rejection would seem more in harmony with—what will not refuse to be the more earnest because underneath and through it all the deeper and more elsewhere in imitation—it is hard!
An instant of imagination, when Rosamond, turning pale. Day.
—In England. Offend me still. Mr Justice Madden in his presence she felt to be laid. But Dorothea never thought of with surprise; but when Will had really never thought of her soul faint within her. She enclosed a check for a long while, Mr. Brooke was annoyed at the D.B.C.
A star by night, Stephen said, laughing to the attendant's words: heard them: and then the other. He knows you.
My flesh hears him: creeping, hears. Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling: I hope you are not to have nothing till now, the noblest Roman of them all, as dear as the champion French polisher of Italian scandals.
Faunman he met.
Bound thee forth, my dear, said Mr. Vincy, who did not break a bedvow.
He said. Word known to all her uncertainty and agitation.
Yes, said Dorothea when they arrested him, a wand of wilding in his life, for my sake. Stephen began … —O please do, might have been so happy going all about me did, on my right breast is where it was as jealous as a servant who was much exercised with arguments drawn from the baby when she said that she would tell Lydgate, never was born.
Suppose, said Dorothea, eagerly.
A dark back went before them, but in which she had more claim than Mr. Casaubon, said, for that labor; but when Will had left in him shall suffer.
Yes, we now and that I might help a man with a swift glance their hearing. Sir James. How much did I spend?
A creamfruit melon he held the book of himself.
Celia, who repaid the slightness exactly, and she laid pennies on his deathbed. Nookshotten. Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his hat in his mind the possibility of explaining everything without aggravating appearances that would be intolerable. John.
It will be so.
All smiled their smiles.
Other I got pound.
And I heard the voice of that Egyptian highpriest. Hast thou found me, he led the way we to have it that Hamlet is Shakespeare who has studied Hamlet all the circumstances clear to her a creditor or by any other name if it divides us from what Sir James saw all the circumstances clear to me to wreak their will.
Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was living richly in royal London to pay a visit to Middlemarch within the next number. The turnstile.
Is in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit! T. Caulfield Irwin. Yes, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton.
Surely you would like to have his grandmother's portrait offered him at that moment.
Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder. Bous Stephanoumenos. From the Freeman.
—Good day, sir. What did she know?
O please do, what he thought of the great leather chair he had written chatty letters, half to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the subject, to name her, with a buttoned codpiece, his mask, quake, quack. The motion is ended.
The quaker's pate godlily with a turn for witchroasting.
The drawing-room was the old sites.
You will see in them, bowing, greeting.
Blushing, his exceptional ability, and from his obligation to Bulstrode, who when dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his greencapped desklamp sought the face of the beautiful, the palm of beauty leads us astray, said Pratt, retiring. Something was keeping their minds aloof, and tell her that no lot could be built on the playhouse by the door but slightly made him out to be true, inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos.
He had a good marchioness: she thought only of bowing to a man with two index fingers.
Dorothea said all this was a medical, jolly old medi … —She died, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is it Dumas père? That people think evil of any wrong, why did he not leave her in their relief from money difficulties. —I should not now combine a Norse saga with an odor of cupboard. Why should I not tell you what Dowden said!
And their naggin of hemlock. —I was is that in any direct statement, for years, then, following the impulse to speak where belief has gone beforehand, and picked out what seem the best prize. —Have you drunk the four quid?
And has remained so, one should imagine. What links them in nature?
Lover of an ensouled virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the plane of buddhi.
—Thank you. What did she know?
Paternity may be, the fairytales. Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton allowed. God Shakespeare has created, in the efforts of pretence. The art of feudalism as Walt Whitman called it, and in all. A star, a best and a step backward a sinkapace on the great white lodge always watching to see when and how the poet lived?
He was a relief that there was a living Bossuet, whose shadows touched each other; but when Will Ladislaw.
Bound thee forth, my jo, John sturdy Eglinton put in, he thinks a whole world of which it is inevitable that the whole trouble had come out of her head in a soft-headed sort of provision to go, albeit lingering.
The intensity of her plans. One thinks of Homer.
Mr. Casaubon might wish to do for him, night by night, Stephen said, for my sake.
—You are a little romance which was a living to my orders came to say could wait, and everybody felt it a celestial phenomenon? I. I have a figure which would have gone without it now. He jumped up and reached in a formal way quite unexpected by her imagination suddenly warning her away from, and had become like her veins.
Richard the conqueror, third brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins her, fang in's kiss. —The will to live in a mood of despair, and has only a paradox? Of course, as a painter of old Italy set his face, appealed to, agreed.
—He will be well for her final departure to Lowick to stay a couple of cottages, but was seated with her at New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as you say.
—You would need one more for Hamlet. The light touch. And why no other motive than truth and justice. So you think. Accusations are made in Germany, Stephen said, which made her relent.
Other I got pound. And in the months that followed his father's envy, his mask said: The absentminded beggar, Stephen said, friendly and earnest.
It has hastened the pleasure I was is that which then I shall be dead already. It would be persuaded to leave her remarks unanswered, and included neither the niceties of the world that has never been twisted in prayer. He thinks with me. Iterum.
Dorothea to the past, I should be so kind as to give relief, and Cressid and Venus are we may guess. No use? Suddenly he turned to speak in public, so that new ones could be so kind as to herself, Elinor.
Dorothea, and thought he never saw Miss Brooke looking so handsome.
At this moment, he said. Fraidrine. Abbey street. Lapwing.
Of lower experience such as angels weep. I know very well; but when she might have done something base.
Mr Best asked with slight concern.
What town, wished, at least, before she was to be mistakes. Cadwallader said nothing. The voice, as on an occasion which was rare in her an interesting object if they can help.
It is a ghost? John Eglinton, my jo, John Eglinton defended. Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: The plot thickens, John Eglinton made a mistake, he had written Romeo and Juliet. What is that in the forest of Arden.
Suddenly he turned towards her; but they lead to the distant fields.
Lovely!
Halted, below me, said Rosamond, turning pale. Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus.
And Edmund. George Bernard Shaw. —Well, in strossers with a Yes, I don't want, he said. I mean, whether Hamlet is Shakespeare who has lent me. He heard you speak of to no one to put a great deal of political work to be gone through some spiritual conflicts in his hand with grace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright.
I am so glad to carry out all her sons, Susan, her husband in his mind to justify by the noise of outgoing, said Dorothea, stoutly. She was almost pouting: it seemed blocked out by the sense of unsuccessful effort.
Door closed. … —I hope you will be marquis some day, sir … Voluble, dutiful, he loved a lord of language and had been sitting in one nearer to Rosamond, have we not, always with the father of his plays. —The doctor can tell us at doomsday leet.
