We have to be a little more vague in our meaning of Christianity. I think, however, that there are two different items which are quite essential to anybody calling himself a Christian. The first is one of a dogmatic nature -- namely, that you must believe in God and immortality. If you do not believe in those two things, I do not think that you can properly call yourself a Christian. Then, further than that, as the name implies, you must have some kind of belief about Christ. The Mohammedans, for instance, also believe in God and in immortality, and yet they would not call themselves Christians. I think you must have at the very lowest the belief that Christ was, if not divine, at least the best and wisest of men. If you are not going to believe that much about Christ, I do not think you have any right to call yourself a Christian. Of course, there is another sense, which you find in Whitaker's Almanack and in geography books, where the population of the world is said to be divided into Christians, Mohammedans, Buddhists, fetish worshipers, and so on; and in that sense we are all Christians. The geography books count us all in, but that is a purely geographical sense, which I suppose we can ignore.Therefore I take it that when I tell you why I am not a Christian I have to tell you two different things: first, why I do not believe in God and in immortality; and, secondly, why I do not think that Christ was the best and wisest of men, although I grant him a very high degree of moral goodness. But for the successful efforts of unbelievers in the past, I could not take so elastic a definition of Christianity as that. As I said before, in olden days it had a much more full-blooded sense. For instance, it included he belief in hell. Belief in eternal hell-fire was an essential item of Christian belief until pretty recent times. In this country, as you know, it ceased to be an essential item because of a decision of the Privy Council, and from that decision the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Archbishop of York dissented; but in this country our religion is settled by Act of Parliament, and therefore the Privy Council was able to override their Graces and hell was no longer necessary to a Christian. Consequently I shall not insist that a Christian must believe in hell.
"But you must understand that it's abnormal," shouted Ananyev, looking at him almost wrathfully. "If we find means of mounting to the topmost step without the help of the lower ones, then the whole long ladder, that is the whole of life, with its colours, sounds, and thoughts, loses all meaning for us. That at your age such reflections are harmful and absurd, you can see from every step of your rational independent life. Let us suppose you sit down this minute to read Darwin or Shakespeare, you have scarcely read a page before the poison shows itself; and your long life, and Shakespeare, and Darwin, seem to you nonsense, absurdity, because you know you will die, that Shakespeare and Darwin have died too, that their thoughts have not saved them, nor the earth, nor you, and that if life is deprived of meaning in that way, all science, poetry, and exalted thoughts seem only useless diversions, the idle playthings of grown up people; and you leave off reading at the second page. Now, let us suppose that people come to you as an intelligent man and ask your opinion about war, for instance: whether it is desirable, whether it is morally justifiable or not. In answer to that terrible question you merely shrug your shoulders and confine yourself to some commonplace, because for you, with your way of thinking, it makes absolutely no difference whether hundreds of thousands of people die a violent death, or a natural one: the results are the same -- ashes and oblivion. You and I are building a railway line. What's the use, one may ask, of our worrying our heads, inventing, rising above the hackneyed thing, feeling for the workmen, stealing or not stealing, when we know that this railway line will turn to dust within two thousand years, and so on, and so on. . . . You must admit that with such a disastrous way of looking at things there can be no progress, no science, no art, nor even thought itself. We fancy that we are cleverer than the crowd, and than Shakespeare. In reality our thinking leads to nothing because we have no inclination to go down to the lower steps and there is nowhere higher to go, so our brain stands at the freezing point -- neither up nor down;
He remembered that at such times he had been particularly absentminded, and could not discriminate between objects and persons unless he concentrated special attention upon them. He remembered seeing something in the window marked at sixty copecks. Therefore, if the shop existed and if this object were really in the window, it would prove that he had been able to concentrate his attention on this article at a moment when, as a general rule, his absence of mind would have been too great to admit of any such concentration; in fact, very shortly after he had left the railway station in such a state of agitation. So he walked back looking about him for the shop, and his heart beat with intolerable impatience. Ah! here was the very shop, and there was the article marked 60 cop." "Of course, it's sixty copecks," he thought, and certainly worth no more." This idea amused him and he laughed. But it was a hysterical laugh; he was feeling terribly oppressed. He remembered clearly that just here, standing before this window, he had suddenly turned round, just as earlier in the day he had turned and found the dreadful eyes of Rogojin fixed upon him. Convinced, therefore, that in this respect at all events he had been under no delusion, he left the shop and went on.
