This is a Draft Working Copy which Will be finished over the coming days but the thread of ideas is here for the Web 3 Grub Street and Why it is needed, A Web 3 Fifth Estate!!
As I labour to code the Web 3 Fifth Estate Le Republic Les Lettres des Liberte
I am inevitably drawing upon the framework I have built stood upon the shoulders of Giants as ever, two such Giants
James Corbett is an independent journalist who has been living and working in Japan since 2004. He has been writing and producing The Corbett Report, an online multi-media news and information source, since 2007.[CR 1][CR 2], “an independent, listener-supported alternative news source” featuring “podcasts, interviews, articles and videos about breaking news and important issues from 9/11 Truth and false flag terror to the Big Brother police state, eugenics, geopolitics, the central banking fraud and more.”[CR 3]
Joël van der Reijden is an independent researcher into the deep state, born in the Netherlands. His theories are independent of a lot of other such work on the internet and focus upon hidden power. He has assigned a “global superclass index” to key individuals in an effort to simplify the importance of people and organisations.
With scholars as thorough and scrupulous of Joel and James, it is hard to follow Henry Morleys Advice on Critical Reading.
”The reader of Pope, as of every author, is advised to begin by letting him say what he has to say, in his own manner to an open mind that seeks only to receive the impressions which the writer wishes to convey. First let the mind and spirit of the writer come into free, full contact with the mind and spirit of the reader, whose attitude at the first reading should be simply receptive. Such reading is the condition precedent to all true judgment of a writer’s work. All criticism that is not so grounded spreads as fog over a poet’s page. Read, reader, for yourself, without once pausing to remember what you have been told to think´´.
James Hypothesis seemingly confirmed by James leaves open the notion that Joels Speculation on James has some merit. What is certainly true is always ask for sources and go to the original material.
On Gatekeepers and so Forth I highly recommend this on Line E-Book.
As I said already, I really enjoy the Corbett Report.
HOW THE US USES WAR TO PROTECT THE DOLLAR
Following the support claimed by Extinction Rebellion from Noam Chomsky and David Graeber one re-considered ones own position on a cherished Hero, and in the words of Keynes, when the facts change I change my opinion.
” weeks ago I wrote this comment .
Having Previously Written this a year ago.
This appaling Talk
To a friend who was on the production team of this Garbage
“why was this moron put on for over an hour it takes only two minutes to demonstrate he is a moron.”
reply from friend
HahahahahahaI was in the room when they filmed this But fell out with them
08:47The talk is absolute rubbish Ranjan, is the guy ok in real life I think Extinction Rebellion is a fraudulent decoy for sincere concerned people, a state-created dead end if you will. Looking at some of its prominent supporters the Gatekeeping team is emerging with some surprising people, many are useful idiots but there are some surprises like Chomsky and Graeber, it seems that whatever the crisis is that is looming all assets are being employed regardless of keeping their credibility.
On Greta and All that and the guy in the video Roger Hallam .
Extinction Rebellion was established in the United Kingdom in 2018 with about one hundred academics signing a call to action and launched at the end of October by Roger Hallam, Gail Bradbrook, Simon Bramwell and other activists from the campaign group Rising Up!. In November 2018, various acts of civil disobedience took place in London. The movement is unusual in that a large number of activists have pledged to be arrested and are prepared to go to prison, similar to the mass arrest tactics of the Committee of 100 in 1961.