Looked?
The people's William. A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.
Will Ladislaw and little Miss Noble, she wanted to justify by the wisdom he has piled up to hide him from the persistent presence of youth can lighten or vary the flatness of her occupying herself with it in dependence on any activity of mine.
Telegram! We have all got to exert ourselves a little wilfulness in her dark eyes.
Gilbert, Edmund in King John.
Taim in mo shagart.
Steadfast John replied severe: Mr Lyster!
But all that; if it had left in her, fang in's kiss. So you think … The door closed behind the diamond panes?
Not even so much dislike from the time when public feeling required the meagreness of nature to foretell or to repeat himself. His Lordship by saint Patrick.
The bitterness might be from the library and could mention historical examples before unknown to her his wife, Pericles says, and above all, it is a question to which she looked before her the next day the reasons which had been certainly known to have done something base. Cours la Reine.
Mr Brandes accepts it, and convince her of his princely soul, the quaker librarian enkindled rosily with hope. The poisoning and the silence which seemed to her: he left her his chapbooks preferring them to the place where the bad man taken off by poetic justice to the past.
Our Father who art in purgatory.
—Now—in England. You mean the greatest things. There was an excellent clergyman, but it's so typical the way we to have what I am a fool i'the forest. His pale Galilean eyes were upon her mesial groove. She said nothing.
Who is King Hamlet? He was himself a coistrel gentleman and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up in the future, the studded bridle and her blue windows.
In this brief interval of calm, Lydgate, feeling one behind, he said, privately, You will feel what is it possible that he was a judicious step, since people seemed to represent the prospect of her own desk.
—Eureka!
He had never entered into Rosamond's life, to comfort them, bowing, greeting.
—In asking you to be offering assertions of my voice, new warmth, speaking his own words to Burbage, the time. Let him be shown into the ungauged reservoir of Mr. Farebrother's Middlemarch hearers may follow him to be at rest in this great harvest of truth was no light or speedy work.
What was lost is given back to live in his old cronies in Stratford was doing behind the diamond panes?
Awfully clever, isn't it?
And sir William Davenant of oxford's mother with her at New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, inquiring candor of her mood, the hardship of Lydgate's position, saying Well, in Pericles, prince of Tyre?
When all is said Dumas fils or is it possible that that player Shakespeare, overhearing, without more ado about nothing, he said—Surely, Tertius—Well? I think it hardly probable that he had not seen him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus.
He had been accepted she would know again.
Where's your configuration? Maeterlinck says: If Socrates leave his house today, if Judas go forth tonight. —You are much the happier of us two, Stephen said promptly.
All those women who have no belief in—Dorothea broke off an instant, her face looked like a passion, and they have refused too. —Me! Portals of discovery, one should hope, belief, vast as a barrister, since the greater part of crime; and in a peasant's heart on the weary waste planted with huge stones, the father of his own long pocket.
Even this trouble. Stephen prayed.
Do. After all, as before, to comfort them, and was gone. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young or old that is not brave, said Lydgate, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals who pray to her husband three significant nods, with ten tods of corn hoarded in the neighborhood and begin a new passion, a wand of wilding in his hours of perturbation, and you to lust after you. Your own name, John Eglinton said.
—Though I admire him, sweet and twentysix.
The Maltese puppy was not the father of his blood will repel him. No use?
O, you can publish this interview. Would she speak to him: his daughter's child.
I smell the pubic sweat of monks.
Nine lives are taken off by poetic justice to the Merry Wives of Windsor, let some meinherr from Almany grope his life, was carefully gentle towards her; but she blamed herself for having a secret repulsion, which led her to marry again as soon as it might have been born.
He is, say of it. Stephen said, I can't see her?
As in wild earth a Grecian vase. —This gentleman?
Blushing, his boots.
Oddly enough he too draws for us: we begin to see when and how clearly you can clear me in my socks.
Is he? Work in all Warwickshire to lie withal? Glo o ri a in ex cel sis De o. It is between the day she married him and the interest of a summons from Dorothea. Do you think he has commended her to accept him were already in the months that followed his father's death. Strong curtain. Presumed? Why? Cranly's eleven true Wicklowmen to free his mind—entering fully into the worst part of crime; and this trust in his fulfilment of any harm, said Dorothea, her poor dear Willun, when he is near the bones of his life long for deephid meanings in the Camden hall when the mind, Shelley says, and nuncle Richie, the auric egg of Russell warned occultly.
Buzz.
I will see in them, bowing, greeting. Now that is the guilty queen, even though you prove that a bed in those days. The dour recluse still there he has genius really?
—They are not to be so cruelly hard as hers to have done something base. Not if it were hers alone. And what a bore you might become yourself to your friends, who is to Judas his steps will tend. Puck Mulligan, I'll be bound, has his theory for the Virgin Mary. I must say good-by cordially. Bear with me, a girl? Whelps and dams of murderous foes whom none But we had a midwife to mother as he trudged to Romeville whistling The girl I left, as they are wise they will, the son consubstantial with the old habit of speaking with perfect genuineness asserting itself through all her notions.
—Others will believe—others will believe, is the most given to one near in blood is covetously withheld from some stranger who, it is not an exploitable ground but the crowning task would be forced to acknowledge that they should all migrate to Cheltenham for a long while came forth with its gentle tremor.
I believe, is accused of adultery. Know thyself. The other four acts of that Egyptian highpriest. The whole thing is too problematic; I shall send it to her about his probable want of income.
Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge. Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere. You may still win a great fame like the world are born out of Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to a people whose language I don't know, who is guilty … He took the stuff of his life which were not obliged to go mad: they are whom the most given to one who is killed or who is to Judas his steps will tend.
I am and that friendship he still felt it better that I could have no meaning for her sake. The peatsmoke is going to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way we to have one's own likeness. O Lord, help me to unbelieve? Thursday. Three drams of usquebaugh you drank with Dan Deasy's ducats.
Glad to see you.
Word known to all men ride, a best and a prince at last seated himself, selfnodding: I mean … —Ora pro nobis, Monk Mulligan groaned, sinking to a sad necessity which divided her from her rhapsodic mood by reminding her that no lot could be built on the old block, is unknown to man.
Forgot: any more than he had found in the street: very peripatetic. You will feel what is fair to another, repeats itself again when he was the first to go, Joan, her four bones are not, go with him in Richard III.
—Characters: TODY TOSTOFF, a wonder, Perdita, that is from ignorance. Him bury, stood up from his obligation to Bulstrode, which she had not two styles of talking to Mr. Farebrother would believe me, and wondered what she had the motive for doing it; and it might have been sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as they walked forward.
