Subculture and the death of cultural needs

Like I said in another post, the death of cultural needs has to do with a shift in values and the reason for having some things. It’s not that desire for things didn’t exist before, either that it had to be justified or that it just wasn’t immediately possibly back then. There were dyers who found clever ways with using natural dyes to get the colours they wanted like beige or cream. But they’re historically rare compared to what we have today.

There are people who really wanted information but sadly can’t get it immediately which’s still very much the case today. So the need/desire for something’s there but it’s not always immediately done. Which’s still true today. In hindsight it makes sense why subcultures are very much a 20th century thing. As organised religion declines, fandom rises which acts as a religion of sorts for people to cling onto.

It’s not necessarily a bad one per say, especially if it were a mere diversion. But I suspect it’s parsimonious that even if not all Goths or metalheads are atheist/secular most religious people aren’t into subcultures not just because those values jar with their sensibilities but because there’s no need to. This is why the hierarchy of needs makes sense.

Even if it’s not always so clear-cut, it does make sense which things an individual or community prioritises. One might have a cat and dog to ward off pests and to provide low-key comfort, hobbies like sports and sewing to ward off boredom and have its identity and trust fulfilled in religion which unities others.

That’s the old-fashioned way especially in monotheist and Christian (and heterodox Muslim) contexts. Unsurprisingly, with more and more people being defined by the pets which they’ve come to place a lot of sentimental value for, it’s parsimonious that this has become how their identity’s defined by and if they do have religion, it’s more of a backdrop thing.

Or in the case with certain subcultures, sports and fashion sense inform their sense of identity first and foremost. Maybe not always exactly or consistently the case but makes sense whenever they prioritise something. It’s not that cats and dogs lacked value and they did have importance but the need for them’s strictly at the very bottom (most practical) category.

Family, community and hobbies occupy the middle rung and monotheist religion comes uppermost. That worked for a long time and still is the case to an extent. I guess it can be argued that whilst not necessarily a bad thing, idolatry could be explained as having misplaced needs.

Just because you’re rich doesn’t make you any less of a jerk

Not that there’s anything wrong with becoming rich and successful. It’s really more of a matter of exercising one’s responsibility right enough even if there are inevitably some bumps along the way. Take Charles Dickens for instance, he used to be rather poor and worked his way to the point. By the time he got famous, he thought he could anything he wanted. Including cheating on his wife with later commentators and readers taking note of this.

Keep in mind that it doesn’t make somebody bad forever because there might be people would have and could wisen up in time. Justin Bieber calmed down and went sober at least most of the time. There’s always a second chance though the impression I get with Dickens is that once fame really got into his head, he never really quite matured as much as he grew more immature.

In the sense of thinking he can do anything he wanted without realising the consequences. Not that he’s entirely bad but that being famous in fact makes it easier for publicise shortcomings. Just look at what happened to Michael Jackson. I’m not saying they should be entirely perfect but that being famous isn’t always what it seems to be.

It’s a man’s world

I think consider fine arts to be men’s domain for so long that it’s going to be hard undoing the very structure. I suspect that leaves women to well more commercial fields like say romance novel writing. Romance novels aren’t any better but it does deconstruct many of the problems with fine arts especially with why fine arts are so fixated with women’s bodies. (Comes to think of it, romance novels fixate on muscular men a lot.)

Not always exactly the case but I guess it’s parsimonious that art is male and commerce is female. In the sense that the latter literally has to prostitute itself to a lot of people whilst the former’s the one who initiates sex at will. (Same reason why I consider literature and music to be feminine in the sense of being more in touch with feelings and relationships.)

Considering that male nudes in art are pretty rare, you’d be better off finding more of them either in fanart or romance novels but since the latter’s textual it helps partly confirm stereotypes that women aren’t visual. Again I still think men have too much of a say in fine art whilst women are more active in writing.

The last straw

I still think Comicsgate might implode one day, especially when it comes to self-cannibalisation. It probably already is happening now but I suppose if Frank Cho jilting the movement’s any indication, they’ve gone way too far in harassing people a lot. It wouldn’t just be limited to comics professionals but anything superhero-related.

There’s even an incident where a Comicsgater killed people and even politicians would decry the movement once they start targeting clergyfolk for being as censorship-happy as SJWs are. Comicsgaters would go on harassing telly staff through hacks and endless whining until their channels get shut down.

That’s really going to happen should a Comicsgater whine about the Flash, The CW will do anything to shut down its channel and install robots.txt to keep others from finding copies. Even Boris Vallejo would find these characters pathetic and he’s a beloved professional. That’s how bad Comicsgate’s gotten.

Franchise this!

I think what these two men were saying about Japanese comics might also become true for crime fiction in the sense of having to rely on familiar franchises to lure new talents into either continuing or adapting those stories (even if it’s not new, see also Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew with their ghost writers). I mean, much of fiction would be really franchise heavy. Not just with young adult stories but also adult fiction proper. Not necessarily smutty.

But more in the sense of being read by adults as intended for them. Crime fiction might be the next genre to be made into a franchise factory, after fantasy fiction proper. Expect endless adaptations in other media (even animation, comics and video games), continuations and ‘modernisations’ by other writers. Nobody cares about authors anymore in crime fiction, it’s all about characters.

