#or is the poison itself a form of worship / how does she view coming back bc again laudna isn't secretive about being undead

[chaosgenasi]

thinking about. potential leader of the "death-obsessed cult" within paragon's call / inferred worshipper of the duskmaven, otohan thull, using poison that seals souls behind one of the divine gates and prevents resurrection. there's also an interesting piece of dialogue from treshi, who, in relation to the ruidus superstitions of those within paragon's call, said: "i've seen enough interesting, weird things in my life to know that most nothing makes much sense, so you get what you can with the time you are given. and when your time is up, it's up." also, it's very out there, but if the poison is less about preventing resurrection and moreso about redirecting the souls elsewhere if possible -- say, behind a different gate -- there's this interesting piece of lore from c2:

"there is a prominent belief, superstitious as it is largely considered, that most of these meteors that do come through in meteor showers themselves are parts of ruidus, the distant moon, breaking apart and making their way towards the planet. some believe because it's decaying and just showering its decay upon the planet in clumps, others believe it's supposedly distant warriors' spirits that themselves are returning to the planet after being lost on the battlefield."

[evolutionsvoid]

When it comes to religion for the Ghilani, they are a rather laid back people. They do partake in worship and offerings, but they do not strictly uphold these practices. To them, living and thriving is what the gods truly want from them, as that means that the Ghilani are doing their part to maintain the systems. To better understand this, one must know the deities of the Ghilani religion. According to their writings and belief, the entire world and its many ecosystems are actually made from the bodies of the gods. The surface that we know is in reality the backs of the gods, whose massive forms come together to create the landscape. The many and unique habitats found around the world are all created by certain types of deities, whose flesh and fluids allow such specific growths and structures. For example, there is one type (or perhaps "species") of god whose body creates jungles and rainforests. The description of these beings call in mind a mixture of jellyfish, anemone and worm clusters, their many tendrils and growths creating the thick vegetation these lands are known for. Another example are the rare deities that make up the hivelands, who are said to be like great starfish whose brittle armored bodies create the rocky, porous mountains that are so iconic. With the gods being the very earth we live on, the Ghilani view all life as the tiny creatures that help keep things healthy and running properly. Like how the smallest worm and insect can decide the fate of a forest, all life above must do their part and keep everything in balance. If they fail to do so, or if a species chooses to destroy the balance, than the god beneath their feet shall sicken and the land itself will forsake all. So for the Ghilani, giving faith is done by maintaining the balance and living life as one should. This is the belief of all Ghilani, though there may be some variations between communities. Some have even spoken of one village of leech folk who have a unique goddess of their own. She is not like the buried, slumbering gods below, but a great beast that brings protection and blessings to their community. It is said that she is known as Glanis, the Goddess of the Swamp. According to outsiders who have seen her (and survived this encounter), Glanis is a massive fish-like creature that lives in the murky waters of the swamp. Though she is large compared to the likes of human and Ghilani, she is quite minuscule when it comes to the other gods of Ghilani faith. One must remember that these entities are so large, that we live upon them without notice. Their sheer size and godly flesh makes them practically imperceptible to mortal eyes and senses, who can only interpret their being as things like dirt, water and rock. When not comparing her to these beings, Glanis is quite large and powerful. It is said that her maw could swallow a full grown cow with ease, and her bulk could crush a whole platoon of warriors. Outsiders say that the Ghilani worship her and give sacrifices so that she may drive away intruders and protect their home. Many are warned about entering the swamp without the blessing of the Ghilani, as she will burst from the waters and swallow them whole. One tale speaks of a battalion of soldiers who once traveled through this swamp, using the murky land as a shortcut to a far away war. Despite this horde being armed to the teeth, only a handful of warriors stumbled out of that foul place, wailing about a great beast that pulled dozens down below. Some even claim that the Ghilani shall fool travelers and visitors so that they may send them into the swamp as a sacrifice. One must keep in mind, though, that these stories come from outsiders. People who are unaware of the ways of these folk, and some who may never even have stepped foot in this swamp to begin with. If you actually visited this land and talked to the Ghilani or any locals, you would find these tales quite untrue. The terrible stories of the voracious goddess mess up a lot of things, most noticeably the fact that the Ghilani don't actually think she is a god.         Despite what outsiders believe, the Ghilani do not actually think that Glanis is a goddess or some omnipotent entity. They are well aware that she is a flesh and blood creature like them, and they are not afraid to admit that. Even though she is mortal (as far as everyone knows), they see her as a beloved guardian of their homeland and an invaluable member of their community.  If you were to ask about her origin or how the partnership was formed, you would find the tale to be rather lacking. The first thing is that the Ghilani don't even know where she came from, they just know that she has been here "the whole time." The other thing is that there was no great battle or ancient pact sealed with blood. What happened was that the Ghilani became aware of a great beast that lurked within a certain section of swamp. Those who neared those waters would be eaten, so the leech folk sought a way to avoid this fate. Their solution was to set out meat that they had already drained, using it as bait for the massive creature. When the Ghilani sought to travel these lands, they would throw out this bait to distract the leviathan. With this system, they successfully evaded being devoured and could cross these waters safely. Over time, though, they began to notice that the creature would start to show up earlier and earlier each time they baited it. Eventually, one hunting party arrived at the waters to find the creature patiently waiting for them, and it showed glee when it spotted them. Intrigued by this, they gathered food and the elders to come forth and try to communicate with the great beast. Eventually they discovered that this creature was not some mindless monster, but a sapient entity that called the swamp home. She had interpreted their bait as a gift, and thought that the Ghilani were just being nice guests to her land. With more discussion and food (long talks make her hungry), the two came to an understanding and formed a partnership that has lasted for decades.