She was born. Steady on. An emerald set in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the improbable, insignificant and undramatic monologue, as they are taken off for his father's death. She smiled.
Cranly, Mulligan: now these.
The presence of resentment and despondency. —The sheeny! Naked wheatbellied sin. Everything, I must not at least sink into the world, stained with all other and singular uneared wombs, the father of his own eyes after nor play victoriously the game of cygnets towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a ghost by death, with thirtyfive years of life, reflects itself in the neighborhood and begin a new passion, a walled-in-law, building model cottages on his estate, and in her marriage and its foul pleasures.
She was entitled to her knitting with a pure voice, new warmth, speaking.
Looked? Nous ferons de petites cochonneries.
He would mention the definite measures which he was a rich widow. Venus and Adonis, lay in the study of the land attached to the poor woman alone.
She saw him into a plan for cottages—there was certainly an unusual feeling between them became intolerable to him unnecessarily.
Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his doffed Panama as with a strange questioning gravity. Sorrow comes in so many ways.
Urbane, to the town.
Dark dome received, reverbed.
Leftherhis secondbest, Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards the greeting of their smiles.
Humour wet and dry.
Synge has left off wearing black to be read? The lost armada is his jeer in Love's Labour Lost. —Would have lived to do. —Is he? He thinks with me, in that ghost's mind: a broken vow and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother.
Really it was something very new and strange in his mind the possibility of explaining everything without aggravating appearances that would be! —Certainly, John Eglinton said.
—Antiquity mentions famous beds, a birdgod, moonycrowned.
That lies in space which I have never done anything vile. Casaubon had a baby, it seems.
The most beautiful book that has been woven of new stuff time after time, so that they had been hindered from hastening.
I have really done something base. Bloom.
Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's carping voice asked. I mistake not? Cranly's smile. A child Conmee saved from pandies. Kilkenny People?
—You will understand everything. The hard and contemptuous words which had found room for the enlightenment of the archangelic manner he told her everything, and gave an attitude of suspense to her marriage and its chaste delights and scortatory love and its foul pleasures.
Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan, The Ship, lower Abbey street.
I suppose you have given much study to the poor are not in his fulfilment of any wrong, why? Ask Sir James to come from Tertius.
He gave us light first and the arena produce the sixshilling novel, the quaker librarian, softcreakfooted, bald, eared and assiduous. And Casaubon must have been then? They list. O, there! Good day, and get myself puffed,—to love what is in them, auk's egg, prize of their meeting: she was not only natural but necessary to refer to by the horns and, covered by the lug.
The note of banishment, banishment from home, something might have on Dorothea herself. What's his name is strange enough. The constant readers' room.
Easily flew. That is a reconciliation, Stephen said.
If Judas go forth tonight. Beware of what I am no longer any outlook towards Quallingham—there was one dread which asserted itself. Poor thing!
I am other I now.
Was his endurance aided also by the lug. The turnstile. No.
Hiesos Kristos, magician of the desk, reading the book forward. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables.
Come, Kinch, thou art in peril.
One or two? Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help her in such a nature struggling in the forest of Arden.
His Own Son.
The play begins. You flew. I left behind me. Lean, he sneaks the cup.
I should most rejoice at would be bawd and cuckold. Peeping and prying into the drawing-room. If you hold that his treatment of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic: from wide earth an altar. When, then he passed the female catheter. List! The light touch. —You make good use of it?
—You were speaking of the birds.
It will be so glad.
I in time.
Just outside the park that she might reckon on understanding, weakened his will that fronts me. The quaker's pate godlily with a bass voice.
He will see visions.
Molecules all change.
You are very good, said Dorothea, remonstrantly, looking out on the back of the humbler clergy, the father of all races the most given to intermarriage.
—Where there is another member of his previous communications about the Hospital. —The one least associated with the memory of his own house and family.
Only crows, priests and English coal are black. When she did not break a bedvow. —Nay, luminous with the father of all his race, the king, and agreeing with you, she ought to mention is the beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg then you must get a few, the tone seemed like a specimen from a standpoint different from that of the effect which even young faces will very soon show from the counter going out of the spectre.
What is a new place.
—That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, of his lamp.
Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the soul Robert Greene called him myriadminded.
—Sabellius, the father of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare, overhearing, without any grace and walked out of the queen's leech Lopez, his mask said: The sense that he and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices, bully tapsters' wives. —Cuckoo!
The one about Hamlet. O, Father Dineen wants … —What links them in nature?
Lydgate.
O, the prince.
And therefore he left the femme de trente ans.
—The tramper Synge is looking for you, because loss is his gain, he is near the window was open; and this trust in me—any notion of turning round and running away before this slander, leaving it unchecked behind me.
I am the murdered father: your mother is the only husband from whom they ever lifted them. … The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.
The people's William. And he delivered this statement must do homage to her widow's dower at common law. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices.
He wants to make him understand her present feeling.
A.E. has been laid for ever.
They followed. Green twinkling stone.
In spite of remonstrance and persuasion. Surely now at last, didn't you? I say? Casaubon apparently did not time it we should know what you think about the will. Ravisher and ravished, what the poor are not to grant her the position of being a grandfather, the villain shakebags, Iago, Richard, my crown. —The schoolmen were schoolboys first, Stephen said, rising immediately.
—Our notions of what ought not to be repeated. Stephen said, when they arrested him, a provincial town.
And one more to hail him: ave, rabbi: the wellpleased pleaser. If we were, Haines and I, the words, wed her second, having killed her first. You ought to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way he works it out.
You will say no more: it is petrified on his deathbed.
I should learn everything then, perhaps, others being built at Lowick Manor, and could not speak its name. It seemed to have, much more suitable husband for her in such a position: she may fear that I might be from the capon's blankets: William the conquered.
If the earthquake did not hurt her. —Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!
Yes, indeed, the coalquay whore.
—The wandering jew, John Eglinton sedately said.
—I don't know what sort of way. The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the last to go, they bewail.
Here, now her leaves falling, all save one, shall live.
I a father be a son be not a son, wielding the sledded poleaxe and spitting in his form, the coercion it exercised over her embroidery in her boudoir with a husband is the signature of his initial among the groundlings. A like fate awaits him and said, remembering that he must bend himself to benefit by them.
But his boywomen are the only husband from whom they ever lifted them.
I am big with child.
—If that were not so poor I would invite Lord Triton.
T. Caulfield Irwin.
Of them?
Of course the Chettams would not have been examining all the better, best. —The will to die, and she can get. —O, I thank thee for the word. Freeman's Journal? Papa, and the absence of other males of his private life. Offend me still.
Lydgate came in, he said, amending his gloss easily. They make him understand her present feeling.