The only other option for writers to avoid developing franchises for other publishers is to become brands themselves though because of that they’d gravitate more to nonfiction so expect many more of them to do essay writing, journalism, commentary and the like. Not that they won’t be writing any more fiction but if they continue to do so, they’d go the way of Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman.

Even then, if they don’t have a backup plan which they can own their own franchises either in other industries (such as say dressmaking or even a restaurant) or in other genres (as in nonfiction and poetry) or both, fiction writers are messed up. It’s not wrong to want to write stories for DC and Marvel, that too can be a good way of testing the waters.

The same can be said of writing for existing franchises but be prepared to come up with a backup plan to fall on.

Vieille femme et son chien (Google Books)

La France litteraire – Volume 40 – Page 25
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Une vieille femme mit la main devant la bouche de celle-ci. Le chien se tut et vint se placer devant sa maîtresse. – Antonio, quoique tout meurtri de sa chute, avait reconnu Fiamella, et s’était jeté à ses pieds. La jeune fille le regarda un moment, …
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Une vieille femme rencontre deux chiens qui viennent de tuer du gibier en brousse. Elle les prie de lui vendre cette … Puis la vieille tue de même le fils de son frère, dont elle donne une partie de la viande à sa petite-fille. Enfin elle tue en …
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l’idiot, l’infirme, l’orphelin et la vieille femme Véronique de Colombel. 86. Le père grommela : « Qui lui a dit d’amener ce chien ? 87. Et, à ma propre fille ? » 88. Le chien réveilla la fille et lui dit de se lever et d’écouter. 89. Puis, le père …
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La Chienne, ce n’était pas une véritable chienne, mais une femme à moitié folle, vêtue d’une peau de bête effilochée, sans doute du chien. Elle vivait de vin rouge et de rogatons dans une vieille masure de bois, coincée entre deux garages …
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Peutêtre parce qu’elle gouvernait un peuple de bêtes domestiques, poules, chiens, chats, serins et perruches, de ces bêtes chères aux vieilles filles? Mais elle n’avait pour ces animaux familiers ni gâteries, ni mot mignards, ni ces puériles …

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An old woman put her hand in front of her mouth. The dog was silent and came to stand in front of his mistress. Antonio, though bruised by his fall, had recognized Fiamella, and had thrown himself at his feet. The girl looked at him for a moment, …
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An old woman meets two dogs who have just killed game in the bush. It asks them to sell this … Then the old kills even the son of her brother, which she gives some meat to her grand daughter . Finally she kills in …
Tales ouldémés (North-Cameroon): the idiot, the cripple, the orphan and …
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the idiot, the cripple, the orphan and the old woman Véronique de Colombel. 86. The father grumbled, “Who told him to bring this dog ? 87. And, to my own daughter ? 88. The dog woke the girl up and told her to get up and listen. 89. Then, the father …
A very old little girl – Page 66
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The bitch was not a real dog, but a woman half crazy, dressed in a frayed animal skin, probably dog . She lived in red wine and rogatons in an old wooden hut, wedged between two garages …
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Perhaps because it governed a people of domestic animals, hens, dogs , cats, canaries, and parakeets, of those beasts dear to old girls ? But she did not have for these pets any treats, no darling words, or those puerile ones …

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précipitamment la fleur tombée du sein de la belle Salviati. Il la porta d’abord à ses lèvres; et, ouvrant son pourpoint, il la mit sur son cœur.ll se leva ensuite, et alla s’appuyer tristement au bord de la balustrade qui formait la chapelle. Il se prit à considérer la Vierge radieuse qu’il avait peinte, et ne put s’empêcher de tomber dans un découragement profond. Il ne trouvait plus la Vierge aussi belle qu’il l’avait trouvée d’abord, et il se reprochait d’avoir mal copié les traits de Fiamella; celle-ci lui paraissait d’une beauté plus irréprochable; et, à mesure qu’il considérait son œuvre, il s’enfonçait de plus en plus dans le désespoir. Mais cette idée s’en allait bientôt de son âme, et faisait place à une vague rêverie, sorte de musique intérieure, céleste, indéfinissable, qui le berçait mollement. Il y était encore plongé, lorsqu’il sentit une main se poser sur son épaule. – Écoute, Antonio, murmura derrière lui un homme à la voix brève et saccadée. Tu es jeune, et tu parais ignorer la science de la vie; ne regarde pas tant cette image de la Vierge. – Pourquoi cela, seigneur secrétaire. – Parce que, mon enfant, cette image de la Vierge est aussi le portrait de Fiamella Salviati. Antonio ne put s’empêcher de rougir. Le secrétaire reprit : – Et que tu pourrais en devenir plus amoureux qu’il ne conviendrait pour ta sûreté personnelle. – A moins que Fiamella ne consentît à laisser aimer son portrait, répondit Antonio avec le sentiment de vanité naturel à la jeunesse, et dans l’enivrement du triomphe de la journée. Le seigneur secrétaire laisse errer sur sa lèvre un indéfinissable sourire d’ironie. – Je ne sais, dit-il, si ton amour plaira à la noble demoiselle; mais, à coup sûr, il déplairait au vieux Salviati. Retiens ceci, Antonio : je connais les grands seigneurs, les princes de cette terre; j’écrirai même un jour probablement leur histoire, pour amuser ma vieillesse. Mais je t’avertis que d’un pauvre compagnon de saint Luc comme toi à la puissante famille Salviati, il y a plus de distance que de cette église aux terres que Christophe Colomb vient de découvrir. – Je ne prétends pas offrir à Fiamella un amour défendu, mais seulement me rendre digne d’elle par des travaux éclatants. – Et alors tu iras demander sa main à l’illustre baron? – Je l’espère, dit Antonio en prenant un ton plus modeste. – Et le vieux Salviati te fera jeter par la fenêtre sur les hallebardes de ses gens. – Pourquoi donc, seigneur secrétaire