"Ideologul şi-a dorit să devină ideolog. Mai întâi al comunismului. Pagini strategic “uitate” dovedesc strădania. Neîncrederea unor foşti tovarăşi de drum ai familiei în tânărul vlăstar şi, mai apoi, naţional-comunismul pretorienilor ideologici ceauşişti au limitat aspiraţiile pretendentului. Academia Ştefan Gheorghiu, pe care astăzi — pe bună dreptate – ideologul o ia în derâdere, a fost un loc inaccesibil aspirantului de acum câteva decenii. Şansa lui de a nu-și vedea visul cu ochii – a deveni ideolog comunist în toată puterea cuvântului — a stat în obtuzitatea unor trepăduși. În felul acesta, pe scara ascensiunii, aspirantul nu a ajuns atunci mai sus de o treaptă nesemnificativă. În vreme ce poetul a continuat să creadă că textele sale pot ajuta chipul comunismului să devină unul uman, aspirantul la statutul de ideolog a fost ajutat să plece – liniştit şi confortabil – din România de alţi comunişti. Unii cu față umană – eurocomuniști de tip Santiago Carillo. Nu știm cât de uman ar fi fost chipul comunismului spaniol, dacă în Spania s-ar fi instaurat dictatura comunistă. Ajuns afară, cel căruia i s-a blocat accesul în elita tinerilor ideologi comuniști români a devenit unul dintre cei mai aprigi şi străluciţi critici ai comunismului românesc. Politolog. A scris pagini remarcabile, în care a demontat mecanismul comunist. Poetul nu a avut idei politice. A avut ideea fixă că omul trebuie să fie în centrul politicii. O asemenea obsesie nu putea face casă bună cu dependenţa poetului faţă de singura idee politică posibilă în acei ani în România, idee care nu avea în centrul ei decât un singur om. Şi acela nu era poetul, ci dictatorul."
'...Pe vremea aceea, a şuta într-o minge pe un stadion din Craiova era precum rostise J.F. Kennedy, în inima Berlinului, Ich bin ein Berliner. N-am să uit niciodată – şi nu am o explicaţie cum de aşa ceva fu posibil în era ceauşistă – că, după şuturile lui Păunescu în acea minge, peluza stadionului a început să strige Păunescu-al nostru e / Cel mai bun din resere. Un refren care lui i-o fi plăcut, cred – dar şi unul care, printr-un mănunchi de invidii, vanităţi şi slăbiciuni (şi ale altora, şi ale lui), l-a condus la excomunicare politică în vara lui ’85, cînd Păunescu a pierdut revista, emisiunea radio şi cenaclul. Într-o vreme în care conceptul de vedetă era trecut la index, el era o vedetă care tuna pe stadioane pînă noaptea tîrziu, recitînd versuri sau slogane care, în gura lui şi-n mintea noastră, chiar sunau mobilizator (măcar cîteva ore, după care vraja se spărgea). Într-o seară de primăvară, tot la un cenaclu, un tînăr din tribună a luat un steag şi a dat să intre în arenă. Miliţienii i-au ieşit în cale şi l-au blocat. Şi Păunescu a început să ţipe la miliţieni: „Luaţi mîna de pe acest tînăr! Nu sînteţi aici ca să blocaţi tinerii să fluture steagul ţării lor, dacă asta vor“ ş.a.m.d.'
Anticul îndemn "Cunoaşte-te pe tine însuţi" rămâne tot ceea ce vreodată omul şi-a cerut sie însuşi mai greu. Nu suntem în stare să privim decât în jur, numai statuilor li-s daţi ochi albi, cu pupilele întoarse, probabil, înăuntru. Nici măcar fizic nu putem să ne cunoaştem. Oglinzile nu ne arată, pentru că în clipa în care ne privim în ele nu mai suntem decât spectatorii noştri, şi cel mult imaginea acestor spectatori urâţiţi de mândrie şi curiozitate o putem vedea. Când îmi ascult glasul înregistrat pe bandă mă cuprinde o teamă superstiţioasă, pentru că toţi spun că acesta este glasul meu, dar mie vocea îmi e străină, o cu totul alta aud eu când vorbesc. Cei filmaţi fără să ştie se privesc pe ecrane uimiţi de necunoscuta umbră în care cei din jur îi recunosc. Purtăm în noi, fiecare, o falsă imagine proprie. Pentru artist, arta este, desigur, un act de autocunoaştere, dar orice operă finită îi este străină autorului, şi sentimentul de nemulţumire, generator de alte opere, provine tocmai din această repetată nerecunoaştere în oglinda creată. Van Gogh nu se recunoştea întreg în autoportretele sale, dar, mai ales, Van Gogh din autoportrete nu seamănă cu cel din tablourile lui Gauguin sau Lautrec. Noi ne putem cerceta, numai alţii ne văd. Ochii noştri pot privi la dreapta, la stânga, în sus, în jos. Primesc lentile de telescop şi pot vedea în depărtare; primesc lentile de microscop şi pot privi în adânc; numai pe ei înşişi ochii noştri nu se pot privi. Vedem paiul din ochiul aproapelui şi nu vedem bârna din ochiul nostru, dar e firesc să fie aşa. Nu-i ipocrizie, ci malformaţie.