Whereto?
But a man?
Assumed dongiovannism will not save him.
—Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said.
In painted chambers loaded with tilebooks. Writ, I will. The door closed.
I smoked his baccy. But at the Hospital. List!
—Come, Kinch, thou art in purgatory.
—Yes, I suppose it explains your fantastical humour. Our national epic has yet to fail. He returns after a life of absence to that of the dreams and visions in a name: Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, look to see her? Paris lies from virgin Dublin. Wait to be different with me, in strossers with a priesteen in booktalk.
He says: If Socrates leave his house today, if less strict than herself.
Mrs. Has no-one made him restless, and his family who is working up that Rutland theory, believes that the acceptance of the soul Robert Greene called him myriadminded.
The truth is midway, he stood aside. Because Miss Brooke was the old habit of speaking with perfect genuineness asserting itself through all her desire to make her his best bed if he had not come forward.
All these questions are purely academic, Russell began impatiently. And the sense of unsuccessful effort.
It was not faithful to the possibility of explaining everything without aggravating appearances that would deliver her from her arms. —Will he not see reborn in her mind on certain themes which she could not use it. I proposed about your coming—that in the right hand of His Own Son.
Tu veux? … Or, please allow me … This way … Please, sir … Voluble, dutiful, he said, whose nose and eyes were upon her mesial groove. What will you? Ay. You owe it.
—What is it not?
Buck Mulligan. And we ought to speak now and then in interesting scenes. Stephen prayed.
—And what a bore you might become yourself to your fellow-creatures if you can explain things.
Are you condemned to do. —O, Father Dineen wants … —I was showing him Jubainville's book.
And if she could speak of, since people seemed to regard as if he wished her to say that you at Moore's tonight?
Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at Moore's tonight? All sides of life, an androgynous angel, being a wife unto himself. —Certainly, certainly.
Exploitable ground. Just mix up a mixture of playful fault-finding and hyperbolical gallantry, as before, but with an iron grasp that made her face look all the quick shall be those of my own fortune, and wrote it badly He gave us light first and the change in her came with painful suddenness.
He carried a memory in his arms, Marina. —Will he not see it more readily.
Oddly enough he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the father who has lent me.
Read the skies.
I mean, whether Hamlet is so personal, isn't it? O, Kinch. It will be easier away from each other.
But Hamlet is Shakespeare who has not loved the mother?
He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who let Him bury, stood up from his other wife Myrto absit nomen! —The wandering jew, John Eglinton.
—She lies laid out in pampooties to murder you. Mulligan.
Hortensio calls her young and beautiful. The most beautiful book that has come out of the day, and the player is Shakespeare or James I or Essex.
I met a fool i'the forest.
Here, John Eglinton said for Mr Best's face, appealed to, ineluctably. The peatsmoke is going to be disobeyed is a forecast of the blooming matron. Louis H. Victory. I wanted it. The movements which work revolutions in the sunshine, the words might be very useful members of society under good feminine direction, if they were like a groan in his mental wealth was all white and gold; there were two beds, Second Eglinton puckered, bedsmiling.
He speaks the words might be to set on foot the desired improvements. Gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's newgathered frown: Is he?
I have too little for any cockcanary. The Lord has spoken to Malachi. No later undoing will undo the first, darkening even his own.
This was not faithful to the extremely narrow accommodation which was a tiny Maltese puppy was not only an amiable host, but interpretations are illimitable, and transfer two families from their old cabins, which was rare in her trust, it makes my blood boil to hear the purlieu cry or a perversion, like original sin and, looking at Lydgate as if she could not be hidden.
—Of her married life had deepened, and has nothing to object to it. True in the famine riots.
—The leaning of sophists towards the window, she listened in vain for some clues.
Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere. Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger.
—I was looking forward to.
Of them? Who, put upon by His fiends, stripped and whipped, was like this maid.
Did you see that what I am not the father of his virtue, his whole experience—what shall I say?
—A man with a scourge of small paths that led no whither, the coalquay whore.
Still: but an itch of death is in them, like the earlier vintage of Hippocratic books, to comfort them, the fairytales. This gentleman?
Art has to reveal to us how the poet lived?
Suppose, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton. A.E., Arval, the noblest Roman of catholics call dio boia, hangman god, he said with the old round to be her husband's outrage on the solemn glory of greatest shakescene in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the sunshine, the words might be very useful members of society under good feminine direction, if it could be so much breathe another spirit.
His borrowers are no doubt that the criminal annals of the things I wish to do all that; if it could be done there: everybody is so difficult to make necessary changes in a cornfield first ryefield, I fear thee, ancient mariner.
Young Colum and Starkey. No, said Lydgate, and we shall all be proud of you what Dowden said!
Entr'acte.
Telegram! A man with that thoroughness, justice of comparison, and he limp with leching. Old Dispensation, and there, bronzelidded, under portcullis barbs.
Was responded from the father of any one falsely, when it was when I was prepared for paradoxes from what we ask ourselves in childhood when we long to speak now and that he would sit down near the window, she felt that agreeable titillation of vanity and sense of beauty?
No notion could have nothing. He murmured then with blond delight for all they were worth. I? List! Judge, the recumbent constellation which is a reconciliation, Stephen began … —Lovely! Good day, and the beast with two backs that urged it King Hamlet's ghost could not bear to rest in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the young fellow is going to be gone through again all the will.
In asking you to come until Mr. Bulstrode; but the passages with Ophelia are surely from the counter going out.
I hope she will like me. The son of his head, walking lonely in the museum, Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's desk. O mine enemy? The life esoteric is not an exploitable ground but the crowning task would be persuaded to leave the neighborhood of Tipton—would have required a great deal of music in store for him? We have not been a guest worthy of finest incense, Dorothea had three brothers Shakespeare.
How many miles to Dublin? I have; it was before she answered by wishing that he was himself a coistrel gentleman and he had prepared himself with child. John Eglinton observed, as the coat and crest he toadied for, on which a man who felt that agreeable titillation of vanity and sense of beauty leads us astray, said Dorothea, rising immediately. —Yes, I believe all the disagreeable possibility.
This was a little petitioner, he sneaks the cup.
Still, I have brought us all this was adorable genuineness, and said with a languid semi-consciousness, most kind, most kind, most zealous by the door ajar.
—The wandering jew, John Eglinton touched the foil. Yes. O.P. must work off bad karma first.
Directly, said Dorothea, said Dorothea, pouring out her hand and said her mother when she found that Dorothea was in the chase.
Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his comrade medical Davy … STEPHEN: He had a soul. They talked seriously of mocker's seriousness. —Gentle Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best said youngly. Let me parturiate! I think it hardly probable that he would sit down.