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– Parce que les grandes familles ont raison d’être nées nobles et de vouloir demeurer nobles. Antonio ne répondit pas; il se mit de nouveau à contempler l’image radieuse couronnée de l’auréole. ‘Lorsque le secrétaire eut reconnu, au silence du peintre, une conviction rebelle à ses arguments, il s’éloigna en haussant les épaules. Antonio le regarda partir avec un grand contentement.-Ne dirait-on pas, se disait-il en lui-même, l’esprit tentateur chargé de tuer mes bonnes pensées et de couper l’aile de toutes mes espérances déjà montées au troisième paradis. Seigneur Machiavel, ajouta-t-il avec un sentiment de tristesse profonde, vous avez la parole acerbe et l’esprit subtil, mais vous ne dites pas la vérité. Dans une république comme celle-ci, il n’y a que des hommes égaux. Le saint homme Savonarole nous l’a bien expliqué l’autre dimanche en pleine église. Après avoir encore réfléchi quelques minutes, tout à coup Antonio partitd’un éclat de rire. – Par la barbe de saint Joseph ! s’écria-t-il, je saurai bien me venger des sarcasmes de l’implacable secrétaire. Je lui réserve au prochain jugement dernier que je peindrai la place la plus apparente de l’enfer, avec un pied fourbu et de longues oreilles. J’aurai peu à changer pour en faire un véritabe démon. – Et cette idée de vengeance, s’emparant du jeune peintre, le conduisit, au sortir de l’église, jusqu’à son atelier, où il esquissa sur la muraille, avec une verve inexprimable, le profil sarcastique, l’œil cave et la lèvre pendante du seigneur Machiavel.

Depuis le jour où Antonio avait dessiné le contour archangélique de Fiamella, il n’avait jamais trouvé l’occasion de lui reparler. Il avait pu l’entretenir dans de longues séances souvent interrompues par d’interminables et douces conversations, tandis que la vielle Orsolina, la sévère et grave surveillante, entrant avec ponctualité dans l’esprit de son office, ne manquait jamais de s’endormir. Depuis lors, il n’avait pu que l’entrevoir à l’église, et il avait trop de piété pour avoir cherché à fixer son attention dans un lieu si vénérable. Il se plaçait bien sur le passage de Fiamella au sortir de vêpres; mais elle marchait toujours les yeux baissés, et ne paraissait pas le reconnaître.

Néanmoins la fleur qu’elle avait laissé tomber après l’inauguration du tableau, exalta les espérances d’Antonio ; l’amour et la gloire qu’il venait d’acquérir, surexcitant son courage, le décidèrent à tenter, malgré tous ies périls, une entrevue avec celle qu’il chérissait en silence.

En ce temps, les jeunes filles de condition noble ne sortaient guère de la forteresse paternelle que pour aller à la prière, à la bénédiction nuptiale et au lieu de repos. Leur vie se passait tristement, derrière le vitrail des hautes croisées, à écouter le chant des rares mandolines dans la rue, le babil mélancolique du bouvreuil dans sa cage, ou bien encore à lire, sous les citronniers du jardin, au bruit des fontaines débordantes, quelque merveilleuse légende de saint ou des ballades d’amour: l’histoire lamentable de Francesca de Rimini ou de Pia Tolomei, que la vengeance de son mari laisse lentement s’éteindre dans les brumes pestilentielles de la maremme. Mais partout de hautes clôtures entouraient la fille du châtelain dans sa prison crénelée. Antonio fit plusieurs fois le tour du palais Salviati. Il ne trouva sous la herse de la porte que des gens de mauvaise mine, armés jusqu’aux dents. Il pensa que l’unique moyen d’avoir une entrevue avec la belle Salviati était de séduire son éternelle compagne Orsolina. Il aborda donc celle-ci un soir, au sortir du palais Salviati, et, lui prenant la main, il lui glissa dans la manche deux sequins d’or, les derniers débris de sa fortune. Mais la vieille Orsolina, secouant le bras, laissa tomber les pièces sur les dalles de la rue, et dit au jeune séducteur, d’un ton sévère : —Sachez, mon jeune seigneur, que les murailles du palais Salviati sont moins hautes que l’honneur d’Orsolina n’est inébranlable. Mais, voyant Antonio tout interdit, elle lui adressa un sourire, et ajouta mystérieusement que celui qui a des oreilles pour comprendre, comprenne. Ensuite elle hâta le pas et disparut à l’angle de la rue voisine. Orsolina avait l’expérience des amours interdites. Confidente de sa jeune maîtresse, elle connaissait l’affection de celle-ci pour Antonio. Elle se rappelait que les meilleurs expédients pour séduire l’imagination exaltée des jeunes filles étaient les expédients extraordinaires, les sauts périlleux à travers les escalades. Elle savait qu’un amant débonnaire, qui entre tout uniment par les portes, a mille fois moins de chances que celui qui tombe on ne sait d’où, au risque de se briser la tête, ou qui se présente, l’épée nue, teinte du sang des gardiens, si ce n’est du père ou du frère. Antonio ne s’expliquait pas bien : d’abord le refus empressé de la vieille femme, ensuite ses paroles et son sourire énigmatiques. Il répétait entre ses dents : « Les murailles sont moins hautes.» Il s’arrêta un moment, la tête penchée, et se frappant le front, comme si un coup de lumière l’avait illuminé : — Par la vierge Marie, la vieille a raison; il faut sauter par-dessus les murailles. Et courant sur les pas d’Orsolina, il l’arrêta par son voile. – Ne pourriez-vous me dire si Fiamella se promène le soir dans son jardin ?

