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Jul. 10th, 2005 @ 07:34 pm Homework is not where the heart is
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In his & 'Ferre's flat, something like 7 or 8 in the morning

With the early morning sun lighting up the sky like the fires of Hephaestos' forge, and the scent of flowers filling the air from the florist's shop down the street (even if one has no use for flowers except to hide a sword), and the elusive song of some hardier, city-dwelling birds rising into the pink-and-golden clouds, anyone could be excused for not paying due attention to their schoolwork. Even Enjolras, perhaps, whose mind is obviously not on the essay sitting, barely begun, on the desk in front of him.




Typist: ...in other words, 'Ferre or whoever wants to drop by... ;)
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Gold leaf sun god
Jul. 3rd, 2005 @ 02:24 am Through blindness in ourselves
Current Mood: morosemorose
Current Music: If music be the food of love...
Yesterday I saw the truest, finest example of why this fight must be won - why this country, this world, this race of men, must be purified.

I was headed for l'Université - I was hurrying, because I was already somewhat late for an examination. It had rained the night before, and the streets were thick with mud. I had to avoid splashing through puddles, and I kept my eyes down. Nonetheless, I hardly even noticed when I stepped on a tiny, cold-blued hand, outstretched along the pavement.

If it wasn't for the crunch of bones under my boot, I wouldn't have noticed the child at all, and would have gone on to my examination, been late, taken the lowered mark, and never thought a second longer. But I snapped the girl's hand under my foot, and I did stop.

She was a wretched little thing, big-eyed and stick-ribbed with hunger, and clad in the filthiest rags imaginable. She didn't even cry out when I stepped on her hand, but merely whimpered a little, as an animal might, and rolled over somewhat in the mud-filled gutter.

I stammered the best apology I could muster - what can one say, when one has been so blind to the presence of a fellow human being as to step on her? - and her only response was to blink her eyes up at me and clutch her twig of an arm against her breast.

I gave her my coat, and I carried her to a doctor's, and I convinced M. le Docteur's housekeeper to give her hot tea and food. Before I left, her hand was splinted and bound, and she had confessed, in a hoarse whisper, to the housekeeper - good, worthy woman, who found clean, dry clothes for the child - that she was called Laure.

Needless to say, I was hopelessly beyond the point of going to my examination. I found myself wandering aimlessly through the streets, noticing the miserables, the poor, the hungry - beggars, children, sick and crippled and cold - either silent in their frozen fates or else crying out, wheedling, shaking tin cups for coins.

How could I have walked down that street without seeing a child, to crush her underfoot as heedlessly as if I were some king of the land? How could I have been so blind to my fellow human? I can't condone that in anyone, least of all my own damned self. No insignificant examination is worth such a travesty.
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Gold leaf sun god
Jun. 5th, 2005 @ 08:54 pm Remembering March 10, on another June 5
Current Mood: pensivepensive
Current Music: "There's an ember of hope in this cold heart of mine"
I remember a day in March, when I was perhaps about seven years old, and my mother filled the house with flowers. It was early, very early, before I was awake. She stole into my room as I lay sleeping and sat on the floor beside my bed until I woke. It was a Saturday morning, I think; my father would sleep late on Saturdays. My mother had brought the flowers into the house before the sun rose, and she now took me by the hand and led us down into the kitchen. She was skipping, taking the stairs two at a time, giddy and excited as a child. I remember that I helped her make breakfast, and we opened all the windows and let the sun pour in. When my father came downstairs, we were sitting there waiting for him, surrounded by yellow and pink and white daisies.

It was typical of my mother, to do something like that, and then four days later fall ill with the pneumonia that would soon kill her.

There are things that are worth dying for. This I firmly believe. Big things - the rights of the people, equality, liberty, fraternity. A better world, a better society, a better humanity. These are the kinds of things you can put capital letters on, the kinds of things that are, simply, so immense and necessary that death is a small sacrifice for their sake, and life only marginally bigger.

But there are small things, too. Things like waking up to your mother's smiling, expectant face, like a room full of sunlight and daisies, like a late breakfast on a spring morning with your family.

Everything real, everything right, everything good. If one can say their life has been spent towards this, their death has been caused for this, then that life and that death are not meaningless.
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Gold leaf sun god