In truth, there is no pact or blood contract, but a happy relationship between Ghilani and the great fish known as "Glanis." Now knowing that the Ghilani are not food, Glanis allows them to travel her lands and waters anytime they want. She will also keep an eye out for invaders or any who enter the swamp with foul intentions. Those who come with malice will be met with her maw, as she seeks to protect her friends and home. The greatest thing she does, though, is serve as a guardian and caretaker for their young. A special section of the swamp has been designated for their eggs and clutches. The Ghilani shall lay their eggs upon the roots, rocks and mud of this lake, and Glanis shall watch over them. This body of water is where she will spend most of her time, and it serves as the meeting place for when the Ghilani wish to visit her. With her presence, she will scare off any predators or invasive critters, while the movement of her massive body washes fresh water upon the eggs. When the eggs hatch and the larvae emerge, she shall continue to stand guard over them. She cares for the young she watches over and will do anything she can to help them if times get rough. If a drought occurs that dries out the shallows, she will take the young into her mouth and carry them to a more fitting pool. If famine happens to strike and the young are starving, she will let them latch onto her and feed on her blood. Due to her huge size, these feedings impact her quite little. With her help, the Ghilani village has had many successful clutches and many offspring who survive to adulthood. Due to her hand in raising the young, many Ghilani refer to her as "Old Mother Glanis." All this aid and care does not go unrewarded, as the Ghilani are sure to return the favor. Gifts of meat and other foodstuffs are brought to her, and hunters may flush prey towards her to give her an easy meal. As she is a guardian to them, the Ghilani also seek to protect her. Due to her large size and unique nature, there are some folk who see her as a hunting trophy or a quick way to fame. While she is no easy prey, the Ghilani are sure to keep watch for any "monster slayers" who are eager to kill a "god." The main thing they look for are large sources of food that may be set out as bait. Conveniently placed carcasses or piles of meat are usually a sign of a hunter trying to draw her out. Due to her size and appetite, Glanis will have a hard time passing up such meals, so the Ghilani make sure to find these sources and inspect them first. In some cases, they have found cow carcasses stuffed with poison, or some hunter hiding in the brush with harpoons at hand. If the food is safe and the coast is clear, she shall enjoy her meal, but if someone has come to slay her, that fool will be offered up instead. Not only do they seek to protect her from physical threats, but the village also makes sure to monitor her health. Monthly health check ups are performed, and their talents in the medical field have been a great boon to her. Injuries are cared for, parasites are removed and medicine is prescribed any time she is sick. There have even been some times when a Ghilani has slithered into her gullet to retrieve something that is upsetting her stomach (like a large antler or the armor of some idiot knight). While some may interpret these services as part of the deal, the Ghilani do all of this with love and respect. They see her as a blessing and they cherish her presence. If there is anything they can do to help her or make her happy, they will not hesitate to do so. This can be seen when Glanis is resting in the warm shallows, usually after she has eaten a big meal. During this time, villagers will come to play her music as she lays about and digests. She quite enjoys the sound of soft music, and the lovely tunes will often lull her to sleep. Glanis also likes to have company at times, especially when she is watching over the larval pool. Just having someone nearby is good enough for her, as she doesn't need conversation or worship. With this, some may bring crafts, books or other personal projects down to the shores and work on them as she watches.   So far, no one has figured out what species Glanis belongs to, or how she wound up alone in this swamp. No other member of her kind has been found in the area, and she has not produced any offspring. Due to this, there are some who do believe that she may be some ancient entity or a god-like being, but the Ghilani do not currently hold this idea. They do, however, call her "Goddess of the Swamp" from time to time, but that is mainly because it makes her blush from all the flattery.   ------------------------------------------------------------------ Some may recognize this fish lady from back in May when I did Mer-May and drew up a mermaid based on the Wels Catfish. On that piece LavenderYouko mentioned that she looked like she could be a massive guardian spirit and that idea stuck with me for a long time. As a developed the Ghilani, I realized that she would be perfect for them, so I decided to draw up this piece. So thanks to LavenderYouko for the idea!

[charismastaticarchive]

hubert hc

“fearing great heights, bow down at the waist. servitude suits you. defy your fate only by bloodying the path so carefully paved and tread before you. if the goddess will not love you, if your father will not love you, if your mother cannot be reached or touched or felt, then love the anti-christ, and put her on a pedestal no man, especially you, cannot reach.”

people forget.

the holy kingdom of faerghus was once a part of the andrestian empire, and the andrestian empire was once the place considered ‘holy.’ it was blessed by seiros herself---seiros’s blood, her very crest, ran through each royal’s veins starting from wilhem himself, its first emperor. seiros loved the empire as she loved her husband and her children. the andrestian empire was loved by sothis herself, and they were her faithful children. 

that was a thousand years ago. wars have rocked fodlan since. the empire has lost ground and power, and propserity. even the religion which once lavished itself upon them has divided itself away---the andrestians, who once wrote the rules to which every devout person lived, is now relegated to being called ‘the western church.’ their traditions and rules deemed old or wrong or un-righteous or warped by time by the kingdom, always vetoed by the archbishop at the center of a new world.

but a vestra does not forget anything---least of all their storied traditions.

house vestra, at first glance, would not seem to be an important house. and in many ways it is not. it does not conrol the military, the economy, religious affairs, or any sort of public ruling. house vestra is viewed by many to be little more than a glorified house of servants---little more than butlers or secretaries in charge of servants, public and private meetings. their official duty is titled ‘household affairs.’

but only the master of the house can control what goes on in it. and the vestras run a tight, meticulous ship.

the vestras know every contact every emperor has ever come in contact with. the vestras know every known poison, every known common courtesy and tradition and proper forms of ettiquette in dagda, brigid, duscur, the kingdom AND the alliance (pity it is, that the kingdom and the alliance would be different, but their children learn anyway, before they learn to tie their boots or read). hubert is fluent in sixteen dialects of a total of eleven langauges and speaks them with perfect pronunciation. hubert memorized every known assassination in the history of fodlan (and how to prevent it from happening in the future) before he turned six.

but the power of house vestra does not come from their many talents. it comes from their Superior breeding and Superior Child Rearing and impressive arsenal of information dating back a thousand years (that they, again, never forget) meaning they are the perfect family, the only family, that can control every aspect of the royal family’s life. 

and they do so. with vigor.

how the emperor stands and sits and how he chews his food and wears his crown and how he waves, who he talks to (if he talks to anyone at all, some emperors are far too stupid, not that a von vestra would ever say such out loud), how he talks to them. the vestras control strategy, the vestras control the emperor’s goals, and they control these goals before the emperor even makes their own, so in tune are they with their lords, who they worship as holy beings---pharoahs more than emperors, rulers with divine holy right living in their veins, a power that must be tended to with tradition, with order, with meticulous guidance and knowledge no one but a von vestra could ever hope to possess all at once.

hubert, an only child, had impossible expectations on his shoulders.

hubert’s father was a devout man. his mother was a quiet woman, who never talked. his father liked it that way. when hubert would try to get affection from his mother, her hands would go limp, and his father would glare. hubert was raised on the bottle by nurses---an oddity for the time period, but one the vestra’s saw necessary. they needed their child to be tough---to be solitary. they did not want to spoil him. he was too important a servant to the cause.

hubert was born four years after the empire’s firstborn son. this already put him at a disadvantage. he would have to catch up. hubert’s father had meticulously planned to have a child every time the emperor and patricia did---but unfortunately all hubert’s siblings had died in childbirth or worse. a disappointment to be sure, but one that could be rectified with the proper discipline instilled in hubert. they would try to have more children over the years---to match the emperor and patricia. but hubert’s mother would die from birthing complications when he was only four.

thankfully, a vestra never forgets. so hubert can still remember his mother’s limp hands, her pale face, muscles not even strong enough to pull her mouth into a frown. she was not beautiful, nor ugly. but she looked like hubert, weak-limbed with hard, dangerous eyes, even though she never spoke in the little time he had with her in between study sessions and time spent with him.