— Sans doute, reprit la duègue, à l’heure où je lui donne sa leçon d’astronomie. · Or, ce qu’Orsolina appelait ainsi, était la plus incontestable astrologie et la plus fine science cabalistique que jamais sorcière ait enseignée dans Florence. Elle avait persuadé à la pauvre Fiamella qu’elle lui apprendrait à lire dans les étoiles les secrets de l’avenir, et qu’à l’aide de certaines formules d’évocation, elle ferait apparaître Antonio devant elle ; et Fiamella, chaque soir, malgré sa grande piété, damnait son âme à toutes les puissances invisibles. La nuit venue, Antonio se décida à tenter les périlleuses ascensions des murailles du jardin. Elle s’opéra d’abord facilement, grâce aux saillies de l’architecture toscane. Mais, arrivé aux dernières assises, Antonio songea qu’on pourrait bien le prendre pour un voleur; il détourna la tête, et aperçut à l’extrémité de la rue une grande clarté de torches qui se projetait sur les palais voisins. Au même instant, il entendit un bruit de voix confuses qui allait grossissant de plus en plus, et qui marchait toujours de son côté. Il n’avait plus le temps de redescendre par où il était monté; il prit bravement son parti, et se pencha du côté du jardin. Il aperçut vaguement les feuilles vertes de la tonnelle, qu’il prit pour la terre ferme, et se précipita d’une hauteur à briser les membres de tout autre que ceux d’un a moureux. Il tomba d’abord sur un lit de pampres qui s’affaissa brusquement, et le déposa au milieu d’une allée. Un chien de la montagne, endormi au pied du mur, se jeta sur lui en aboyant. Au bruit de la chute, une femme assise dans la vigne s’était levée, pleine de frayeur, et s’était mise à crier. Une vieille femme mit la main devant la bouche de celle-ci. Le chien se tut et vint se placer devant sa maîtresse. Antonio, quoique tout meurtri de sa chute, avait reconnu Fiamella, et s’était jeté à ses pieds. La jeune fille le regarda un moment, frémit de tous ses membres, et se mit ensuite à éclater de rire. — Comment, seigneur Antonio, me tombez-vous ainsi du ciel. Savezvous qu’il est mal, ajouta-elle d’un ton serieux, de venir trouver une jeune fille, comme un voleur, par dessus les murailles. La vieille Orsolina se pencha en ce moment à l’oreille de Fiamella , et lui dit à voix basse : — Vous voyez bien que nos évocations ont réussi. — Fiamella, reprit Antonio, je suis venu ici au péril de ma vie, afin que tout mon sang pût répondre de la vérité de mes paroles. — Et que venez-vous me dire à cette heure de la nuit ? — Qu’il est dans Florence une jeune fille plus belle que Béatrix et que Laure, et que je lui apporte mon amour. Fiamella, sœur des anges, accepterez-vous l’amour d’un pauvre peintre qui ne sait faire que des madones ? La coquette F lorentine abaissa ses longues paupières, regarda la croix d’or qui flottait sur son cœur et se contenta de soupirer. —O la bien-aimée de mon songe, reprit tristement Antonio, ne baissez pas ainsi la tête sans me répondre. — Écoute, Antonio, lorsque nous étions enfants, nous allions SOUlVent cueillir des marguerites dans le val d’Arno ; sache que j’en ai gardé le souvenir. Antonio se jeta aux pieds de sa maîtresse et baisa la ceinture qui tombait de son corsa8o— Relève-toi, lui dit celle-ci, tu peux me baiser au front. Tout à l’heure j’y ai posé un lis, et on dit que le lis a le don de tout purifier d’avance. Antonio n’avait pas encore retiré ses lèvres du front de Fiamella, qu’une grande lueur se projeta tout à coup au-dessus des murailles. Le chien aboya lugubrement Les deux amants entendirent un bruit de sandales sur le pavé de la rue, et comme les versets entrecoupés d’un chant de fun érailles. — Quel est ce bruit ? demanda Fiamella tremblante. – Ce bruit doit être probablement celui que j’ai entendu tout à l’heure à l’extrémité de la rue. Antonio écouta de nouveau.