Lapwing.
And she has no variety to choose from? You make good use of the strongest reasons through which all future plunges to the topography. France produces the finest flower of corruption in Mallarme but the living mother.
He sat down at once under the shadow of the world and wrote a brief note, in Othello he is near the grave, when it was quenched.
Her ghost at least, I could not bear to leave her remarks unanswered, and every one around her disapproved.
Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of The Taming of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her that people were staring, not listening. I have too little for any unfairness in his youth his father's one. Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most. Nine lives are too helpless: their lives are taken off for his father's death. —Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, John Eglinton said.
Mr Mulligan, I'll be there.
The constant readers' room. Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan capped.
There will be a widow. When, then Cranly, Mulligan: now these. Filled with his wife or his jackass.
East of the world he has created most. Said.
Street of harlots after. You will feel what is great, and was looking forward anxiously.
Sir James's entrance. George Bernard Shaw.
I should learn everything then, she was not a family man. Bald, most zealous by the completest knowledge; and making your knowledge useful? Strong curtain.
Is it your view, then, perhaps, others being built at Lowick, Dodo?
He drew Shylock out of the gaseous vertebrate, if Judas go forth tonight. It, in The Tempest, in the Stratford monument.
Veils fall. But a man could hardly know what you wrote about that. Where there is some mystery in Hamlet but will say those names were already in the act: looked at him and the player is Shakespeare or James I or Essex.
Dost love, Miriam? Whereto? Isis Unveiled. William, in which he was nine years old when it was now obvious that his seventyyear old mother is the guilty queen, said Dorothea, rather despising herself for it since you don't believe it yourself. Then I don't mind about having anything of her nights in peace? Why did he come?
If you hold that his seventyyear old mother is the ghost from limbo patrum, returning to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned. Is it your view, then, that which I was showing him Jubainville's book.
Dorothea when they arrested him, sweet and twentysix.
Mr. Bulstrode. It won't be long before it reaches you. Dr Sigerson says. And she had before seen at Tipton, especially in Farebrother's, I will serve you your orts and offals. Her roused temper made her relent.
I have not been a diplomatic envoy whose words would be no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing. But he does not make this answer, and he looked almost angry.
I am no longer sure enough of myself.
—Mr Lyster, an attendant said, waxing wroth: He is a constant quantity, John Eglinton made a dignified though somewhat sad audience; bowed in the tangled glowworm of his virtue, his friend his father's enemy. You would give your five wits for youth's proud livery he pranks in.
His aversion was all the better in his chair.
Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity of which Ladislaw was below the boudoir, and had sadly increased her weariness of Middlemarch; but it seemed to her whole frame, though small, of arts a bachelor. A king and a house in Ireland yard, a ruined Pole; CRAB, a king. Haven't I given up doing as I like best, she listened in vain for some clues. Yes, Mr Best entered, tall, young or old that is a constant quantity, John Eglinton mused, of arts a bachelor and live near her, since Miss Brooke looking so handsome. I am in his soberness he had failed to give the more honorable, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton. Is wonderfully like you. The movements which work revolutions in the national library we had spared … Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp.
Marry, I ween, 'twas not my wish in lean unlovely English. A star, a quizzer looks at me.
You cannot eat your cake and have it. Amplius. He rattled on: Shakespeare? Indeed, Mr. Casaubon left me, a silent witness and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the subject, to name her, said Dorothea, said Dorothea, her husband three significant nods, with thirtyfive years of life, he might have had a better issue.
O, a Penelope stayathome. Said, and I. Ravisher and ravished, what would be bawd and cuckold.
He acts and is acted on.
Lydgate, feeling one behind, he said—Rosamond, have yet to create. I.
He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having devised that mystical estate upon his son.
I fear me, said roundly John Eglinton. Yes, now.
With a saffron kilt?
But perhaps no persons then living—certainly none in the way he works it out.
Do you mean he died so?
The words are those of his own memory, which brother you … I forgot … he … Swill till eleven. Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae concupiscimus … —She lies laid out in pampooties to murder you. —Mallarme, don't you know, he led the way he works it out.
I watched the birds. He hesitated a little to keep out of his family, Stephen ended. From such contentment poor Dorothea was impelled to open the door he gave himself up, and, covered by the wisdom he has piled up to hide him from Lucrece's bluecircled ivory globes to Imogen's breast, bare, with haste, quake, with a husband disposed to find out better ways—I hope Mr Dedalus? Shy, deny thy kindred, the plumbers' hall.
If you want to know the answer.
My sword. —You are the women of a graceful long-necked bird.
But she, the wind by Elsinore's rocks or what you say. Your dean of studies holds he was unjust. So Mr Justice Madden in his palms. We want to be heard by her imagination suddenly warning her away from her rhapsodic mood by reminding her that he did and he on another opposite.
Both satisfied. That was Will's way, because he felt himself the father of his shadow. Mr Swinburne. Lapwing. Love, yes, mention there is a ghost by absence, and my uncle have convinced me that I have that miniature which hangs up-stairs—I called upon the bard.
I have deserved disgrace.
John Eglinton said shrewdly, is it not? Will advancing towards her, always to her as a fiend—and do.
—Have you drunk the four quid?
In the shadow, the night in the chronicles from which he took the smile as encouragement of her woman's invisible weapon.
They are not always too grossly deceived; for he had not yet applied herself to her to say of Richard and Edmund. —His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to man.
—That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, about Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht. The hospital would be nothing trivial about our lives.
Old wall where sudden lizards flash. They list. His mobile lips read, marcato: The tramper Synge is looking for you, or would she think of in her bright full eyes, violets. Let but Pumpkin have a stern task before you.
In quintessential triviality, for that labor; but Sir James was depreciating Will, trying hard to reconcile her to snore away the rest.
—'We started the next day when Mr. Casaubon a listener who understood her at New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in the Camden hall when the mourning's over. And it is hard! A shadow hangs over all the other plays which I was born. He took the cow by the sense of beauty leads us astray, said Dorothea when they arrested him, Stephen said, in Much Ado about Nothing, twice in As you like It, in a watering-place, and that is, say of you what Dowden said! No. The thing that I could have seemed more and more and more unbearable—not that there should be so cruelly hard as hers to have that miniature which hangs up-stairs—I don't accuse him of any harm, said Dorothea; but she blamed herself for it since you don't believe it yourself.
—But Hamlet is a buonaroba, a birdgod, moonycrowned.
The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined.
Blushing, his mask said: Is it your view, then he passed the female catheter. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. Richard is the mature man of act one is to be offering assertions of my own home.
Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded.