- There are two key articles related to this Activism initiative  and this response from Greta Thunberg  aspects of manufacturing consent and controlled opposition and Gatekeepers all figure and the initiative should not be left here un-critically, the pedagogical aspects of Wikipedia should not be ignored to promote activism. I will work up a påaragraph with the first two references as this article is really trotting out of the PR campaign from  RogerGLewis (talk) 06:05, 6 February 2019 (UTC)
refs for this section
Housekeeping note: This discussion started when RogerGLewis added this paragraph to this article, and also to Greta Thunberg. Identical threads were started at both pages, and once I asked, per MULTI, Roger has decided to consolidate discussion at this talk page. I am taking liberty to reformat the proposed text Roger wants to add. I have not changed any of Rogers own words. My goal in refactoring/reformatting is to help make a comprehensible discussion. For the record, I think neutral “criticism” sections would be appropriate, the challenge is in finding acceptable RSs and presenting them fairly with regard to UNDUE WEIGHT and WP:Biographies of living people. Anyway, the text Roger originally added to both article reads as follows NewsAndEventsGuy (talk) 12:29, 12 February 2019 (UTC)
Greta Thonberg responded  to concerns of corporate capture of her message which has been expressed by the Wrong Kind of Green , an Indigenous peoples environmental group.  “We attempt to expose those who undermine the People’s Agreement. One role of the non-profit industrial complex is to undermine, marginalize and make irrelevant, the People’s Agreement. The reason being, to protect corporate interests by which they are funded. As well, the non-profit industrial complex protects the industrialized, capitalist economic system, responsible for the capitalist destruction of our shared environment. Those groups who continue to protect such interests must be considered complicit in crimes against humanity.RogerGLewis (talk) 19:16, 11 February 2019 (UTC)
- /* Concerns of Corporate Green-washing */ I am reverting this new section if you wish to suggest an edit then please do It is clearly a concern looking at previous comments. I will initiate a consensus process if the reverting continues. WH RogerGLewis (talk) 19:10, 11 February 2019 (UTC)
Controversy over affiliations
After her student climate strikes gained popularity, Thunberg became a target of efforts to discredit her or take advantage of her high profile. In late 2018, Ingmar Rentzhog, founder of the non-profit We Don’t Have Time Foundation (WDHT), recruited Thunberg to become an unpaid youth advisor and used Thunberg’s name and image without her knowledge or permission to raise millions for WDHT’s for-profit subsidiary We Don’t Have Time AB, of which Rentzhog is CEO. Thunberg received no money from the company. She terminated her volunteer advisor role with WDHT, stating she “is not part of any organization… am absolutely independent… (and) do what I do completely for free.”
This exchange with David Graeber indicates why controlling the narrative on Wikipedia Pages is so important, Mr Hallam has an unremarkable web Presence and in that old Pejoritive has a “Great Face for Radio”.
Wikipedia No 5.
This is a Draft Working COpy which Will be finished over the coming days but the thread of ideas is here for the Web 3 Grub Street and Why it is needed, A Web 3 Fifth Estate!!
14:28I asked David Graeber about this. He was polite on camera but doesn’t actually approve. 17:06WHat doesn’t Graeber approve of, I called him out on CIA intrigues in Rohingya Kurds north Syria, you made a film about that with him. He was very evasive infact he deleted his tweet on that. I think he is CIA.
23:53I didn’t realise he deleted the tweet – I like him but not seen him for a bit He is not so into extortion rebellion
06:47The tweet he deleted was one between me and him ,,,,, I like him too, that someone may be a CIA agent is not a reason in itself not to like them. There is good in everybody and good people within every organisation. All organisations are made up of people and whilst corporate cultures exist the individuals within organisations will always resist the worse excesses of a tyrannical culture and by the same token, even the most benign organisation will have its petit tyrannies and tyrants.
That Graeber does not approve of Extinction Rebellion begs the question, why sign the letter of support, Chomsky did too.?
I am working on this Blog at the mo and what I wanted to talk to you about is the Grub Street on Web 3 that I am developing.
The Grass Roots Myth, #WrongKind of Green’s, latest expose of Media Agent Provocateur Trojan Horses and Fifth Columnists of the Fourth Estate. #WRONGKINDOFGREEN @COMPROMISEDNGOS #8THWAYTOTHINK #GREENPARTYUK #EXTINCTIONREBELLION @GRETATHUNBERG
The Grass Roots Myth,
#WrongKind of Green, latest expose of Media Agent Provocateur Trojan Horses and Fifth Columnists of the Fourth Estate.
https://longhairedmusings.wordpress.com07:16The Manufacturing of Greta Thunberg – A Decade of Social Manipulation for the Corporate Capture of Nature [Crescendo]
http://www.wrongkindofgreen.org‘Between the Lines’ – Ariana Boussard-Reifel
https://longhairedmusings.wordpress.comNafeez Ahmed #WrongKindofGreen #ConquestofDough
https://longhairedmusings.wordpress.com#DontEatYellowSnow Zappa and the Illusion of Freedom
#DontEatYellowSnow Zappa and the Illusion of Freedom
https://longhairedmusings.wordpress.comMonetary reform and the Green New Deal all lead back to the same place, CO2 and Co2 trading QED Spash’s work. https://www.clivespash.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/2010_Spash_Brave_New_World_NPE.pdf
https://www.clivespash.orgDr Art Raiche, Retired CSIRO Chief Research Scientist – No Carbon Tax Rally, 16 August 2011 – YouTube
https://www.youtube.comCarbon Currency End Game and NGO capture of Positive money.