— Ce n’est autre chose que le De profundis. Ce doit être quelque trépassé que les moines conduisent en terre sainte ; la face découverte sur la châsse, comme c’est la coutume. Fiamella se mit aussitôt à genoux, tira son chapelet et le récita fort déVOtement. Elle se releva. – Maintenant, adieu, dit-elle à Antonio. Va trouver mon père, car il y a déjà un certain Nicolo qui lui a demandé ma main ; et comme mon père est bon, j’espère qu’il ne repoussera pas ta demande. Elle s’éloigna; mais après quelques pas, elle s’arrêta pour adresser un dernier’adieu à Antonio. Elle le vit immobile à la même place; alors elle revint, et, comprenant son embarras, elle lui dit : Par où t’en iras-tu ? J’avais oublié de te le demander. – C’est à quoi je songeais, dit Antonio; il n’y a pas moyen d’escalader la muraille de ce côté. La belle Salviati réflechit un moment; elle jeta sa cape sur les épaules d’Antonio. – Suis-moi, dit-elle. La nuit était tout à fait obscure. Elle le conduisit à la salle des gardes, fit ouvrir la porte, et dit à haute voix :- Ma chère Antonia, souviens-toi de venir demain.

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hastily the flower fell from the breast of the beautiful Salviati. He carried it first to his lips; and, opening his doublet, he put it on his heart. Then he rose, and leaned sadly on the edge of the balustrade which formed the chapel. He began to consider the radiant Virgin he had painted, and could not help but fall into profound discouragement. He could not find the Virgin as beautiful as he had found her at first, and he reproached himself for having badly copied Fiamella’s features; this one seemed to him of a more irreproachable beauty; and as he considered his work, he sank deeper and deeper into despair. But this idea soon went away from his soul, and gave way to a vague reverie, a sort of interior, celestial, indefinable music, who rocked him limply. He was still in it when he felt a hand resting on his shoulder. “Listen, Antonio,” murmured behind him a man with a short, jerky voice. You are young, and you seem to ignore the science of life; do not look so much at this image of the Virgin. – Why that, lord secretary. – Because, my child, this image of the Virgin is also the portrait of Fiamella Salviati. Antonio could not help but blush. The secretary went on: “And that you could become more amorous than it would be for your personal safety. “Unless Fiamella agrees to let her portrait be loved,” replied Antonio, with the feeling of natural vanity to the youth, and into the intoxicating triumph of the day. The lord secretary is wandering on his lips an indefinable smile of irony. “I do not know,” said he, “if your love will please the noble lady; but, certainly, he would displease old Salviati. Remember this, Antonio: I know the great lords, the princes of this land; I will probably write their story one day, to amuse my old age. But I warn you that from a poor companion of St. Luke like you to the powerful Salviati family, there is more distance than this church to the lands that Christopher Columbus has just discovered. – I do not pretend to offer Fiamella a forbidden love, but only to make me worthy of her by brilliant works. “And then you will go and ask his hand to the illustrious baron? “I hope so,” Antonio said in a more modest tone. “And old Salviati will throw you out of the window on the halberds of his people. – Why then, lord secretary

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Because great families are right to be born noble and want to remain noble. Antonio did not answer; he began again to contemplate the radiant image crowned with the halo. When the secretary recognized, in the silence of the painter, a conviction rebellious to his arguments, he shrugged off his shoulders. Antonio watched him leave with great satisfaction. “Would not it be said,” he said to himself, “the tempting spirit charged with killing my good thoughts and cutting the wing of all my hopes already mounted in the third paradise? . Lord Machiavelli, “he added, with a deep sense of sadness,” you have a harsh word and a subtle mind, but you do not speak the truth. In a republic like this, there are only equal men. The holy man Savonarola us explained the other Sunday in full church. After thinking a few more minutes, Antonio suddenly burst out laughing. – By the beard of Saint Joseph! he exclaimed, “I will be able to avenge myself for the sarcasm of the implacable secretary. I reserve for him at the next Judgment that I will paint the most apparent place in hell, with a footed foot and long ears. I will have little to change to make a real demon. – And this idea of ​​revenge, seizing the young painter, led him, on leaving the church, to his studio, where he sketched on the wall, with an inexpressible verve, the sarcastic profile, the eye cellar and the drooping lip of Lord Machiavelli. Suddenly Antonio burst out laughing. – By the beard of Saint Joseph! he exclaimed, “I will be able to avenge myself for the sarcasm of the implacable secretary. I reserve for him at the next Judgment that I will paint the most apparent place in hell, with a footed foot and long ears. I will have little to change to make a real demon. – And this idea of ​​revenge, seizing the young painter, led him, on leaving the church, to his studio, where he sketched on the wall, with an inexpressible verve, the sarcastic profile, the eye cellar and the drooping lip of Lord Machiavelli. Suddenly Antonio burst out laughing. – By the beard of Saint Joseph! he exclaimed, “I will be able to avenge myself for the sarcasm of the implacable secretary. I reserve for him at the next Judgment that I will paint the most apparent place in hell, with a footed foot and long ears. I will have little to change to make a real demon. – And this idea of ​​revenge, seizing the young painter, led him, on leaving the church, to his studio, where he sketched on the wall, with an inexpressible verve, the sarcastic profile, the eye cellar and the drooping lip of Lord Machiavelli. I reserve for him at the next Judgment that I will paint the most apparent place in hell, with a footed foot and long ears. I will have little to change to make a real demon. – And this idea of ​​revenge, seizing the young painter, led him, on leaving the church, to his studio, where he sketched on the wall, with an inexpressible verve, the sarcastic profile, the eye cellar and the drooping lip of Lord Machiavelli. I reserve for him at the next Judgment that I will paint the most apparent place in hell, with a footed foot and long ears. I will have little to change to make a real demon. – And this idea of ​​revenge, seizing the young painter, led him, on leaving the church, to his studio, where he sketched on the wall, with an inexpressible verve, the sarcastic profile, the eye cellar and the drooping lip of Lord Machiavelli.