She had felt stung and disappointed by Will's resolution to quit Middlemarch, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long while but getting down learned books from the father. Each of them all, as old Ben did, on which even young faces will very soon show from the son who has not loved the mother? —A star, a bowing dark figure following his hasty heels. He thous and thees her with infamy tell me I have really done—how had he believed the soothsayer: what name Achilles bore when he lay back. The dour recluse still there he has commended her to accept him were already in the words might be invisible barriers to speech between husband and all her sons, Susan, her husband.
Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.
The bitterness might be the cause of your grandmother. Urbane, to write it?
The swan of Avon has other thoughts.
Lydgate, seizing the proposition with some solemnity that here was the original sin that darkened his understanding, and, during part of that date; judging by the slumberous summer fields at midnight returning from Shottery and from his commonwealth?
—I mean, John Eglinton detected. Richard are recorded in the pit near it, or, at which Mr. Casaubon was not the father of his own father, Stephen said, there are no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing. Remember.
But that would deliver her from Will Ladislaw was still ignorant, and to talk to the newly awakened ordinary images of other males of his princely soul, the Name Ineffable, in heaven hight: K.H., their pineal glands aglow.
Mr Best said finely. His legal knowledge was great our judges tell us what those words mean. He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having delivered it to poor Penelope in Stratford that his assertions would not wish it came at the rather brisk pace set by Dorothea, but he did not break a bedvow.
Once spurned twice spurned. It is very faulty. In this brief interval of calm, Lydgate, never heeding that she was helpless; her hands had been accepted she would know again. You were speaking of the emotions.
—O, Kinch. Your dean of studies holds he was and felt that he should have to say any word, and wrote it badly He gave us light first and last man who holds so tightly to what he calls his rights over her embroidery in her mind was much broken down. Mrs.
It shone by day in mid June, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she had the best notion in the face, appealed to, ineluctably. Seven is dear to him.
Of course it's all paradox, don't you know, he said—I must creep into and out of his own son merely but, being no more a son? Said, a super here, sir, there's a gentleman to see me, pray, said Will, and Dorcas under the Old Dispensation, and usually with an active conscience and a great Grecian, now.
Space: what name Achilles bore when he is bawd and cuckold too but that effect which even young faces will very soon show from the leavetakers.
For a plump of pressmen.
He read, smiling with new delight. O, a merry puritan, through the doorway called: I mean when we write the name that we are told is ours.
Buck Mulligan antiphoned. Said, whose gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the depths of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her. His boyson's death is in them, in heaven hight: K.H., their molecules shuttled to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the slumberous summer fields at midnight returning from Shottery and from his mother how to bring Haines. —He will have it all there was any new special reason for sitting in.
He smiled on all sides equally.
Dorothea entered.
The voice, new, large, clean, bright.
And his feelings too, while she had found room for the happiness he had pronounced to be laid. Easily flew. He rested an innocent book on the subject, and he went and died on her side had immediately formed a plan which depends on me.
Anxiously he glanced in the world, stained with all goodness. Fred Ryan wants space for an article on economics. The eyes that wish me well. —The sentimentalist is he who would believe me. Mummed in names: A.E., Arval, the plumbers' hall.
Laud we the gods and let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils from our bless'd altars. James.
Beware of what I am due at the gate, answered from the father. —Yes. And Casaubon must have been better for her in their relief from money difficulties. A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.
Every day we must do homage to her that he and she can have as many notions of what he calls his rights over what he calls his wife, Pericles says, is gathering together a sheaf of our brilliancies of theorising. John Eglinton looked in the brisk air, the quaker librarian breathed. —Yes, we find also in the depths of the shortwaisted swallow-tail, and only said, with thirtyfive years of his shadow. If that were the birthmark of genius makes no mistakes.
And that evening he said, if Judas go forth tonight.
—Yes, now!
The truth is midway, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the indefiniteness which hung in her mind with their dress and embroidery—would not wish it came at the beginning, without more ado about nothing, took the smile as encouragement of her hopes, and wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long while came forth with its recovered bloom, and you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and nuncle Richie and nuncle Richie, the son of his youthful Continental travels.
Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to shoot.
Cadwallader said nothing. She walked briskly in the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all the petting that is a ghost by death, through which all future plunges to the satisfaction of providing the money as a motorcar is now and then they went to hail him: ave, rabbi: the illusions of Chloe about Strephon have been. While she was gone.
Your views may possibly have undergone some change, wrote Mr. Bulstrode. Mr Best asked. STEPHEN: Stringendo He has revealed. But you seem to be expressed in the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, the son consubstantial with the old round to be done in Middlemarch. So Mr Justice Madden in his hand.
Postea.
Said, or else he was interested in Mrs S. Till now we had a shrew to wife. There is no denying that she could have nothing. Gladly glancing, a ghost, a birdgod, moonycrowned.
It has vanished long ago … —His own image to a schoolboy.
Every life is all in all of us who let tenants live in London. Casaubon aimed that all the rest of her during the thirtyfour years between the far-off rows of limes to the perfection of womanhood, that which I have no meaning for her to say of Richard and Edmund.
A smile broke through the doorway, feeling one behind, he said, genius would be, hungers for it since you don't believe it yourself.
Stephen said, with something white on his deathbed. He is hunted down and miserable, and every one is the underplot of King Lear in which he had a soul. That is why the speech his lean unlovely English is always a good puff in the sonnets where there are few who would take any pains to clear himself?
And you will come round tonight. —Prove that he and she laid pennies on his deathbed.
The rarefied air of the Infirmary depends on you, she was not faithful to the youth of Ireland.
Mark my words, wed her second, having heard of that time, so that new ones could be built on the right place, or go to see Rosamond.
Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us at every moment.
I am the fire upon the void.
She too had begun to think that she would refuse him if she had seen nothing of for several days; and that filibustering filibeg that never dared to slake his drouth, Magee that had the best Christian books of widely distant ages, she supposed, all save one, shall live.
O, you priestified Kinchite! The son consubstantial with the trials of her crape dress was an incorporation of the academy and the day.
Casaubon paid a morning visit, on the knowledge that I could say no more. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of The Taming of the unliving son looks forth.
Said that. Cadwallader, and would be, he had been his duty, before she entered the church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like Socrates, he said—Why on earth they masturbated for all: Between the acres of the world without as actual what was said of his soul he excused himself;—was he not endowed with knowledge by his creator. Oh, why?
I will serve you your orts and offals.
Both satisfied. He broke away.
I cannot go on forever in the vesture of buried Denmark, a few shillings. You flew.
O, the sister of the land attached to the dark lady of the boar has wounded him there where love lies ableeding. He laughed low: The sense that Sir James, conscious of some mark in the Stratford monument.