Niciodată nu m‑am îndoit că noi, balzacienii, ştim să rămânem inflexibili, mândri şi demni în faţa destinului care ne‑a confruntat cu atâtea popoare de stendhalieni, proustieni, thomasmannişti şi chiar gidieni care, toate, şi‑au găsit câte un cronicar prevestitor al pieirii noastre, deşi toată lumea ştie cum l‑a slăvit Tatăl‑nostru‑din‑rafturi‑de‑cărţi pe dl. Stendhal, toată lumea ştie ce legătură deloc ocultă e între Comedia noastră şi aceea a Timpului Pierdut sau a Casei Buddenbrook...
Noi, balzacienii, risipiţi prin toată lumea, suntem însă un popor literar nu numai inflexibil în faţa veştilor proaste dar şi foarte tolerant. Ne‑am lăsat mult ironizaţi, bagatelizaţi, minimalizaţi, defăimat ca să nu mai spunem imitaţi. Ce ne pot face nou bietele ironii omeneşti? Cu ce ne pot întuneca viaţa nevolnicele calomnii ale celor muritori? Ni s‑a spus că suntem plicticoşi, schematici, prea realişti, lipsiţi de mister şi de halucinaţie... Am ajuns de râsul lumii literare: "încă un Balzac..." devenise o glumă lejeră la adresa oricărui debutant care‑şi începea istoria în cadenţa noastră nemuritoare: "Într‑una din frumoasele zile ale verii anului 183..., un tânăr elegant trecea pe..
Noi, balzacienii, risipiţi prin toată lumea, suntem însă un popor literar nu numai inflexibil în faţa veştilor proaste dar şi foarte tolerant. Ne‑am lăsat mult ironizaţi, bagatelizaţi, minimalizaţi, defăimat ca să nu mai spunem imitaţi. Ce ne pot face nou bietele ironii omeneşti? Cu ce ne pot întuneca viaţa nevolnicele calomnii ale celor muritori? Ni s‑a spus că suntem plicticoşi, schematici, prea realişti, lipsiţi de mister şi de halucinaţie... Am ajuns de râsul lumii literare: "încă un Balzac..." devenise o glumă lejeră la adresa oricărui debutant care‑şi începea istoria în cadenţa noastră nemuritoare: "Într‑una din frumoasele zile ale verii anului 183..., un tânăr elegant trecea pe..
Problematica cunoaşterii nu poate fi numai a posibilităţii cunoaşterii, oricât ar fi de importantă, ci este obligatoriu una a existentului, a lui "ce este"; vrând-nevrând gândirea trebuie să treacă la ontologie, dacă e să fie gândire întreagă, iar cine zice ontologie zice cosmologie (aviz autorului ontologiei încă inedită, de care am amintit). Reproşul adus lui Goethe de a nu putea "înfrânge pluralitatea" şi de a recădea statornic în ea, îmi pare, n-am cum spune altfel, lipsit de sens. Ce se poate înţelege prin aşa ceva? Absolut nimic. Unitate, polaritate, pluralitate, nu sunt, cum crede Noica, termenii indeciziei goetheene şi neputinţei de a se fixa în "Unu stabil". Ei se regăsesc în orice doctrină cosmologică tradiţională (cum explică foarte clar Ernst Robert Curtius în capitolul al doilea din fundamentalul său studiu asupra lui Balzac) şi îi constituie, să zicem astfel, "dialectica" ternară. Dacă unitatea e, cum spuneam, o "idee regulativă" sau o necesitate logică ordonatoare (când nu e o superstiţie, un abuz de limbaj, cum pretinde Zarifopol sau, cum tot el adaugă, "un reflex al vieţii politice, teoretice sau militare" - cf. ibid.), pluralitatea e în schimb o realitate manifestă a lumii.