Since the day Antonio had drawn the archangelic outline of Fiamella, he had never found an opportunity to talk to him again. He had been able to entertain her in long sessions often interrupted by interminable and sweet conversations, while the old Orsolina, the severe and grave overseer, punctually entering the spirit of her office, never failed to fall asleep . Since then he had only been able to glimpse at the church, and he had too much piety for having sought to fix his attention in so venerable a place. He placed himself well on the passage of Fiamella at the end of vespers; but she always walked with downcast eyes, and did not seem to recognize it.

Nevertheless the flower which she had dropped after the inauguration of the picture, exalted the hopes of Antonio; the love and glory which he had just acquired, excite his courage, persuaded him to attempt, in spite of all the dangers, an interview with the man he cherished in silence.

At that time, young girls of noble condition came out of the paternal fortress only to go to prayer, to the nuptial blessing and to the place of rest. Their life was spent sadly, behind the stained-glass windows of the high crosses, listening to the singing of the rare mandolins in the street, the melancholy babble of the bullfinch in its cage, or even reading, under the lemon trees of the garden, the sound of overflowing fountains. , some marvelous legend of saint or ballads of love: the lamentable story of Francesca of Rimini or Pia Tolomei, that the vengeance of her husband let slowly disappear in the pestilential mists of the maremma. But everywhere high fences surrounded the girlthe squire in his crenellated prison. Antonio went around the Salviati Palace several times. He found under the harrow of the door only people of bad appearance, armed to the teeth. He thought that the only way to have an interview with the beautiful Salviati was to seduce his eternal companion Orsolina. He therefore approached the latter one evening, at the end of the Salviati palace, and taking his hand, he slipped two gold sequins into his sleeve, the last remains of his fortune. But the oldOrsolina, shaking her arm, dropped the coins on the slabs of the street, and said to the young seducer, in a severe tone, “Know, my young lord, that the walls of the Salviati Palace are less high than the honor of Orsolina is unshakeable. But, seeing Antonio forbidden, she gave him a smile, and mysteriously added that he who has ears to understand, understand. Then she hastened and disappeared at the corner of the next street. Orsolina had the experience of forbidden love affairs. Confident of his young mistress, she knew the affection of it for Antonio. She remembered that the best expedients to seduce the exalted imagination of young girls were the extraordinary expedients, the dangerous jumps through climbing. She knew that a good-natured lover, who enters everything through the doors, is a thousand times less likely than the one who falls, no one knows where, at the risk of breaking his head, or who presents himself, the naked sword, dyed with blood guards, if not father or brother. Antonio did not explain well: first the eager refusal of theold woman, then her enigmatic words and smile. He repeated between his teeth: “The walls are less high.” He paused for a moment, his head bowed, and striking his forehead, as if a shot of light had illuminated him: – By the Virgin Mary, the old woman is right; we must jump over the walls. And running in the footsteps of Orsolina, he stopped him by his veil. – Could you tell me if Fiamella walks in the evening in her garden?