‘him’ is tybalt. edelgard’s oldest brother, the boy everyone assumed would one day become emperor, if luck permitted and he produced his crest.

tybalt was an older boy, (four years older, remember?) with auburn hair, and a smile that could melt gold into embers, a particular talent with horses. hubert was told to worship him. but instead he loved him like apollo loved the sun. when hubert’s father beat him, he pictured a glorious future, dragging the sun behind him on a chariot, racing through the clouds. when his tutors spoke of sin and hell and the wife hubert would one day have to take in order to continue his household---hubert pictured heaven instead, side by side, serving his first, most secret love.

but tybalt did not produce a crest, not at eight, and not at nine, not at ten, or eleven, or twelve.

but edelgard did. just a minor crest of course---but that was enough to make her a viable heir, where tybalt was not. 

she was five. and where hubert could have resented being pulled away from his crush---he was falling deeper and deeper into depression as his future, and his father’s religious fixations---became more real and terrifying to him. edelgard was five years old, three years younger than hubert. and while hubert loved tybalt---and always would, because a vestra does not forget---spending time with edelgard did something that time with tybalt did not. it made him ignore his whole terrible life.

tybalt was a kind boy, a prince among princes, but edelgard was boisterous and rambunctious, an adorable bouncy little girl who was both bratty and a self-assured know-it-all in the adorable way only girls can be. with tybalt, hubert had begun picturing his father’s hell every time he saw him. no more clouds. only dirt&disease, bone-rotting flesh and eternal damnation.

but edelgard never forced him to see the clouds in the first place. she was high maintenance. to a fault. she was silly, and ridiculous, and sharp as a tack. she did not make him picture heaven or the sun---though she had grand beliefs about the future of the empire, goals far beyond what tybalt ever held.

instead she brought him down to her world, as only a child can. for the first time, with edelgard, hubert knew family, and he knew requited, platonic love, as edelgard made no secret of her affections with hugs and cheek kisses that hubert did not care that he would be punished for later. edelgard made him feel like a person, instead of an object or a servant.

and all that would change, for the worse, by hubert’s own hand. but hubert would never forget how special that little girl was.

edelgard and tybalt both left one night no more than three years later. his father had something to do with it, hubert knew.

and as hubert attacked every branch member of his house---his own father, who attempted to kill him in turn for disobeying him, as he stood his ground running outside the house to try to find edelgard (somehow tybalt started to fall by the wayside. surely the angel could protect himself. surely only the child needed him.). only to be attacked for three days straight. he did not eat, or sleep, he let himself soil himself if it meant another yard off the grounds of the von vestra estate to find her. but eventually he was taken down. and tortured. he did not beg for the goddess’s forgiveness as he was told to. he knew she would not listen. (she never had before. a vestra remembers.)

in his father’s dungeons, in which he realized some lessons he had learned from his house were not really just in case of emergencies... he stopped fearing the goddess. he stopped fearing hell. he began to crave it---a sadomasochism working its way into his heart.

he would attend lessons, repeat the motions, learn, and learn, and learn, paying special attention now, with spite bit into his tongue. but he would not be whole again until he saw edelgard and she explained everything, until the hate in his heart had a name and his vengeance worthy opponents.

he would follow the path he was given, the path he had always wanted, to be by the emperor’s side. he would make her dreams come true---and make everyone, even the goddess herself pay with blood. sothis forgot her children---turned her backs on the empire. but hubert remembers everything, and he’s here to burn it all to the ground.

despite his vitriol and his passion. hubert is ruled by fear, like a snaked coiled in a corner. he does not feel he can stand on his own two feet. he relies on edelgard for purpose, for clarity. he is most comfortable when treated as a servant of her will, as a mere extension of edelgard and nothing more. he no longer wants to be human. despite his fascination/aesthetic of the dark and occult, hubert still remembers those clouds, that chariot, flying through the air, being in love and holding that love tight to his chest. he wishes sometimes, to be a pegasus rider. but such roles are reserved for women. he’s better suited for groveling at their feet---not in prayer for the goddess, but digging himself deeper into the dirt & blood, to protect his emperor from things a child should not see.

[dweemeister]

The Philadelphia Story (1940)

Sometimes the best comedies are not the ones that you laugh the hardest over. In George Cukor’s The Philadelphia Story, the film’s situational wit leaves pleasant aftertastes from scenes – comedic and otherwise – that draw an unsuspecting viewer in, making them care about the central characters (who live comfortably in socioeconomic settings few experience) in unexpected ways. Constant belly laughs are not what one will get from this movie, but instead middling chuckles and smiles realizing the ridiculousness of the plot, the sincerity in what the movie wishes to say. Released by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) and based on the stage play of the same name by Philip Barry, The Philadelphia Story is one of the great comedies from classic Hollywood – in no small part due to its source material and adaptation, but most importantly its three central performances.

As the daughter of a Philadelphian socialite family, Tracy Lord (Katharine Hepburn; labeled “box office poison” by the Independent Theatre Owners of America after the financial failure of the now-beloved Bringing Up Baby and other films) is engaged to the fabulously wealthy, but uptight and overly content coal baron George Kitteridge (John Howard). Tracy divorced her first husband, C.K. Dexter Haven (Cary Grant) two years ago for not meeting her lofty standards. But Dexter is about to make a surprise reappearance in Tracy’s life, as he is acting as a family liaison between the Lord family to Spy magazine reporter Macaulay “Mike” Connor (James Stewart) and photographer Liz Imbrie (Ruth Hussey). Mike and Liz are there to cover Tracy’s wedding – part of an elaborate blackmail scheming involving the magazine’s publisher (Henry Daniell) and the Lord patriarch’s (John Halliday) brush with adultery. As the hours pass, Tracy begins to question whether she is marrying George for the right reasons, all while finding herself attracted to Mike and pondering whether her standards were indeed too inflexible for Dexter.

Despite Hepburn being an unwanted commodity among Hollywood executives, she still exerted significant influence in choosing George Cukor as director and Donald Ogden Stewart as screenwriter. Hepburn even chose her co-stars, Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart. This arrangement was made possible because Hepburn – through Howard Hughes – held the rights to the original stage play, selling them to MGM’s Louis B. Mayer at a discount of $250,000. The discount came with stipulations: that Hepburn have final say in the film’s producer (Joseph L. Mankiewicz... the man responsible for the scene’s opening minutes that involve a broken golf club and a facial shove less invidious than James Cagney’s), director, screenwriter, and cast. Female Hollywood moguls were more common in the silent era, and here was Hepburn making decisions as one, albeit for only one film.