Carbon Taxes the New Ship Money
“It is very rare indeed for men to be wrong in their feelings concerning public misconduct; as rare to be right in their speculation upon the cause of it. I have constantly observed that the generality of people are fifty years, at least, behindhand in their politics. There are but very few who are capable of comparing and digesting what passes before their eyes at different times and occasions, so as to form the whole into a distinct system. But in books everything is settled for them, without the exertion of any considerable diligence or sagacity. For which reason men are wise with but little reflection, and good with little self-denial, in the business of all times except their own. ”
The people have no interest in disorder. When they do wrong, it is their error, and not their crime. But with the governing part of the State it is far otherwise. They certainly may act ill by design, as well as by mistake. “Les révolutions qui arrivent dans les grands états ne sont point un effect du hasard, ni du caprice des peuples. Rien ne révolte les grands d’un royaume comme un Gouvernoment foible et dérangé. Pour la populace, ce n’est jamais par envie d’attaquer qu’elle se soulève, mais par impatience de souffrir.” These are the words of a great man, of a Minister of State, and a zealous assertor of Monarchy. They are applied to the system of favouritism which was adopted by Henry the Third of France, and to the dreadful consequences it produced. What he says of revolutions is equally true of all great disturbances. If this presumption in favour of the subjects against the trustees of power be not the more probable, I am sure it is the more comfortable speculation, because it is more easy to change an Administration than to reform a people. Edmund Burke, These present discontents.
1769, Edmund Burke began the pamphlet here given, Thoughts on the Present Discontents. It was published in 1770,
“A great deal of the furniture of ancient tyranny is worn to rags; the rest is entirely out of fashion. Besides, there are few statesmen so very clumsy and awkward in their business as to fall into the identical snare which has proved fatal to their predecessors. When an arbitrary imposition is attempted upon the subject, undoubtedly it will not bear on its forehead the name of SHIP-MONEY There is no danger that an extension of the Forest laws should be the chosen mode of oppression in this age. And when we hear any instance of ministerial rapacity to the prejudice of the rights of private life, it will certainly not be the exaction of two hundred pullets, from a woman of fashion, for leave to lie with her own husband”.
A search for CHicken Taxes yields this interesting arcania from the anals of EU/US Trade relations.
“Senator J. William Fulbright, chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and Democratic Senator from Arkansas, a chief U.S. poultry-producing state, interrupted a NATO debate on nuclear armament to protest trade sanctions on U.S. chicken,going so far as to threaten cutting U.S. troops in NATO. Konrad Adenauer, then Chancellor of Germany, later reported that President John F. Kennedy and he had a great deal of correspondence over a period of two years, about Berlin, Laos, the Bay of Pigs Invasion, “and I guess that about half of it has been about chickens.”
A TALE OF TWO CITIES
A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
By Charles Dickens
I. The Period
It was the best of times,
it was the worst of times,
it was the age of wisdom,
it was the age of foolishness,
it was the epoch of belief,
it was the epoch of incredulity,
it was the season of Light,
it was the season of Darkness,
it was the spring of hope,
it was the winter of despair,
we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way— in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general were settled for ever.
XXII. The Sea Still Rises
The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their children, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions. Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant Foulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon alive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon who told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these breasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers, and young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon, Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy, whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men belonging to them from being trampled under foot.
X. The Substance of the Shadow
“It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away. The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all as if he were a fellow-creature.
“’How has this been done, monsieur?’ said I.
“’A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him, and has fallen by my brother’s sword—like a gentleman.’
“There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about the boy, or about his fate.
“The boy’s eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now slowly moved to me.
“’Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but we have a little pride left, sometimes. She—have you seen her, Doctor?’
“The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.
“I said, ‘I have seen her.’
“’She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we have had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a tenant of his. We were all tenants of his—that man’s who stands there. The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.’
“It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.
“’We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs are by those superior Beings—taxed by him without mercy, obliged to work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his people should not see it and take it from us—I say, we were so robbed, and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable race die out!’
“I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people somewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the dying boy.
- “Monseigneur”: An unnamed generic aristocrat whose extraordinary decadence and self-absorption, described in detail, are used by Dickens to characterize the ancien régime in general. “The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance upon Monseigneur.” His fellow nobles also luxuriate in vast wealth, but this does not inoculate them from feeling envy and resentment: as the Marquis St. Evrémonde leaves Monseigneur’s house “with his hat under his arm and his snuff-box in his hand”, he turns to the latter’s bedroom and quietly says, “I devote you … to the Devil!” When the Revolution begins, Monseigneur puts on his cook’s clothing and ignominiously flees, escaping with only his life.