“No doubt,” said the duke, “at the moment when I give her her astronomy lesson. Now, what Orolina called so, was the most incontestable astrology and the finest cabalistic science witch taught in Florence. She had persuaded poor Fiamella that she would teach him to read in the stars the secrets of the future, and that by means of certain formulas of evocation, she would make Antonio appear before her; and Fiamella, every evening, in spite of her great piety, damned her soul to all the invisible powers. When night came, Antonio decided to try the perilous ascents of the walls of the garden. It first worked easily, thanks to the projections of Tuscan architecture. But, having arrived at the last sitting, Antonio thought that he might be mistaken for a thief; he turned away his head, and perceived at the end of the street a great light of torches which was projected on the neighboring palaces. At the same moment, he heard a noise of confused voices which was getting bigger and bigger, and which was still walking on his side. He had no time to go back down where he had gone; he bravely took his side, and leaned towards the garden. He saw vaguely the green leaves of the arbor, which he took for the mainland, and rushed from a height to break the limbs of any other than those of a mourning. He first fell on a bed of vine-leaves which sank suddenly, and set him down in the middle of an alley. A At the end of the street there was a great clarity of torches that projected on the neighboring palaces. At the same moment, he heard a noise of confused voices which was getting bigger and bigger, and which was still walking on his side. He had no time to go back down where he had gone; he bravely took his side, and leaned towards the garden. He saw vaguely the green leaves of the arbor, which he took for the mainland, and rushed from a height to break the limbs of any other than those of a mourning. He first fell on a bed of vine-leaves which sank suddenly, and set him down in the middle of an alley. A At the end of the street there was a great clarity of torches that projected on the neighboring palaces. At the same moment, he heard a noise of confused voices which was getting bigger and bigger, and which was still walking on his side. He had no time to go back down where he had gone; he bravely took his side, and leaned towards the garden. He saw vaguely the green leaves of the arbor, which he took for the mainland, and rushed from a height to break the limbs of any other than those of a mourning. He first fell on a bed of vine-leaves which sank suddenly, and set him down in the middle of an alley. A he had no time to go back down where he had climbed; he bravely took his side, and leaned towards the garden. He saw vaguely the green leaves of the arbor, which he took for the mainland, and rushed from a height to break the limbs of any other than those of a mourning. He first fell on a bed of vine-leaves which sank suddenly, and laid it in the middle of an alley. A he had no time to go back down where he had climbed; he bravely took his side, and leaned towards the garden. He saw vaguely the green leaves of the arbor, which he took for the mainland, and rushed from a height to break the limbs of any other than those of a mourning. He first fell on a bed of vine-leaves which sank suddenly, and laid it in the middle of an alley. AThe mountain dog , asleep at the foot of the wall, threw himself on him, barking. At the sound of the fall, a woman sitting in the vineyard had risen, full of terror, and began to cry. An old woman put her hand in front of her mouth. The dog was silent and came to stand in front of his mistress. Antonio, though bruised by his fall, had recognized Fiamella, and had thrown himself at his feet. The girl looked at him for a moment, shuddered with all her limbs, and then burst out laughing. “How, Lord Antonio, do you fall from heaven? Do you know that it is bad, “she added in a serious tone,” to come and find a girl, like a thief, over the walls? The old womanOrsolina leaned over in Fiamella’s ear, and said to her in a low voice: “You see that our evocations have succeeded. “Fiamella,” said Antonio, “I came here at the risk of my life, so that all my blood might answer for the truth of my words. “And what are you saying to me at this hour of the night? – That he is in Florence a girl more beautiful than Beatrix and Laura, and that I bring him my love. Fiamella, sister of the angels, will you accept the love of a poor painter who can only do Madonnas? The coquette Lorentine lowered her long eyelids, looked at the golden cross which floated over her heart, and contented herself with sighing. “Oh, beloved of my dream,” said Antonio, sadly, “do not let your head down without answering me. -Listen, Antonio, when we were children, we were going to pick daisies in the Arno Valley; know that I have kept the memory. Antonio threw himself at the feet of his mistress and kissed the belt that fell from his corsa8o- Get up, said the latter, you can kiss me in the forehead. Earlier I put a lily on it, and it is said that the lily has the gift of purifying everything in advance. Antonio had not yet withdrawn his lips from Fiamella’s forehead, when a great gleam suddenly projected over the walls. The dog barked lugubriously The two lovers heard a sound of sandalson the cobblestones of the street, and like the verses interspersed with a song of screaming fun. – What is this noise ? asked Fiamella trembling. “This noise must be the one I heard earlier at the end of the street. Antonio listened again.

“It’s nothing more than De profundis.It must be some dead that the monks lead to the holy land; the face uncovered on the shrine, as is the custom. Fiamella immediately knelt down, pulled out her rosary, and recited it loudly. She got up. “Now, good-bye,” she said to Antonio. Go find my father, because there is already a certain Nicolo who asked him my hand; and as my father is good, I hope he will not refuse your request. She went away; but after a few steps she stopped to send a last address to Antonio. She saw him motionless in the same place; then she came back, and, understanding her embarrassment, she said to him: Where shall you go? I forgot to ask you. “That’s what I was thinking of,” said Antonio; there is no way to climb the wall on this side. The beautiful Salviati reflects a moment; she threw her cloak on Antonio’s shoulders. “Follow me,” she said. The night was totally dark. She led him to the guardroom, opened the door, and said in a loud voice: “My dear Antonia, remember to come tomorrow.

Nouveaux éléments de pathologie medico-chirurgicale

Névroses de l’intelligence.
Du cauchemar.

Le cauchemar paraît n’être autre chose qu’un rêve pénible , avec sentiment d’un poids sur la poitrine , gêne de la respiration , et l’idée de l’impossihilité de parler et de se mouvoir. Ordinairement le malade croit voir dans son sommeil un monstre , un gros chat, un chien , ou une vieille femme hidense , posés sur sa poitrine , et l’empêchant de respirer. Les jeunes filles rêvent quelquefois qu’un homme les serre dans ses bras pour les exciter au plaisir (incube) ; les jeunes garçons au contraire se croient étreints dans les bras d’une jeune fille (succube). Pendant tout le temps que dure le rêve , qui est en

général fort court, la respiration est souvent tremblante, plaintive et étouffée. Aussitôt que le malade parvient à faire le plus léger mouvement , son rêve s’évanouit , et tantôt il se réveille couvert de sueur, sanglotant, effrayé , avec des palpitations, de l’anxiété , de la pesanteur de tête , et une fatigue générale , et tantôt dégagé immédiatement de toute sensation pénible.