These decisions result in an outstanding ensemble performance, particularly from the leads. It is difficult to talk about each performance in isolation, given the richness of Donald Ogden Stewart’s dialogue and how each lead has a different approach to another. For Hepburn, the snootiness that must come with having an obscene amount of money is broken quickly once Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, and Ruth Hussey arrive. She is a forceful personality, who believes she knows what she wants, then arriving – upon further reflection made impossible by John Howard’s character – to conclusions that make her question not only what she wants, but what she needs (surprise, surprise... these things are distinct!). Screwball circumstance has dissolved pretense. In her vulnerability, she grows and comes to greater understanding. Hepburn’s exchanges with Grant are irresistible. Though the two are not as funny here as in Bringing Up Baby, the scenario and their characters in this film are less (using a word from my Bringing Up Baby review) “airheaded”; the proportion of loving overtures here is reversed (Hepburn piled on a vast majority of the romantic flirting in Baby; Grant is more restrained here but it is he who talks of his love most). There is a sense of loss that defines both Grant and (eventually) Hepburn – especially the former. Grant plays Dexter as a wiseass here for a job and resolution. He argues with Hepburn, but never does it devolve to fighting. Love is not safe, states Dexter. Few actors other than Cary Grant could argue with a fellow romantic lead, roll their eyes during dialogue, and make arguments funny without being demeaning.

Jimmy Stewart and Ruth Hussey have an understated chemistry that gradually reveals itself. Stewart, lucky he, is charmed off his feet by the entire lead cast – and yes, that includes Grant in one of the rare instances he makes someone of the same gender starstruck (not sexually, of course, because one couldn’t do that in a ‘40s movie... if you’re a romantic fanfiction writer, this movie is for you!). Some of Stewart’s interactions with Grant seem borderline flirtatious, threatening to overshadow a hilarious off-screen swimming quasi-tryst that occurs in the film’s final third. For Jimmy Stewart, this would be one of the last times playing a youthful romantic lead – a type of role he would dabble less frequently in after returning from his wartime Air Force service. On the sidelines according to film’s billing but not in the film’s functions, Ruth Hussey – as Liz – seems to be the only one who has everything figured out. Liz is The Philadelphia Story’s most neglected character in the film’s love pentagon, and Hussey portrays the character as being the least uncomfortable in this complicated emotional puzzle playing out in swanky surroundings. But just because Liz is neglected by the characters does not mean she is inessential. She prevents The Philadelphia Story from lifting off to flights of comical and narrative fancy – grounding the film for those who do not see themselves in any of the other main characters. Just as an actor need not be sensational to be effective, Liz demonstrates that love need not be sensational either.

Joseph Ruttenberg’s (1940′s Waterloo Bridge, 1944′s Gaslight) cinematography lends sensuality to the nighttime scenes. His camera moves slowly, gracefully through the interior of the Lord household and its grounds. Soft lighting is used once, in a moment of intoxication and innocence that seems like genuine romance at that given time. Cedric Gibbons’ (MGM’s premier art director) work, as it almost always is, is stellar. But technical achievements aside, it is the strength of the writing that powers The Philadelphia Story.

Certain readings of the film criticize The Philadelphia Story as undermining Tracy – her agency and desires – as soon as Dexter makes his entrance. Take these lines between Tracy and George:

GEORGE: You're like some marvelous, distant, well, queen, I guess. You're so cool and fine and always so much your own. There's a kind of beautiful purity about you, Tracy, like, like a statue. TRACY: George... GEORGE: Oh, it's grand, Tracy. It's what everybody feels about you. It's what I first worshipped you for from afar. TRACY: George, listen – GEORGE: First, now and always. Only from a little nearer now, eh, darling? TRACY: I... I don't want to be worshipped. I want to be loved.

The introspection Tracy delves into forms the heart of The Philadelphia Story – not Tracy’s father and his infidelities, not the precocious, farcical comedy from Tracy’s teenager sister Dinah (Virginia Weidler). In this introspection she never abandons her independence, sophistication, or ferocity. Donald Ogden Stewart’s verbose, uncharacteristically (for a screwball comedy) long screenplay allows time to better understand the masculine chaos revolving around her. Being with George – suffocating her with his worshipping ways – has prevented her from understanding her past and (to reiterate an above point) the difference between what she wants and what she needs. She is not settling nor bending to anyone else’s demands, all while realizing love is never zero-sum. It requires generosity of spirit, a commitment to understanding. What Tracy undergoes is not sacrifice, but personal growth.

While negotiating with Katharine Hepburn for his appearance in this film, Cary Grant demanded that he receive top billing for this film. Hepburn acquiesced, but Grant’s intentions were more honorable than you might think. His entire $137,000 salary (a hefty wage in 1940... ~$2.47 million in 2018′s USD) was donated to the British War Relief Fund. A charming rascal though Grant might have been on-camera, his motivations to appear in The Philadelphia Story were always honorable. And with The Philadelphia Story, Katharine Hepburn – defying MGM’s expectations and proving her former employers at RKO wrong – delivered a critical and popular hit. Her negative reputation was behind her, with the Time Magazine review reading: “Come on back, Katie, all is forgiven.” An MGM contract awaited. So did one of the most lauded acting careers in Hollywood history.

For those reading to this final paragraph and are still skeptical of The Philadelphia Story, I offer a personal note. Being an ardent fan of Turner Classic Movies (TCM), The Philadelphia Story makes frequent appearances on TCM’s schedule – given the size of TCM’s library, “frequent” means three to six times a year). Having heard so much praise for the film and being high on my watchlist, this was one of those handful of movies I had been putting off for years. The timing of my first viewing has inspired mixed feelings: I’m glad I waited, into my mid-twenties (because I would’ve dismissed this as saccharine ten years ago), but I also wish I had known how much I needed this film earlier. There’s that word again, “need”. This is a shining example of the best of Old Hollywood’s approach to romantic comedies – nothing cruel or insulting in its humor. It may not be the funniest comedy either, but comedies are more than just inspiring laughter. Step away from your expectations. From there, you, like Tracy, might just be able to see those less visible things than mean the most.

My rating: 10/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. The Philadelphia Story is the one hundred and forty-fifth film I have rated a ten on imdb.

[chyaomhei]

Well, it’s me Cat (aka Speedy or Catia) back with my second character! I’d like y’all to meet Chyaomhei Rozchadh, aka Caoimhe Frost. Click that read more to find out more about my newest baby and little snow alien of the Dhéizdha race. Then come hit me up for plots! She’s gonna need them. Also please ignore how shit this is. I still feel icky.