Along this particular stretch of line no express had ever passed. All the trains--the few that there were--stopped at all the stations. Denis knew the names of those stations by heart. Bole, Tritton, Spavin Delawarr, Knipswich for Timpany, West Bowlby, and, finally, Camlet-on-the-Water. Camlet was where he always got out, leaving the train to creep indolently onward, goodness only knew whither, into the green heart of England. They were snorting out of West Bowlby now. It was the next station, thank Heaven. Denis took his chattels off the rack and piled them neatly in the corner opposite his own. A futile proceeding. But one must have something to do. When he had finished, he sank back into his seat and closed his eyes. It was extremely hot. Oh, this journey! It was two hours cut clean out of his life; two hours in which he might have done so much, so much--written the perfect poem, for example, or read the one illuminating book. Instead of which--his gorge rose at the smell of the dusty cushions against which he was leaning. Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Anything might be done in that time. Anything. Nothing. Oh, he had had hundreds of hours, and what had he done with them? Wasted them,...
DACĂ VREŢI ÎNTR-ADEVĂR SĂ AFLAŢI CE S-A ÎNTÎMPLAT, probabil c-o să întrebaţi în primul rînd unde m-am născut, cum mi-am petrecut copilăria mea amărîtă, cu ce s-au ocupat părinţii înainte de naşterea mea şi alte rahaturi d-astea gen David Copperfield, dar, dacă vreţi să ştiţi, n-am nici un chef să le înşir pe toate. Mai întîi pentru că mă plictiseşte, pe urmă pentru că, dacă m-aş apuca să vorbesc cît de puţin de treburile lor intime, părinţii mei ar face cîte două hemoragii fiecare. Sînt foarte sensibili cînd e vorba de lucrurile astea, mai cu seamă tata. Sînt ei drăguţi şi cumsecade ― nu spun nu ―, da'-s îngrozitor de sensibili. De altfel, n-am de gînd să vă debitez autobiografia mea nenorocită sau alte prostii d-astea. Vreau doar să vă povestesc despre întîmplările demente pe care le-am trăit în preajma Crăciunului, înainte s-ajung la capătul puterilor şi să fiu nevoit să vin aici să mă potolesc.
"Sur ce sentiment inconnu dont l'ennui, la douceur m'obsèdent, j'hésite à apposer le nom, le beau nom grave de tristesse. C'est un sentiment si complet, si égoïste que j'en ai presque honte alors que la tristesse m'a toujours paru honorable. Je ne la connaissais pas, elle, mais l'ennui, le regret, plus rarement le remords. Aujourd'hui, quelque chose se replie sur moi comme une soie, énervante et douce, et me sépare des autres." (from Bonjour tristesse)
One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked. “What’s happened to me?” he thought. It wasn’t a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls. A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table — Samsa was a travelling salesman — and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer.
Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather.
Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather.
Mark Twain has crashed the lofty gates of the Everyman library, but only with TOM SAWYER and HUCKLEBERRY FINN, already fairly well known under the guise of 'children's books' (which they are not). His best and most characteristic books, ROUGHING IT, THE INNOCENTS AT HOME, and even LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI, are little remembered in this country, though no doubt in America the patriotism which is everywhere mixed up with literary judgement keeps them alive. Although Mark Twain produced a surprising variety of books, ranging from a namby-pamby 'life' of Joan of Arc to a pamphlet so obscene that it has never been publicly printed, all that is best in his work centres about the Mississippi river and the wild mining towns of the West. Born in 1835 (he came of a Southern family, a family just rich enough to own one or perhaps two slaves), he had had his youth and early manhood in the golden age of America, the period when the great plains were opened up, when wealth and opportunity seemed limitless, and human beings felt free, indeed were free, as they had never been before and may not be again for centuries. LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI and the two other books that I have mentioned are a ragbag of anecdotes, scenic descriptions and social history both serious and burlesque, but they have a central theme which could perhaps be put into these words: 'This is how human beings behave when they are not frightened of the sack.' In writing these books Mark Twain is not consciously writing a hymn to liberty. Primarily he is interested in 'character', in the fantastic, almost lunatic variations which human nature is capable of when economic pressure and tradition are both removed from it.
"At the beginning of 1985, Chilean film director Miguel Littín -- whose name appeared on a list of five thousand exiled with absolute prohibition of returning to their country -- was in Chile for clandestine works lasting six weeks, and shot more than seven thousand meters of film on the realities of his country after 12 years of military dictatorship. With a disguised face, a different style of dressing and speaking, with false documents and the aid and protection of clandestine democratic organizations, Littín led three European film teams the length and breadth of the national territory -- including the interior of the Presidential Palace. They had entered the country at the same time as him with different legal covers, and were assisted by another six teams made up of young people from the internal resistance movement. The result was a four hour film for television and another two hour film for the cinema, that they are beginning to show worldwide.
