— Nina ☦️ Byzantina (@NinaByzantina) March 17, 2019
March 17, 2019
By Nazanín Armanian
[*Translated from Spanish to English via Google Translator.]
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,
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.
Ne perdez surtout pas votre temps à essayer de me faire croire que la diffusion sauvage de photos de Macron au ski par le service de communication de l’
#Elysée n’avait pas pour objectif d’attiser les tensions afin de semer encore davantage la pagaille. #GiletsJaunes #ActeXVIII
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?”
https://t.co/j68C4rMVac #GILETSJAUNES #GILETSJAUNESPARIS #GILETSJAUNESTERRORISTES @GILETSJAUNESFR @GILETSJAUNESGO @J_SILLERES @GILETSJAUNESFR_ @GILETSJAUNES75 #PATRIOTS #YELLOWVESTS #GILETSJAUNES #WRONGKINDOFGREEN pic.twitter.com/Y13Xtxqgvm
— GrubStreetJournal (@GrubStreetJorno) March 20, 2019