CHYAOMHEI ROZCHADH, who strongly resembles MELISSA BENOIST, is more commonly known as CAOIMHE FROST/CAIOMHE CHAD. They are a 24/36.5 year old DHÉIZDHA (alien)   and they have been in the city for JUST UNDER FOUR YEARS. CAOIMHE has been known to have THE ABILITY TO CREATE/MANIPULATE SNOW, ICE, AND COLD FRONTS AS WELL AS THE ABILITY OF FLIGHT. While they are not CAOIMHE FROST, they are working their day job as A RUSSIAN TRANSLATOR/COMMUNICATIONS SPECIALIST at the INNER SANCTUM’S DEPT. OF COMMUNICATIONS. They are known to be + INTELLIGENT & + COMPASSIONATE and - DISTANT & - NAIVE. 

ABOUT THE DHÉIZDHA

Hailing from the planet called Dhéizhalmh in a galaxy nearly 50,000 light years from Earth, the Dhéizdha are a proud people. They pride themselves on their connection with nature and their simplistic druid-esqe rituals that worship their two deities: Seinhbogh and Gheialdhya. They are not an alien race filled with advancements in technology. Instead, they opted to advance only as far as they saw fit (such as in the areas of medicine and interplanetary transportation and communication). With tools of stone, they built their cities: great palaces of ice sitting atop a frozen yet thriving tundra. 

Dhéizhalmh, a dwarf planet in size, was known for its unusual blue sun... Or at least it was before the dwarf planet and the sun started heading on a collision course for destruction. This blue sun gave the Dhéizdha many of their abilities: they could create snow and ice from the tips of their fingers; and they could also manipulate snow and ice already in existence. Their sun, just like that on Earth, would rise and set each day. They would have 60 days in a month’s period and four months in a year’s period, equaling a total of 240 days per year compared to the 365/366 days per Earth year.

For many years, this planet and its people thrived. But not many years back, their blue sun (called the ‘solfh’) started inching closer to the planet itself; and the heat radiation from this sun was soon so overwhelming and powerful enough to kill the Dhéizdha. The blue sun that once gave the dwarf planet its frigid climate was now poisoning its people. So many fled. Some came to Earth.

Those that found their way to Earth opted to settle in Siberia. The Siberian tundra was the closest climate they could find to Dhéizhalmh. They created their own small society up in the frozen wilderness; and while things seemed as ideal as could be at first, the aliens were soon run out by humans and others who viewed them as an infestation. A few brave Dhéizdha tried to settle in other parts of Russia, finding its cold weather endearing. But most fled to other cold places: Iceland, Mongolia, the Nordic countries, even the Scottish Highlands. Then others heard of these cities and towns that were apparently safe for aliens. Not bothering to stay with their desire for a cold climate, some headed to such cities.

On Earth, there is no blue sun. There is a yellow sun; and while this causes some problems, it also gives the Dhéizdha a new found ability. Besides keeping them able create/manipulate snow and ice, they could now also create/manipulate cold fronts (something not needed back on their home planet). They can also fly, much to everyone’s surprise.  And they have something called freeze breath. However, they are more sensitive to this yellow sun. It does not keep the climate as frigid as they would like; so while they are usually okay come the winter months, the sun can being to weaken them and cause them to fall ill in the warmer/summer months. So they’ve had to learn to adapt.

Also on Earth, the yellow sun has slightly altered their appearances. Back on Dhéizhalmh, they were known for their platinum blonde hair and ice blue eyes. Their skin was also quite pale, much like that of an albino; and their lips were a shade of ice blue to match their eyes. On Earth, the yellow sun has darkened their hair, eyes, and skin. They are all still blonde; though the shade varies from light to dark. And their eyes are all still blue; though the blue coloration is closer to that of deep waters. Their skin is pale compared to most others; but the pallor does not stand out. Their lips are no longer blue. Looking at a Dhéizdha on Earth, they could easily pass for human... Until one touches their skin. They are always cold, their core body temperature falling somewhere in the range of 45° to 50° F.

BACKSTORY

She was born Chyaomhei Rozchadh in Dhéizhalmh’s capital city of Bhyaéil-Chyap to a family highly influential in the Dhéizhda political circle. Her father was on the High Council (aka Chomhlyan Rhya); and her mother acted as support while raising six children.

She was the third of these six children, having two older brothers, two younger brothers, and a younger sister (pattern: boy, boy, girl, boy, boy, girl).

She grew up on Dhéizhalmh until the age of 16.7 (11 in Earth years) when the dwarf planet’s blue sun began its collision course with the planet itself, causing unstable living conditions. Her family then fled as refugees to the planet called Earth.

Her family, along with many others, settled in northern Siberia due to its frigid climate. They formed a compound of Dhéizhda and were able to live in peace for almost three full Earth years before the Russian government learned they were aliens and forced them to leave.

While many from the Siberian compound opted to flee to a place called Iceland, the Rozchadh clan opted for a place called the Scottish Highlands. It was here Chyaomhei (now aged 14 in Earth years) took up the Earth name ‘Caoimhe’; and her clan split on their clan name. Some went with ‘Chad’. Others went with ‘Frost’.

The name ‘Caoimhe’ was picked because the spelling looked like it would be pronounced close to Chyaomhei; however, its pronounciation ended up being vastly different: Kee-va. Because of this, she also started using the nickname ‘Cammie’, as her chosen Earth name looked like it should be pronounced closer to this other Earth name.

She stayed living in the Highlands with her parents and siblings until the age of 20 (Earth years) when she heard of a safe haven city by the name of Ceres Centropolis. It took some convincing; but her family let her leave, figuring she was now old enough to discover a life of her own.

It took the young alien some time to truly find her place in the new city; but she found a place working as a Russian translator/communications specialist for a secret organization called the Inner Sanctum in their Dept. of Communications. She’s been working here for roughly three years now.

FUN FACTS

She will answer to any of the following names: Chyaomhei, Caoimhe (Kee-va), or Cammie.

She speaks with an accent that is a strange cross between Russian and Scottish. Some words make the Russian side of her accent sound stronger; while other words make the Scottish side of her accent sound stronger (though usually she sounds more Russian, as that accent is closer to her native Dhéizhda accent).

She has a tendency to say “me” in place of “I” and “my”, as in her native tongue, there is only one word meaning all three: “yn”. It’s just one of those English things she’d never quite picked up on.

She strongly dislikes the Disney movie Frozen, especially due to the fact some people have taken to calling her ‘Elsa’.

She wears glasses (as do most Dhéizhda) due to the fact her eyes are very sensitive to Earth’s yellow sun.

WANTED PLOTS CONNECTIONS

Family/Clan Members— I would love to have some other Dhéizhda to be in Ceres Centropolis along with her, especially if they are part of her family/clan. This could be parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. 

And Then There Is All The General Plots/Connections… — Friends, Neighbors, Coworkers, etc.

MORE TO COME

[byakuyasbastardson]

Some thoughts

Earlier I posted earlier that I felt very uncomfortable with a Christian prayer being said in the Senate chamber, even though I myself am Catholic. All day it has been eating at me as to why I was so uncomfortable, and really it was not the prayer but the invoking of Christ's name in that sacred hallowed hall. I want to share why.