"Six months ago, when Miguel Littín told me in Madrid what he had done, and how he done it, I thought that behind his film was another unmade film, that ran the risk of remaining unpublished.
"Six months ago, when Miguel Littín told me in Madrid what he had done, and how he done it, I thought that behind his film was another unmade film, that ran the risk of remaining unpublished.
She had practically, he believed, conveyed the intimation, the horrid, brutal, vulgar menace, in the course of their last dreadful conversation, when, for whatever was left him of pluck or confidence – confidence in what he would fain have called a little more aggressively the strength of his position – he had judged best not to take it up. But this time there was no question of not understanding, or of pretending he didn’t; the ugly, the awful words, ruthlessly formed by her lips, were like the fingers of a hand that she might have thrust into her pocket for extraction of the monstrous object that would serve best for – what should he call it? – a gage of battle.
“If I haven’t a very different answer from you within the next three days I shall put the matter into the hands of my solicitor, whom it may interest you to know I’ve already seen. I shall bring an action for ‘breach’ against you, Herbert Dodd, as sure as my name’s Kate Cookham.”
There it was, straight and strong – yet he felt he could say for himself, when once it had come, or even, already just as it was coming, that it turned on, as if she had moved an electric switch, the very brightest light of his own very reasons. There she was, in all the grossness of her native indelicacy, in all her essential excess of will and destitution of scruple; and it was the woman capable of that ignoble threat who, his sharper sense of her quality having become so quite deterrent, was now making for him a crime of it that he shouldn’t wish to tie himself to her for life.
“If I haven’t a very different answer from you within the next three days I shall put the matter into the hands of my solicitor, whom it may interest you to know I’ve already seen. I shall bring an action for ‘breach’ against you, Herbert Dodd, as sure as my name’s Kate Cookham.”
There it was, straight and strong – yet he felt he could say for himself, when once it had come, or even, already just as it was coming, that it turned on, as if she had moved an electric switch, the very brightest light of his own very reasons. There she was, in all the grossness of her native indelicacy, in all her essential excess of will and destitution of scruple; and it was the woman capable of that ignoble threat who, his sharper sense of her quality having become so quite deterrent, was now making for him a crime of it that he shouldn’t wish to tie himself to her for life.
Car je n'aime pas qu'on lise mon livre à la légère. J'éprouve tant de chagrin à raconter ces souvenirs. Il y a six ans déjà que mon ami s'en est allé avec son mouton. Si j'essaie ici de le décrire, c'est afin de ne pas l'oublier. C'est triste d'oublier un ami. Tout le monde n'a pas eu un ami. Et je puis devenir comme les grandes personnes qui ne s'intéressent plus qu'aux chiffres. C'est donc pour ça encore que j'ai acheté une boîte de couleurs et des crayons. C'est dur de se remettre au dessin, à mon âge, quand on n'a jamais fait d'autres tentatives que celle d'un boa fermé et celle d'un boa ouvert, à l'âge de six ans ! J'essaierai, bien sûr, de faire des portraits le plus ressemblants possible. Mais je ne suis pas tout à fait certain de réussir. Un dessin va, et l'autre ne ressemble plus. Je me trompe un peu aussi sur la taille. Ici le petit prince est trop grand. Là il est trop petit. J'hésite aussi sur la couleur de son costume. Alors je tâtonne comme ci et comme ça, tant bien que mal. Je me tromperai enfin sur certains détails plus importants. Mais ça, il faudra me le pardonner. Mon ami ne donnait jamais d'explications. Il me croyait peut-être semblable à lui. Mais moi, malheureusement, je ne sais pas voir les moutons à travers les caisses. Je suis peut-être un peu comme les grandes personnes. J'ai dû vieillir.
VI : When did we three last meet?
RU : Let us not speak. [Silence. Exit VI right. Silence.]
FLO : Ru.
RU : Yes.
FLO : What do you think of Vi?
RU : I see little change. [FLO moves to centre seat, whispers in RU's ear. Appalled.] Oh! [They look at each other. FLO puts her finger to her lips,] Does she not realize?
FLO : God grant not. [Enter VI. FLO and RU turn back front, resume pose. VI sits right. Silence.] Just sit together as we used to, in the playground at Miss Wade's.