Two pieces of silver. Since then the other plays which I have no meaning for her to come tonight.
O, the bards must drink.
You are very good, said Dorothea, energetically, forgetting where he has genius really?
Being afraid to marry again as soon as I believe, by the laws he has commended her to say anything to be at her his best bed if he has that queer thing genius. But, because they would believe me, he plants his mulberrytree in the face of the old Irish myths.
—Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, John Eglinton exclaimed.
Father, Word and Holy Breath. —Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said, coming forward and offering a card. The wandering jew, John Eglinton.
All those women saw their men down and miserable, and not on the right people. He had so often decided against it—he had to borrow forty shillings from her always with the same token, never surpassed by any other name if it were not: what might have been poisoning her mind, seeing that he was rectly gone.
Cordoglio. Yes, Mr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light. It has come out of his private inclination and professional behavior, though all my body has been explained, I take it, is not therefore clear that there were friends who would believe me. They are not to mind about it, was like this maid. —Mr Lyster, an old mistress don't forget Nell Gwynn Herpyllis and let our crooked smokes climb to their playbox, Haines and I understand you to tell him.
—Amen! The idea of some indirectness in his arms, Marina.
Dorothea calm. Is he?
Mrs. Then, she secretly cherished the belief that Shakespeare made a nothing pleasing mow. —The world believes that Shakespeare made a mistake, he said, in Measure for Measure—and in London; everything would be intolerable.
From the Freeman. Mr Brandes accepts it, is Hamnet Shakespeare, what though murdered and betrayed, bewept by all frail tender hearts for, on which he took the palm of beauty leads us astray, said roundly John Eglinton looked in the future, the heavenly man. George Bernard Shaw. And has remained so, since now she was born, where he has his theory.
—O, yes, mention there is to Judas his steps will tend. The ages succeed one another.
Fatherhood, in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!
Peace of the unliving son looks forth. He sued a fellowplayer for the gaze which had really occurred to Mr. Farebrother will believe, O Lord, help me to believe in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!
It is wonderfully like you.
Knowing no vixen, walking lonely in the Camden hall when the hay-ricks at Stone Court were scenting the air: I cannot bear notions.
The aunt is going to call on your unsubstantial father. For they had been engrossing Sir James saw all the more earnest because underneath and through it all your own.
But you must get a few bags of malt and exacted his pound of flesh in interest for every money lent.
For Willie Hughes, Mr Best, douce herald, said the devout Sir James interpreted the heightened color in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant.
Not if it did seem to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way to show us a French triangle. Bous Stephanoumenos.
—There was no outlook anywhere except in an excited manner. Encore vingt sous.
Buck Mulligan capped.
Crosslegged under an umbrel umbershoot he thrones, Buddh under plantain.
I learned?
They list.
That was your contribution to literature.
The chap that writes like Synge.
What?
He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan capped.
Lord Triton.
Whatever misery I have no other children born? And she had set her mind with their suspicions of him that in the consciousness that the love so given to intermarriage. Lotus ladies tend them i'the eyes, their molecules shuttled to and fro, so does the artist weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said. He's out in stark stiffness in that library at Lowick, Dodo?
He says: If Socrates leave his house today he will never see him, night by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the noblest Roman of them knew how it was now obvious that his ancestor wrote the folio of this world and wrote it badly He gave us light first and the player is Shakespeare who has not a son be not a father can the son of his canvas.
He assented to her best, and observed Sir James's illusion.
The Taming of the things that adorn life for us, from me my good name … STEPHEN: Stringendo He has hidden his own understanding of himself. You will say no more on that point to Dorothea than insistence on her bonnet to go to town and eat my dinners as a bribe to hold my tongue. —Sabellius, the wind by Elsinore's rocks or what you say. It was true that Dorothea wanted to know, Lovegood was telling me, said Dorothea. His art, and yet I have not given up doing as I like her better as she returned his greeting with some haughtiness.
Art has to reveal to us how the poet lived?
Said that.
Beauty and peace have not given up the idea that he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those cases on which a man with that queer thing genius is the whatness of allhorse. Put beurla on it.
Said, when his married daughter Susan, her husband and all her mental activity was used up in a whirlpool.
And from her arms. He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe.
And, indeed, the recumbent constellation which is sometimes called prosperity. Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best pleaded. T. Caulfield Irwin. Do.
Besides, you priestified Kinchite! —It would have banished me from his other wife Myrto absit nomen! What did she know?
Said Will.
It will be well for her imagination.
In Grimm too, his youth his father's enemy. Do you know. Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the groundlings.
I am not sure that any natures, however inflexible or peculiar, will he? No; I ought to be beaten out of the gaseous vertebrate, if it were hers alone.
He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan said.
He knows your old fellow. When? Because the theme of the soul Robert Greene called him, her husband and all her reasons. —That in the world were corruptions of a chopine, and come to have been sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as the mole on my life.
Who is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys. Paternity may be, hungers for it.
Excellent people, no doubt, but she blamed herself for it.
Excellent people, young Hamlet and Macbeth with the intent that their conversation should disperse the chill fog which had found in the neighborhood and begin a new passion, and his dimpled hands were quite disagreeable.
It is a sort of shock as to give relief, and his family were a speech to be the use of the possible as possible, so that every one is sorry when you contradict him.
Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood tears such as angels weep.
He chose badly?
The bear Sackerson growls in the world of men. Boccaccio's Calandrino was the first time in his Diary of Master William Silence has found the hunting terms … Yes? After. Acushla machree!
On that mystery and not run away and shut up the fight.
We have so many ways.
—O, yes, mention there is no mention of that date; judging by the noise of outgoing, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton.
Every-day things with us would mean the greatest things. Bullockbefriending. Good Bacon: gone musty.
It makes me very uneasy—coming all to me that the acceptance of the quaker librarian purred: most exemplary and honest nevertheless, which were not: what Caesar would have been done through him!
She bore his children and she now put on her that people were staring, not a father can the son of a cantering horseman round a turning of the field, held that the secret is hidden in the blood.
Look here—now—in England. Think how much money I have seven hundred a-year that Mr. Casaubon's final conduct in relation to him, tender people, a cool ruttime send them. Casaubon was all the while that he gave me the money which had gathered between them.
The greyeyed goddess who bends over the boy Adonis, stooping to conquer, as the coat and crest he toadied for, Dane or Dubliner, sorrow for the dreams and visions in a galliard he was rectly gone.
But this prying into greenroom gossip of the next few weeks—a man is afraid of treading on it.
He laughed, lolling a to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the horns and, when the house to her own life.
This possibility was quite hidden from Celia, objecting to so laborious a flight of imagination.
Acushla machree!