America...as many, including friends, colleagues, family, across the country would argue otherwise is not a Christian nation. We are a nation founded on Christian ideals, beliefs, and notions. The founding fathers were very explicit that they wanted a secular state because this very country was founded on those fleeing religious persecution. From the Catholics in Massachusetts, Maryland and Rhode Island, Quakers in Pennsylvania, Jews in New Amsterdam (New York) and Rhode Island, and German Lutherans to Pennsylvania many fled persecutions to create a better life here. As such when this country was founded the very words were written into our Deceleration of Independence and later our Constitution. When they talked about the unalienable rights of man, they said those rights were bestowed upon man by their "Creator". They deliberately did not use the word "God" or "Jesus" though in this case as Islam had not reached the shores of America, the religions of the far East were only just being studied and attempted to be squashed, and those of the slaves and natives were being squashed, it really was meaning God. But they did not use his name because they knew of those that believed in other creators or no creators. Next in our Constitution in the very first Amendment they wrote the Freedom of religion, but they also meant Freedom from Religion. They meant that all men could practice any religion they see fit, and Congress nor any part of the government can create or pass a law that aids or harms a religion. It is why most states have laws that public scholarship funds cannot be used at religious schools due to that most private schools are Christian and thus it creates an appearance of favor. But the founders wrote this language because they saw what happens when a country ties itself to a religious institute. They saw it with Spain, Italy, France being Catholic and somewhat subservient to the whims and the Papal State they saw England and the Church of England, and they saw the Muslim countries of the Ottoman empire and Sunni states in Northern Africa. When a country links itself to a religion the needs and interests of the citizenry take a back seat.

 What I have said does not mean that America cannot use Christian beliefs to help guide our path and policy makings on the contrary as stated we were founded on Christian ideals, beliefs, and notions. Those are that of Compassion, of Generosity, of Kindness, of Humility, of Love, and Forgiveness. It is why America has long been viewed as salvation to the world. It is why we were gifted the Statue of Liberty with those sacred words “Give us your tired, your sick, your poor”, it is why we have been called the greatest experiment in democracy, and why Reagan called us the “Shining City on the Hill”. But as we have continued as a country we have perverted and ravaged these ideals and changed them. We have perverted Compassion with Apathy, we have soiled Generosity with Selfishness, we have poisoned Kindness with Cruelty, swapped Humility with Boastfulness, tortured Love with Hate, and bludgeoned Forgiveness with Revenge. This has poisoned our country and our politics; it is why we are divided and there is so much hatred towards our brothers and sisters. Families are being destroyed because a father and son fall on different sides of the political aisle. Because a daughter has the courage to come out as gay to her religiously conservative family. In the past it was more of the same but also involved loving someone of a different race...who am I kidding it isn’t the past. Have you ever had a great aunt ask your own mother if she is “ok” with you dating a girl of African decent (half) and when you mother says yes and asks why, she responds with; “Oh honey down here we don’t mix”? I have. Everyone has heard stories like this, from my example, a friend who was disowned by their father for believing in something the other didn’t, or a friend who works up the courage to inform her parents she has a girlfriend but doesn’t know how they will react. From the earliest times of this country to up until recent past if a Black and a White wanted to marry it was called an Abomination before God, many souls lost their lives because they dared to marry a white woman. After that we still heard the same argument but this time involving homosexuals and others of that community, that their love for one another is an Abomination before God. When it was about race it was mostly the Democrats calling it this, now we add in homosexuals and it is the Republicans.

 Democrats and Republicans, that’s where we are at now, one side is Right and Just and the other side is Evil. We have divided ourselves and will thus ruin ourselves, but how I see it one side wants to undo the damage to our Christian ideals we were founded on while keeping God and Jesus where they should be in the hearts and minds of people and not in our government, while the other side desires to keep it how it is while bring God more into the forefront of our nation. I’m not arguing that it’s all or none, but it’s the vocal minority that has made themselves the majority in our government. On the “Left” we have those representing us saying let us take in the tired, the sick, the poor. Let us work to give them and all people access to cheaper and free Medicare so they can live and work and create a better life, let us give young people easier opportunities like we had to go to school and learn, then go out and get better jobs. Let us tax those who have plenty a little more so that we can help those who have little. Let us broaden the availability for persons to participate in our most sacred duty of voting to keep this experiment alive. Let us allow people to love who they love and or change who they are so they can be happy. But in order to keep all people free we must put God in the background as our founders did when it comes to governing.

On the “Right” it is the exact opposite. They say “Let us bring in people, but only if they are smart enough, rich enough, healthy enough” They want the privatization of our medical system claiming it will be cheaper, but we see time and time again that it is not. We have diabetics skipping lifesaving insulin shots because they don’t know if they can afford the next one. We have people pushing off urgent medical care because they fear losing everything in medical costs. We have apathy to the young struggling to get by due to rising educational costs and when they cry out they are told to suck it up, that our fathers and mothers were able to pay for it on a part time job over summer, which is impossible when textbooks have risen 1000% since 1977, tuition has risen 260% since 1980 as of 2015, while the minimum wage (adjusted for inflation)is 31% less than it was in 1968. They have a President who implemented restrictions for green cards on those who use public services like Medicare and food stamps. A President who is putting travel restrictions on pregnant women coming to this country because he fears what…babies being born here thus allowing those Parents to live here and make a better life for themselves. This is a party that fears and seemingly hates those of other religions. Where their President puts forth a travel ban on Muslims trying to enter this country because he views them as dangerous, where he praises a fake story of a famous US General having his men shot Muslims with bullets dipped in Pigs blood, where when a Muslim man and vice-chair of his counties GOP had members attempt to oust him due to his religion. Where this President has had supporters torch synagogues and mosques in his name. We created this hatred and desire for revenge due to 18 individuals killing 3000 Americans, yet we never punished the country they came from, but seemingly all 1.8billion of them are bad Where a supporter of his and Pastor called the Impeachment a “Jew Coup”. This is a party that looks down on the poor, looks down on the sick, yet praises war and worships money all they while throwing Gods name around. They constantly want to cut programs designed to help the poor and sick all they while increasing the budget for war, a thing that only makes people por and sick except for a few that profit on it. They give massive tax cuts to the rich while increasing them on the poor claiming it will all work out, but it doesn’t. They worship the strength of our economy(money) yet 48% of Americans don’t benefit from it, and the 52% that do, only a fraction really does. They tell others to be thankful for what they have all the while they themselves own multiple houses and fancy cars, they ask if the poor are so poor why do they have fridges, cars, iphones. They refuse to increase the minimum wage which would help those being poor not be poor all the while increasing their own salaries. Where this party passes bills that will become laws trying to restrict Gays from getting married in the civil aspect because it is a perceived abomination against god. Bills that allow religious based orphanages to refuse LGBTQ+ families form adopting children there because they feel keeping them there is better than a loving functioning “Gay house”. Bills that will imprison doctors for offering medical services to transgender youth. All of this has happened only in the last handful of years, when the changes really became apparent. And yet, they do all of this while claiming every Presidential leader was chosen specifically by God to lead this nation yet when it’s a Democrat, they are mute.