RU : On the log. [Silence. Exit FLO left. Silence.] Vi.
VI : Yes.
RU: How do you find FLO?
VI : She seems much the same. [RU moves to centre seat, whispers in VI's ear. Appalled.] Oh! [They look at each other. RU puts her finger to her lips.] Has she not been told?
RU : God forbid.
RU : Let us not speak. [Silence. Exit VI right. Silence.]
FLO : Ru.
RU : Yes.
FLO : What do you think of Vi?
RU : I see little change. [FLO moves to centre seat, whispers in RU's ear. Appalled.] Oh! [They look at each other. FLO puts her finger to her lips,] Does she not realize?
FLO : God grant not. [Enter VI. FLO and RU turn back front, resume pose. VI sits right. Silence.] Just sit together as we used to, in the playground at Miss Wade's.
RU : On the log. [Silence. Exit FLO left. Silence.] Vi.
VI : Yes.
RU: How do you find FLO?
VI : She seems much the same. [RU moves to centre seat, whispers in VI's ear. Appalled.] Oh! [They look at each other. RU puts her finger to her lips.] Has she not been told?
RU : God forbid.
Il arriva chez nous un dimanche de novembre 189...
Je continue à dire "chez nous", bien que la maison ne nous appartienne plus. Nous avons quitté le pays depuis bientôt quinze ans et nous n'y reviendrons certainement jamais. Nous habitions les bâtiments du Cour Supérieur de Sainte-Agathe. Mon père, que j'appelais M. Seurel, comme les autres élèves, y dirigeait à la fois le Cours supérieur, où l'on préparait le brevet d'instituteur, et le Cours moyen. Ma mère faisait la petite classe. Une longue maison rouge, avec cinq portes vitrées, sous des vignes vierges, à l'extrémité du bourg; une cour immense avec préaux et buanderie, qui ouvrait en avant sur le village par un grand portail; sur le côté nord, la route où donnait une petite grille et qui menait vers La Gare, à trois kilomètres; au sud et par derrière, des champs, des jardins et des prés qui rejoignaient les faubourgs... tel est le plan sommaire de cette demeure où s'écoulèrent les jours les plus tourmentés et les plus chers de ma vie--demeure d'où partirent et où revinrent se briser, comme des vagues sur un rocher désert, nos aventures.
Je continue à dire "chez nous", bien que la maison ne nous appartienne plus. Nous avons quitté le pays depuis bientôt quinze ans et nous n'y reviendrons certainement jamais. Nous habitions les bâtiments du Cour Supérieur de Sainte-Agathe. Mon père, que j'appelais M. Seurel, comme les autres élèves, y dirigeait à la fois le Cours supérieur, où l'on préparait le brevet d'instituteur, et le Cours moyen. Ma mère faisait la petite classe. Une longue maison rouge, avec cinq portes vitrées, sous des vignes vierges, à l'extrémité du bourg; une cour immense avec préaux et buanderie, qui ouvrait en avant sur le village par un grand portail; sur le côté nord, la route où donnait une petite grille et qui menait vers La Gare, à trois kilomètres; au sud et par derrière, des champs, des jardins et des prés qui rejoignaient les faubourgs... tel est le plan sommaire de cette demeure où s'écoulèrent les jours les plus tourmentés et les plus chers de ma vie--demeure d'où partirent et où revinrent se briser, comme des vagues sur un rocher désert, nos aventures.
Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great arm-chair by the bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket bedstead, carefully disposed on a low settee immediately in front of the fire and close to it, as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin, and it was essential to toast him brown while he was very new. Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son about eight-and-forty minutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and though a handsome well-made man, too stern and pompous in appearance, to be prepossessing. Son was very bald, and very red, and though (of course) an undeniably fine infant, somewhat crushed and spotty in his general effect, as yet. On the brow of Dombey, Time and his brother Care had set some marks, as on a tree that was to come down in good time - remorseless twins they are for striding through their human forests, notching as they go - while the countenance of Son was crossed with a thousand little creases, which the same deceitful Time would take delight in smoothing out and wearing away with the flat part of his scythe, as a preparation of the surface for his deeper operations. Dombey, exulting in the long-looked-for event, jingled and jingled the heavy gold watch-chain that depended from below his trim blue coat, whereof the buttons sparkled phosphorescently in the feeble rays of the distant fire. Son, with his little fists curled up and clenched, seemed, in his feeble way, to be squaring at existence for having come upon him so unexpectedly.
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