Nous ne connaissions aucun exemple de cauchemar survenu pendant la veille , lorsque nous en avons lu un fait remarquable , rapporté par M. Boisseau , dans le Dictionnaire abrégé des sciences médicales. Nous le transcrivons textuellement. « Le sujet qui en est affecté éprouve d’abord, pendant la nuit, tous les symptômes que nous avons décrits : ils cessent; mais pendant un , deux ou trois des jours suivans , à l’instant où il fixe une personne , où il mange , il voit , au heu de cette personne , l’e’tre fantastique dont l’image l’a tourmenté pendant la nuit; il éprouve un sentiment de malaise qui se peint sur ses traits profondément décomposés; sa respiration s’accélère, et devient gênée ; il exécute des mouvemens de déglutition , comme lorsqu’on éprouve un sentiment de strangulation par la présence d’un corps étranger dans l’œsophage. S’il parlait au moment où la vision lui apparaît, il se tait ou parle avec difficulté , avec distraction , comme un homme frappé subitement d’un souvenir effrayant ou de la vue d’un objet qui inspire la crainte. n

Les enfans , les femmes et les vieillards, sont plus sujets au cauchemar que les adultes et les hommes. Une grande irritabilité du système nerveux y prédispose; son retour fréquent suppose nécessairement un état d’excitation morbide du cerveau. Suivant M. Esquirol, il est souvent le symptôme précurseur de la manie et des autres genres de folie. Les contes avec lesquels on effraie les enfans , les terreurs religieuses, les chagrins profonds, et les écarts de régime sont des causes fréquentes de cauchemar. Il est très-souvent produit par la plénitude de l’estomac, et souvent aussi par une gêne réelle de la

Neuroses of intelligence.
From the nightmare.

The nightmare seems to be nothing but a painful dream, with a feeling of weight on the chest, embarrassment of breathing, and the idea of ​​the impossibility of speaking and moving. Usually the patient believes to see in s we sleep a monster, a big cat, a dog , or an old woman hidense, resting on his chest, and preventing it from breathing. Young girls sometimes dream that a man hugs them to excite them with pleasure (incube); the young boys, on the other hand, feel themselves hugged in the arms of a girl (succubus). During the entire duration of the dream, which is in

Generally very short, the breathing is often trembling, plaintive and stifled. Immediately q ue the patient manages to make the slightest movement, his dream vanished, and sometimes he wakes up covered in sweat, sobbing, frightened, with palpitations, anxiety, head heaviness, and fatigue general, and sometimes immediately relieved of any painful sensation.

We knew of no example of a nightmare during the day before, when we read a remarkable fact, reported by M. Boisseau, in the Abbreviated Dictionary of Medical Sciences. We transcribe it verbatim. “The subject who is affected by it first experiences, during the night, all the symptoms we have described: they cease; but for one, two or three of the following days, at the moment when he fixes a person, where he eats, he sees, in the place of that person, the fantastic being whose image tormented him during the night; he feels a feeling of unease which is painted on his deeply decomposed features; his breathing accelerates, and becomes embarrassed; he performs swallowing motions, as when a feeling of strangulation is felt by the presence of a foreign body in the esophagus. If he spoke at the moment when the vision appeared to him, he was silent or spoke with difficulty, with distraction, like a man struck suddenly with a frightening memory or the sight of an object that inspires fear. not

Children, women and old men are more subject to nightmares than adults and men. A great irritability of the nervous system predisposes; his frequent return necessarily supposes a state of morbid excitation of the brain. According to Esquirol, he is often the precursory symptom of mania and other kinds of madness. Tales with which children are frightened, religious terrors, deep sorrows, and deviations from diet are frequent causes of nightmare. It is very often produced by the plenitude of the stomach, and often also by a real

Underestimating the cheetah

It’s not that I hate cheetahs but that there’s a tendency to underestimate the damage they do to people. The real problem might be that they’re not that numerous in number. Though cheetahs can tame easily, they’re not necessarily any less harmful. There are reported cases of cheetahs attacking people, including attacks on a teenager and a pre-teen as well as a report about a cheetah killing a 3 year old.

Another reason why that cheetah’s able to kill him/her isn’t just due to carelessness and the like but since physics dictates an object increases its mass upon speeding up thus gaining more strength, assuming cheetahs weigh anywhere from 75 to 140 lbs and the child weights around 35-40 lbs the former easily overpowers the latter. And not in a good way for those who’re related to it and/or care for people.

(That might explain road kills and why it’s as bad as Usain Bolt running over a little child, which illustrates how deadly this is as cheetahs are fast.)

Physics is partly why cheetahs might be deadlier than one assumes, especially if victims are of a lighter weight. Not to mention cheetahs can still inflict harm if one’s not careful.