I think that’s enough of that, I am not writing this to argue Republicans are evil, just that they and this nation has strayed away form the Christian ideal our forefathers set forth. I believe in this country and that means in Republicans, it’s a gross perverted minority that has risen confusing the word of Jesus with anything but. Growing up I only attended Christian schools, first a Catholic one, and then later a Lutheran one until High School. It was not until I went to the Lutheran school when I started to think and question my faith. Not because I lacked it, but I wanted to understand what I was being taught, what I believed in…what Jesus’ love meant to me. Being a Catholic at a Lutheran school meant for most of my time there I was the only Catholic in class, which meant, on occasion I was felt I was singled out for my faith, mostly positively. My brothers and sisters in Christ were curious about how a Catholic worships, when I traveled with some to Italy they bombarded me with Questions, in 6th grade we learned about the reformation and my teacher constantly asked me questions…not just to ensure I was paying attention, but mostly to ensure he got the information correct. But on some rare occasions I did feel the negativity of it. I was never bullied for it, but comments here and there and viewpoints that I wasn’t a true Christian because I held onto the “old ways”, or why I called myself a Catholic if my family didn’t follow the “rule” of no meat on Fridays during lent. So I started asking myself questions about this faith and reading into it not just the theological side but the historical side and I saw how this country has changed and fallen, then I realized we failed from the beginning. We call for the poor to come here but we hate the poor. First it was the Irish, then it was the Eastern Europeans, then it was the Chinese, then the Hispanics, then the Japanese, and now seemingly everyone. We hate everyone that isn’t us, we fear everyone that isn’t us, we horde materialistic things, and I am guilty of this too. It is not because we have taken “Jesus” out of schools, it is because we have twisted his words and used them for hate and selfish gains.

John 13:34-35 (NIV) “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” Do we do this? No, we do not we hate one another and only love those who are like us.

Mark 12:41-44 “Jesus sat down opposite the place where the offerings were put and watched the crowd putting their money into the temple treasury. Many rich people threw in large amounts. But a poor widow came and put in two very small copper coins, worth only a few cents. Calling his disciples to him, Jesus said, “Truly I tell you; this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.” All too often you hear how much the rich have given to charity, but in the end, it is a small amount that they will take off their taxes thus paying less money. In my time alive I have seen it is the poor that are far more generous and willing to help because they know what it is like to be poor, yet those that were poor and are now rich are not as generous because they have the mentality of why they should help the poor? They were once poor and brought themselves out so surely anyone can do it.

Please do not think I am trying to lecture any of you on your faith. I am not, I am the last person to do that. My brother got married this past week, in a Catholic church, and that truly was the first time I had been in a church and sat down for a service in about 6 years. In my time thinking about what Jesus’ love means to me, I have found issues with my religion I do not agree with, which is why I have stayed away, but I do not falter in my faith, I do not falter in my pride and belief that I am Catholic. I do not fault you for asking “How…how can I still be Catholic if I do not think Homosexuality is a sin?” “How can I be Catholic or even Christian if I believe that a woman should have a right to an abortion?” There are many other questions that go with this and the answer is I have my faith and I am waiting. In my faith our leader the Holy Pope Francis is slowly changing the viewpoint on Catholicism, in recent years he said that you do not need to believe in Jesus to be granted access to God’s kingdom if you lived a good life. Which is a start.

So, to get back to why I felt so uncomfortable, it’s because 1. We are supposed to keep religion and government separate to properly work for all Americans, but more importantly 2. also because of how far I see we as a nation have strayed from these Christian beliefs (that are taught in all other religions). How we have perverted them, especially it seems one party. I love this country, I love my faith, and I pray that soon very very soon we can work to get back to these ideals. Only then can America be great.

[readbookywooks]

As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann’s “Forest Scenes.” “You must lend me these, Basil,” he cried. “I want to learn them. They are perfectly charming.”

“That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian.”

“Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don’t want a life-sized portrait of myself,” answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool, in a wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush colored his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. “I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn’t know you had any one with you.”

“This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything.”

“You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, stepping forward and shaking him by the hand. “My aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favorites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also.”

“I am in Lady Agatha’s black books at present,” answered Dorian, with a funny look of penitence. “I promised to go to her club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together,–three duets, I believe. I don’t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call.”

“Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don’t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano she makes quite enough noise for two people.”

“That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,” answered Dorian, laughing.

Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely-curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candor of youth was there, as well as all youth’s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. He was made to be worshipped.

“You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray,–far too charming.” And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan, and opened his cigarette-case.

Hallward had been busy mixing his colors and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry’s last [13] remark he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?”

Lord Henry smiled, and looked at Dorian Gray. “Am I to go, Mr. Gray?” he asked.

“Oh, please don’t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods; and I can’t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy.”

“I don’t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. But I certainly will not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don’t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to.”

Hallward bit his lip. “If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian’s whims are laws to everybody, except himself.”

Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. “You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans.–Good-by, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o’clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you.”

“Basil,” cried Dorian Gray, “if Lord Henry goes I shall go too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it.”

“Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me,” said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. “It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay.”

“But what about my man at the Orleans?”

Hallward laughed. “I don’t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry.–And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don’t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the exception of myself.”

Dorian stepped up on the dais, with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little moue of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Hallward. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, “Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?”

“There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral,–immoral from the scientific point of view.”

“Why?”

“Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else’s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly,–that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s [14] self. Of course they are charitable. They feed the hungry, and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion,–these are the two things that govern us. And yet–”

“Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy,” said Hallward, deep in his work, and conscious only that a look had come into the lad’s face that he had never seen there before.

“And yet,” continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, “I believe that if one man were to live his life out fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream,–I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to the Hellenic ideal,– to something finer, richer, than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man among us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame–”

“Stop!” murmured Dorian Gray, “stop! you bewilder me. I don’t know what to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don’t speak. Let me think, or, rather, let me try not to think.”

For nearly ten minutes he stood there motionless, with parted lips, and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh impulses were at work within him, and they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few words that Basil’s friend had said to him–words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them–had yet touched some secret chord, that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.

Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather a new chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! [15] They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?

Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-colored to him. It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it?

Lord Henry watched him, with his sad smile. He knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through the same experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How fascinating the lad was!

Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that come only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence.

“Basil, I am tired of standing,” cried Dorian Gray, suddenly. “I must go out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here.”