VII. Monseigneur in Town
Monseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in his inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to the crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many things with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather rapidly swallowing France; but, his morning’s chocolate could not so much as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four strong men besides the Cook.
Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his pocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to conduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur’s lips. One lacquey carried the chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed the chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function; a third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold watches), poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to dispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high place under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three men; he must have died of two.
XXIII. Fire Rises
There was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it, but not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of them knew what his men would do—beyond this: that it would probably not be what he was ordered.
Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation. Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as shrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down, dejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated animals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them—all worn out.
Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose; nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought things to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it was, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the flints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and unaccountable.
But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures of the chase—now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and beautifying features of Monseigneur.
XXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
In such risings of fire and risings of sea—the firm earth shaken by the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the flow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on the shore—three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful tissue of the life of her home.
Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in the corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging feet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of a people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in danger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted in.
Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of his not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as to incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and this life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with infinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could ask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after boldly reading the Lord’s Prayer backwards for a great number of years, and performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no sooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.
The shining Bull’s Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good eye to see with—had long had the mote in it of Lucifer’s pride, Sardanapalus’s luxury, and a mole’s blindness—but it had dropped out and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its outermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was all gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and “suspended,” when the last tidings came over.
The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.
As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson’s Bank. Spirits are supposed to haunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur without a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be. Moreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most to be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson’s was a munificent house, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen from their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming storm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made provident remittances to Tellson’s, were always to be heard of there by their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer from France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson’s, almost as a matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson’s was at that time, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this was so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in consequence so numerous, that Tellson’s sometimes wrote the latest news out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran through Temple Bar to read.
II. The Grindstone
Tellson’s Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was in a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to a great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the troubles, in his own cook’s dress, and got across the borders. A mere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men besides the cook in question.
Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the sin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and willing to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and indivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur’s house had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all things moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce precipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month of September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of Monseigneur’s house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were drinking brandy in its state apartments.
A place of business in London like Tellson’s place of business in Paris, would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette. For, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have said to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid over the counter? Yet such things were. Tellson’s had whitewashed the Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from morning to night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in Lombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of the immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and also of clerks not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest provocation. Yet, a French Tellson’s could get on with these things exceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had taken fright at them, and drawn out his money.
What money would be drawn out of Tellson’s henceforth, and what would lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in Tellson’s hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons, and when they should have violently perished; how many accounts with Tellson’s never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into the next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis Lorry could, though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was prematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the room distortedly reflect—a shade of horror.
Soon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself from the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so besmeared that he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back to consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by the side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air. Shortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of the carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle, climbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its dainty cushions.
The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again, and the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood alone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had never given, and would never take away.
The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No better man living to hold fast by what Tellson’s had in keeping, and to hold his peace.
A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters: National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
Who could that be with Mr. Lorry—the owner of the riding-coat upon the chair—who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out, agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued, he said: “Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?”
See up there on that Carriage WHo is that the owner of the riding Coat up on the Chair.
Meet Monseigneur Macron.
Emmanuel Macron’s arrogance problem
With his talk of ‘slackers’ and ‘illiterates,’ the French president risks losing support for his reform agenda.
Man of Les People
Revolution Française: Emmanuel Macron and the Quest to Reinvent a Nation
By Sophie Pedder
The one person he listens to is his ever-smiling wife, on whose behalf he self-importantly militated so that she might be officially pronounced première dame. Nothing doing. Pascal Bruckner, the no-longer nouveau philosophe, calls her, with unusual lack of originality, l’éminence grise. In this guise she was probably responsible for her husband’s cravenly bathetic performance at Johnny Hallyday’s funeral – several minutes of high-octane drivel that caused the insentient to weep and the sentient to wince. Pedder amiably describes it as ‘both romantic and deeply calculating’. The same might be said of any number of populist, lush, intellectually void spectacles that offer no more than temporary relief, temporary communion. They are mere diversions. They are his forte. Chiselhurst awaits.
Macron, Reflected Glory and issuing platitudes devoid of context or meaning a Rhetorical Flourish of Gaelic Flatulence in the mode of Blair, Trudeau, Ummana, Clinton and the many plastic ornaments of a false pantheon of Political Pygmies.