|Posted on Thursday, February 6, 2003 - 9:32 am: |
Go for the fountain. The mere fact that you are questioning it means you should feed the addiction NOW. That's what I did.
That should be Vive l'Nolamour, not Vive l'amour.
|Posted on Thursday, February 6, 2003 - 8:12 am: |
So I've been using a carafe and have got the drip method pretty much down. Do I stay with the carafe or drop another 100.00 on my addiction and shoot for a fountain?
Also.. I picked up a great book called Wormwood by Marie Corelli - 1890.
If this doesn't sum up our being...
Here's the first 2 pages... again, it's Paris- 1890...
Silence, Silence! It is the hour of the deepest hush of night; the invisible intangible clouds of sleep brood over the brilliant city. Sleep! What is it? Forgetfulness? A sweet unconsciousness of dreamless rest. Aye! It must be so, if I remember rightly; but I cannot be quite sure, for it seems a century since I slept well. But what of that? Does anyone sleep nowadays, save children and hard-worked diggers of the soil? We who think- oh, the entanglements and perplexities of this perpetual thought!- We have no space or time wherein to slumber; between the small hours of midnight and morning we rest on our pillows for mere form’s sake, and doze and dream, - but we do not sleep.
Stay! Let me consider. What am I doing here so late? Why am I not home?
Why do I stand alone on this bridge, gazing down into the cold sparkling water of the Seine- water that, to my mind, resembles a glittering glass screen, through which I see faces peering up at me, white and aghast with a frozen wonder! How they stare! How they smile, all those drowned women and men! Some are beautiful, all are mournful. I am not sorry for them, no! But I am sure they must have died with half their griefs unspoken, to look so wildly even in death. Is it my fancy or do they want something from me? I feel impelled towards them- they draw me downwards by a deadly fascination, I must go on, or else-
With a violent effort I tear myself away, and, leaving the bridge, I wander slowly homeward.
The city sleeps, did I say? Oh no! Paris is not so clean of conscience or so pure of heart that its inhabitants should compose themselves to rest simply because it is midnight. There are hosts of people about and stirring; rich aristocrats for instance, whose names are blazoned on the lists of honor and la haute noblesse (the high nobility), can be met at every turn, stalking abroad like beasts in search of prey; they are painted and bedizened outcasts who draw their silken skirts scornfully aside from any chance of contact with the soiled and ragged garments worn by the wretched and starving members of the same deplorable sisterhood; and every now and again the flashing lamps in a passing carriage containing some redoubtable princess of the demi-monde (half world), assures the beholder of the fact that, however soundly virtue may slumber, vice is awake and rampant. But what am I that I should talk of vice or virtue? What business has a wreck cast on the shores of ruin to concern itself with the distant sailing of the gaudy ships bound for the same disastrous end!
How my brain reels! The hot pavements scorch my tired feet, and the white moon looks at me from the sky like the foolish ghost of herself in a dream. Street after street I pass, scarcely conscious of sight or sense; I hardly know whither I am bound, and it is by mere mechanical instinct alone that I finally reach my destination.
Home at last! I recognize the dim and dirty alley, the tumbledown miserable lodging-house, in which, of all the wretched rooms it holds, the wretchedest is the garret I call mine. That gaunt cat is always on the doorstep,- always tearing some horrible offal she has found, with claws and teeth- yet savage as hunger has made her she is afraid of me, and bounds stealthily aside and away as I cross the threashold. Two men, my drunken landlord and his no less drunken brother, are quarrelling furiously in the passage; I shrink past them unobserved and make my way up the dark, foul-smelling staircase to my narrow den, where, on entering, I jealously lock myself in, eager to be alone. Alone, alone- always alone! I approach the window and fling it wide open; I rest my arms on the sill and look out drearily at the vast deep star-besprinkled heaven.
They were cruel to me tonight at the café, particularly that young curly-haired student. Who is he, and what is he? I hate him, I know not why! Except that he reminds me of one who is dead. “Do not drink that,” he said gravely touching the glass I held. “It will drive you mad some day!” Drive me mad! Good, very good! That is what a great many people have told me, -croakers all! Who is mad, and who is sane? It is not easy to decide. The world has various ways of defining insanity in different individuals. The genius who has grand ideas, and fancies he can realize them is “mad;” the priset who, like Saint Damien, sacrifices himself for others is “mad,” the hero who, like the English Gordon, perishes at his post instead of running away to save his own skin, is “mad,” and only the comfortable tradesman or financier who amasses millions by systematically cheating his fellows, is “sane.” Excellent! Let me be mad, then, by all means! Mad with the madness of Absinthe, the wildest, most luxurious madness in the world! Vive la folie! Vive l’amour! Vive l’animalism! Vive le Diable! (Let live the madness, love, lust (?) the devil)