“My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can’t think of anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted,–the half-parted lips, and the bright look in the eyes. I don’t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn’t believe a word that he says.”

“He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reason I don’t think I believe anything he has told me.”

“You know you believe it all,” said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy, heavy-lidded eyes. “I will go out to the garden with you. It is horridly hot in the studio.–Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it.”

“Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on. Don’t keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands.”

Lord Henry went out to the garden, and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him, and put his hand upon his shoulder. “You are quite right to do that,” he murmured. “Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.”

The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely-chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.

[16] “Yes,” continued Lord Henry, “that is one of the great secrets of life,– to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creature. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know.”

Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic olive-colored face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low, languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flower-like hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between then had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life’s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a school-boy, or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.

“Let us go and sit in the shade,” said Lord Henry. “Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not let yourself become sunburnt. It would be very unbecoming to you.”

“What does it matter?” cried Dorian, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden.

“It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray.”

“Why?”

“Because you have now the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having.”

“I don’t feel that, Lord Henry.”

“No, you don’t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so?

“You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don’t frown. You have. And Beauty is a form of Genius,–is higher, indeed, than Genius, as it needs no explanation. It is one of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won’t smile.

“People say sometimes that Beauty is only superficial. That may be so. But at least it is not so superficial as Thought. To me, Beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.

“Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which really to live. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left [17] for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.

“Realize your youth while you have it. Don’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar, which are the aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.

“A new hedonism,–that is what our century wants. You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season.

“The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are, what you really might be. There was so much about you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last,–such a little time.

“The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as golden next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will have its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we did not dare to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!”

Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the fretted purple of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion, for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time it flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro.

Suddenly Hallward appeared at the door of the studio, and made frantic signs for them to come in. They turned to each other, and smiled.

“I am waiting,” cried Hallward. “Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks.”

They rose up, and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and- white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the end of the garden a thrush began to sing.

“You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, looking at him.

“Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?”

[18] “Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a caprice and a life-long passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer.”

As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry’s arm. “In that case, let our friendship be a caprice,” he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped upon the platform and resumed his pose.

Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair, and watched him. The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when Hallward stepped back now and then to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that streamed through the open door-way the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.

After about a quarter of an hour, Hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes, and smiling. “It is quite finished,” he cried, at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in thin vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.

Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.

“My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly,” he said.–"Mr. Gray, come and look at yourself.”

The lad started, as if awakened from some dream. “Is it really finished?” he murmured, stepping down from the platform.

“Quite finished,” said Hallward. “And you have sat splendidly to- day. I am awfully obliged to you.”

“That is entirely due to me,” broke in Lord Henry. “Isn’t it, Mr. Gray?”

Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture and turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there motionless, and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward’s compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggerations of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had come Lord Henry, with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colorless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips, and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become ignoble, hideous, and uncouth.

[19] As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck like a knife across him, and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened into amethyst, and a mist of tears came across them. He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.

“Don’t you like it?” cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the lad’s silence, and not understanding what it meant.

“Of course he likes it,” said Lord Henry. “Who wouldn’t like it? It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like to ask for it. I must have it.”

“It is not my property, Harry.”

“Whose property is it?”

“Dorian’s, of course.”

“He is a very lucky fellow.”

“How sad it is!” murmured Dorian Gray, with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. “How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrid, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June. . . . If it was only the other way! If it was I who were to be always young, and the picture that were to grow old! For this–for this–I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give!”

“You would hardly care for that arrangement, Basil,” cried Lord Henry, laughing. “It would be rather hard lines on you.”

“I should object very strongly, Harry.”

Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. “I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.”

Hallward stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed almost angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning.

“Yes,” he continued, “I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses one’s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I will kill myself.”

Hallward turned pale, and caught his hand. “Dorian! Dorian!” he cried, “don’t talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you?”

“I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me, and gives something to it. Oh, if it was only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day,–mock me horribly!” The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away, and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as if he was praying.

“This is your doing, Harry,” said Hallward, bitterly.

[20] “My doing?”

“Yes, yours, and you know it.”

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “It is the real Dorian Gray,– that is all,” he answered.

“It is not.”

“If it is not, what have I to do with it?”

“You should have gone away when I asked you.”

“I stayed when you asked me.”

“Harry, I can’t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and color? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them.”

Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and looked at him with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the large curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas.

With a stifled sob he leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. “Don’t, Basil, don’t!” he cried. “It would be murder!”

“I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,” said Hallward, coldly, when he had recovered from his surprise. “I never thought you would.”

“Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself, I feel that.”

“Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself.” And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. “You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Tea is the only simple pleasure left to us.”

“I don’t like simple pleasures,” said Lord Henry. “And I don’t like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all: though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn’t really want it, and I do.”

“If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I will never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray. “And I don’t allow people to call me a silly boy.”

“You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed.”

“And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don’t really mind being called a boy.”

“I should have minded very much this morning, Lord Henry.”

“Ah! this morning! You have lived since then.”

There came a knock to the door, and the butler entered with the tea- tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a [21] rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured the tea out. The two men sauntered languidly to the table, and examined what was under the covers.

“Let us go to the theatre to-night,” said Lord Henry. “There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White’s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire and say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have the surprise of candor.”

“It is such a bore putting on one’s dress-clothes,” muttered Hallward. “And, when one has them on, they are so horrid.”

“Yes,” answered Lord Henry, dreamily, “the costume of our day is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only color- element left in modern life.”

“You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.”

“Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?”

“Before either.”

“I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,” said the lad.

“Then you shall come; and you will come too, Basil, won’t you?”

“I can’t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.”

“I should like that awfully.”

Basil Hallward bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. “I will stay with the real Dorian,” he said, sadly.

“Is it the real Dorian?” cried the original of the portrait, running across to him. “Am I really like that?”

“Yes; you are just like that.”

“How wonderful, Basil!”

“At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," said Hallward. “That is something.”

“What a fuss people make about fidelity!” murmured Lord Henry.

“And, after all, it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. It is either an unfortunate accident, or an unpleasant result of temperament. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say.”

“Don’t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian,” said Hallward. “Stop and dine with me.”

“I can’t, really.”

“Why?”

“Because I have promised Lord Henry to go with him.”

“He won’t like you better for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go.”

Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head.

“I entreat you.”

The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile.

[22] “I must go, Basil,” he answered.

“Very well,” said Hallward; and he walked over and laid his cup down on the tray. “It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-by, Harry; good-by, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow.”

“Certainly.”

“You won’t forget?”

“No, of course not.”

“And . . . Harry!”

“Yes, Basil?”

“Remember what I asked you, when in the garden this morning.”

“I have forgotten it.”

“I trust you.”

“I wish I could trust myself,” said Lord Henry, laughing.–"Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.– Good-by, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.”

As the door closed behind them, Hallward flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.