January 30th, 2020.

FRANCIS BOYLE: WUHAN CORONAVIRUS IS AN OFFENSIVE BIOLOGICAL WARFARE WEAPON

Dr. Francis Boyle discusses the coronavirus outbreak in Wuhan, China, and the Biosafety Level 4 laboratory (BSL-4) from which he believes the infectious disease escaped. He believes the virus is potentially lethal and an offensive biological warfare weapon or dual-use biowarfare weapons agent genetically modified with gain-of-function properties, which is why the Chinese government originally tried to cover it up and is now taking drastic measures to contain it. The Wuhan BSL-4 lab is also a specially designated World Health Organization (WHO) research lab and Dr. Boyle contends that the WHO knows full well what is occurring.

1st February 2020.

Keep the
Aspidistra
Flying
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not
money, I am become as a sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And
though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and
all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove
mountains, and have not money, I am nothing. And though I bestow
all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be
burned, and have not money, it profiteth me nothing. Money
suffereth long, and is kind; money envieth not; money vaunteth not
itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave unseemly, seeketh not her
own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in
iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all
things, hopeth all things, endureth all things . . . And now abideth
faith, hope, money, these three; but the greatest of these is money.
I CORINTHIANS XIII (adapted)
Copyright 1936 by Eric Blair

VII P.93
The plumes of the chimneys floated perpendicular against skies of smoky rose.
Gordon caught the 27 bus at ten past eight. The streets were still locked in
their Sunday sleep. On the doorsteps the milk bottles waited ungathered like
little white sentinels. Gordon had fourteen shillings in hand—thirteen and nine,
rather, because the bus fare was threepence. Nine bob he had set aside from his
wages—God knew what that was going to mean, later in the week!—and five
he had borrowed from Julia.

P.113.

Something deep below made the stone street shiver. The Tube-train,
sliding through middle earth. He had a vision of London, of the western world;
he saw a thousand million slaves toiling and grovelling about the throne of
money. The earth is ploughed, ships sail, miners sweat in dripping tunnels
underground, clerks hurry for the eight-fifteen with the fear of the boss eating
at their vitals. And even in bed with their wives they tremble and obey. Obey
whom? The money-priesthood, the pink-faced masters of the world. The
Upper Crust. A welter of sleek young rabbits in thousand-guinea motor cars, of
golfing stockbrokers and cosmopolitan financiers, of Chancery lawyers and
fashionable Nancy boys, of bankers, newspaper peers, novelists of all four
sexes, American pugilists, lady aviators, film stars, bishops, titled poets and
Chicago gorillas.
When he had gone another fifty yards the rhyme for the final stanza of his
poem occurred to him. He walked homeward, repeating the poem to himself:

‘Sharply the menacing wind sweeps over
The bending poplars, newly bare,
And the dark ribbons of the chimneys
Veer downward; flicked by whips of air,

Torn posters flutter; coldly sound
The boom of trams and the rattle of hooves,
And the clerks who hurry to the station
Look, shuddering, over the eastern rooves,

Thinking, each one, “Here comes the winter!
Please God I keep my job this year!”
And bleakly, as the cold strikes through
Their entrails like an icy spear,

They think of rent, rates, season tickets,
Insurance, coal, the skivvy’s wages,
Boots, school-bills and the next instalment
Upon the two twin beds from Drage’s.

For if in careless summer days
In groves of Ashtaroth we whored,
Repentant now, when winds blow cold,
We kneel before our rightful lord;

The lord of all, the money-god,
Who rules us blood and hand and brain,
Who gives the roof that stops the wind,
And, giving, takes away again;

Who spies with jealous, watchful care,
Our thoughts, our dreams, our secret ways,
Who picks our words and cuts our clothes,
And maps the pattern of our days;

Who chills our anger, curbs our hope,
And buys our lives and pays with toys,
Who claims as tribute broken faith,
Accepted insults, muted joys;

Who binds with chains the poet’s wit,
The navvy’s strength, the soldier’s pride,
And lays the sleek, estranging shield
Between the lover and his bride.’