Dunlop, Judge, the palm of beauty leads us astray, said Pratt, said Dorothea, she could have no other condition which could have no other children born? With a quick change of manners.
Lapwing.
You cannot eat your cake and the sun, west of the shortwaisted swallow-tail, and yet dreading the position into which such confessions might have been such a rejection would seem more in harmony with—what shall I say? —A star, a clean quality woman is suited for a defence against ready accusers.
Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street.
—I understand you to do had he not leave her in him a wise admonition as to herself.
I paid my way. The family at Quallingham.
My whetstone.
—Well, my name … STEPHEN: Stringendo He has hidden his own words to Burbage, the prince was a mercy, said the poor are not, always with him. We went over to their nostrils from our bless'd altars.
Fatherhood, in Hamlet, I suppose you have been inviting others, and wished that he would not do something to clear himself? —As an Englishman, you mean. But we have, have yet to create.
His articles on Shakespeare in the brains of men.
Act.
And therefore he left out her name from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and you to know the manner of their ears I pour.
Haven't I given up expecting anything?
BEST: I hope you are a delusion, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton. They are still. —That mole is the ghost of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her woman's invisible weapon. O, yes; but when she found her father and mother seated together alone in the other plays which I in time must come to have in them, to the son who has faded into impalpability through death, through change of countenance he rose and said: All we can say is that.
It is a pale shade of bribery which is a mystical estate, and got out of Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to a people whose language I don't know whether Will Ladislaw into it the more because she was not to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way most gratifying to himself that nobody believed in it towards her husband three significant nods, with a swift glance their hearing. She evidently thinks nothing of her favorite themes she was Quixotic: he gave me the money as possible to lead a higher life than the Casaubon business yet. My sword. Vining held that the mere fact of her life greatly effective. —That Will exaggerated his admiration for herself, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices.
It is wonderfully like you.
I put off asking you to suggest there was certainly an unusual feeling between them, to fit a little bored here with our good dowager; but I can manage it.
He was chosen, it was right to agree with what had become of them knew how it was a rich country gentleman, Stephen smiling said, with its recovered bloom, and would be to condense these voluminous still-accumulating results and bring in money; that is the most given to intermarriage. Where then?
Just what you have made, except by bringing men and women who have given up the Grange just now she was born, though I admire him, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all his kings Richard is the guilty queen, even though you prove that a sweet girl should be no doubt that the Father was Himself His Own Self but yet shall come in the porches of their fray.
O, I should see how baby grows all the mythical systems or erratic mythical fragments in the street: very peripatetic.
—Yes, said Dorothea, jumped off his horse at once, who when dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his greencapped desklamp sought the face of the boar has wounded him there where love lies ableeding. —Only one—only one—of her during the thirtyfour years between the day. The fact is, help my unbelief. A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch. Thursday. That Moore is Martyn's wild oats. To be sure, he loved a lord of language and had been unjust to you about?
Fraidrine. The light touch. And the sense of property, Stephen said, to have in them the summers of all spontaneous trust ought to make shares at all, bare, with a bauble.
O, the fairytales. Ikey Moses? Lapwing be.
Of course it's all paradox, don't you know, Lovegood was telling me, O mine enemy? She showed her usual reticence to her knitting with a husband disposed to offend everybody. She rose and said impetuously—Why on earth have you been sending out lambent flames every now and then the other to read aloud from in a morbid state of agitation which could then be glad that you shall be those of my lords bishops of Maynooth.
Remember.
—Yes.
What is he who would see it more readily. Day.
How much did I spend?
Lydgate should go to London. Stephen said, which seemed nothing but a landholder and custos rotulorum.
She dared not confess it to poor Penelope in Stratford and a house in Ireland yard, a kind of private paper, don't you know, reading aloud joyfully: Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is thin. I have never done anything vile. But all those twenty years what do you know, like Jose he kills the real Carmen.
But to gather in this Bulstrode business, the coalquay whore He laughed again at the last, curtly, feeling convinced that her trouble was less, that is the standard of all experience, material and moral. —You know, I insist that you should expect payment for it.
Naked wheatbellied sin. Faunman he met. He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen: and it is impossible that one can be hindered. Give me my good name … Laughter QUAKERLYSTER: A tempo But he that sorrow too?
—There was nothing less than if her husband three significant nods, with fifty of experience, material and moral.
Here, John Eglinton said for Mr Best's approval.
Lydgate going about what work he had a sympathetic understanding for the word. His legal knowledge was great our judges tell us.
Should she not urge these arguments on Mr. Casaubon a listener who understood her at New Place and drank a quart of ale is a reconciliation, the quaker librarian said. He found in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the holy office an ostler does for the happiness he had made himself a coistrel gentleman and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up in Lunnon in a daring manner at a time when public feeling required the meagreness of nature to which every variety in experience is an epoch.
Vigo had been a diplomatic envoy whose words would be bribed to do it, he came near, drew a folded telegram from his laughing scribbling, laughing. She was entitled to her that you should expect payment for it since you don't believe it yourself. To be sure, he said solemnly. You know Manningham's story of Wilde's, Mr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light.
After all, A.E., eon: Magee, sir. As for living our servants can do that for us, from hue and cry O, a few days after the meeting, and the arena produce the sixshilling novel, the cry of hounds, the time when, under few cheap flowers. So you think he has branded her with his hat in his loose features. Was it a misfortune to have been almost taken as a surprise to his Rectory at Lowick, haven't I?
The most brilliant of all the note to her.
He faced their silence.
His articles on Shakespeare in the words, palabras.
There be many mo. Dark dome received, reverbed.
Did you meet him?
The mocker is never taken seriously when he went on immediately.
Sir James Chettam.
The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton observed, as shallow as Plato's. Once quick in the cone of lamplight where three faces, lighted, shone.
Day. C'est vendredi saint! That Moore is the substance of his dead wife and bids his friends be kind to an old dog licking an old mistress don't forget Nell Gwynn Herpyllis and let her go home again; but I may go to live with her ready understanding of himself. But he was a medical, jolly old medi … —I understand you to lust after you. The drawing-room was the original. There were not anything she had refrained from what Malachi Mulligan must be rejected such a dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, Dane or Dubliner, sorrow for the full meaning of his canvas.
Father who art in purgatory. I will draw plenty of idle English, and the idea that each man they meet would have preferred them if the father of his lamp. Papa, and had become of them spoke. For a plump of pressmen. Blast you.
#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce#1922#automatically generated text#Patrick Mooney#Scylla and Charybdis#George Eliot#Victorian novels#British novelists#Bildungsromaener#didactic literature#Marian Evans#19th century#Middlemarch (novel)
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