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In theory : classes, nations, literatures
Ahmad, AijazLanguage : EnglishLondon ; New York : Verso, 2008VI, 358 orrialde ; 20 cm(Ikus) Testua: bitartekorik gabeSeries : Radical thinkers (Verso)ISBN : 978-1-84467-213-4.Postcolonialism |
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|14 ADO ens Ensayos sobre la propaganda fascista
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|14 AHM the In theory
|14 ALI fea Fear of mirrors
|14 ALI ide La idea del comunismo
|14 ANO Un ano de Burla negra
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After the Second World War, nationalism emerged as the principle expression of resistance to Western imperialism in a variety of regions from the Indian subcontinent to Africa, to parts of Latin America and the Pacific Rim. With the Bandung Conference and the formation of the Non-Aligned Movement, many of Europe's former colonies banded together to form a common bloc, aligned with neither the advanced capitalist "First World" nor with the socialist "Second World." In this historical context, the category of "Third World literature" emerged, a category that has itself spawned a whole industry of scholarly and critical studies, particularly in the metropolitan West, but increasingly in the homelands of the Third World itself.
Setting himself against the growing tendency to homogenize "Third World" literature and cultures, Aijaz Ahmad has produced a spirited critique of the major theoretical statements on "colonial discourse" and "post-colonialism," dismantling many of the commonplaces and conceits that dominate contemporary cultural criticism. With lengthy considerations of, among others, Fredric Jameson, Edward Said, and the Subaltern Studies group, In Theory also contains brilliant analyses of the concept of Indian literature, of the genealogy of the term "Third World," and of the conditions under which so-called "colonial discourse theory" emerged in metropolitan intellectual circles.
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The Great Universal Dimensional Portal, also called the Dimension Portal, is a legendary portal that was used by ancient immortals to travel between stars.
Without a specific protection talisman for the Great Universal Dimensional Portal, only an Earth Immortal with a perfect Nascent Soul, and those stronger than an Earth Immortal, would have the qualifications to use the Great Universal Dimensional Portal. The result of someone underneath the Earth Immortal realm using this portal would be them getting shredded to pieces by the humongous suction force between the stars.
Not only would their bodies be ripped apart, even their souls would vanish into the void.
Soul disintegration; forever unable to reincarnate. This was the most tragic way to die in the world.
Miao Yuan was proudly looking at Wu Wang while explaining the mysterious features of the Great Universal Dimensional Portal. He kept describing to the three the huge amount of pain they would experience when ripped apart by the ancient portal, as well as the tragic scene of their souls and bodies being torn apart.
Le Xiaobai squinted his eyes. His eyeballs rolled around, he was trying to calculate the chances of them turning this situation around.
But no matter how much Le Xiaobai thought about it and calculated, faced with the immortal abilities of Miao Yuan, every plan he could think of would just be a waste of time.
Wu Qi stared at Miao Yuan while grinding his teeth. Word by word he swore, "If I am able to survive this day, I will kill everyone in your sect in the future!"
Miao Yuan wasn't bothered by what Wu Qi said. Survive? How could that be possible? The Great Universal Dimensional Portal wasn't some fake object. Either you were protected by the portal protection talisman, or you were an Earth Immortal with a perfect nascent soul. If you weren't any of those, then you would without a doubt be ripped apart by the portal, there was no other possibility.
As for Wu Wang, he was staring at Shangguan Ye with a grin, "Sect Elder Token, do you not want it anymore? If you vow that you'll let Wu Qi and Xiaobai go, I'll give you the token!"
Shangguan Ye turned his head with a snort, then he teased, "The Underhand Sect is already mine, what's the point of having a token? I've never really care about it. With it, I'm the Sect Elder. Without it, I'm still the Sect Elder.
Patting his own shoulders in a mocking manner, Shangguan Ye stared at Wu Wang with a sincere look and said, "I don't possess those legendary qi meridians. The old story about the token's function wouldn't work on me, so why would I let go of two of my enemies just for something that is impossible?"
Wu Wang let out a long sigh and shook his head helplessly.
The Great Universal Dimensional Portal had been activated. 360 jade plates were moving in circles around the golden platform, and streams of light were being shot out from them, filling the huge sphere shaped space with dazzling lights. Massive pressure was being emitted from the portal, forcing Shangguan Ye and the other disciples of the Underhand Sect to keep moving back. Only Miao Yuan and the eight other priests were able to withstand the pressure, with great effort.
[TL: I'm not too sure about Collecting Heaven… I might change it in the future, if it appears in future chapters.]
Shangguan Ye stared at Wu Wang blankly, suddenly he scolded, "Damn you, you motherfucker! You, you're a spy!"
Wu Wang grinned and spoke as if he didn't care, "Le Xiaobai joined the Underhand Sect in order to pursue excitement. Therefore, if he was killed, I wouldn't feel any pain at all."
Le Xiaobai gazed at Wu Wang ruefully and said with a sad voice, "Brother Wu, don't talk like that!"
Wu Wang didn't care about Le Xiaobai's words, he continued saying, "But for Wu Qi, I'm the one who dragged him into the Underhand Sect. The reason why I dragged him into the sect is because I discovered that it is highly possible that he possesses the Underhand Sect's legendary Stealing Heavens Arteries. Therefore, I took him in as my disciple. And therefore, I will be the one responsible for his life!"
Glaring at Miao Yuan who was maintaining the Great Heavenly Positioning Talisman with all his effort, Wu Wang said with a strange smile, "Wu Qi is my disciple, therefore, if you people want to kill him, I will avenge him at any cost!"
Clenching his teeth together, Wu Wang bit off his tongue with all his strength.
The massive pressure from the portal became even more intense. Like a fountain, the blood in Wu Wang's mouth sprayed out for dozens of meters.
Losing such a huge amount of blood, Wu Wang's life was leaving with great speed. His heart instantly stopped beating.
A bright eye piercing light suddenly exploded out from the Grand Universal Dimensional Portal, and the portal was finally activated. Wu Wang and the other two were going to be transported soon. At the same time, The Great Heavenly Positioning Talisman in Miao Yuan's hand also started emitting an eye catching golden light. The positioning of the final destination was almost complete.
Right at this crucial timing, Wu Wang's left leg suddenly exploded. The rapid force of the explosion swept across, immediately causing abnormality in the Grand Universal Dimensional Portal.
The jade plates were starting to break piece by piece, and the twisting energy of the space was turning into a golden platform in a dough shape.
The self defense mechanism of the portal was instantly destroyed, and the humongous tidal energy within the Grand Universal Dimensional Portal was starting to explode uncontrollably.
An eye catching pillar of light shot up into the sky from the middle of Machu Picchu, instantly spreading across the entire area.
A giant mushroom cloud billowed into the sky from underneath Machu Picchu together with the sound of an incredibly loud explosion. A few nearby hills were instantly turned into ashes at the same time.
The massive explosion swept across the whole area, hills were collapsing, rivers running dry, and trees breaking from their trunks and flying high up into the air.
The ground was shaking, and even the clouds were sent flying. The landscape around Machu Picchu was moving up and down like ripples in water, huge trenches were appearing everywhere, and a few hills were even swallowed by the trenches, sinking deep into the earth.
After a long time when everything returned to its original peaceful state, Machu Picchu had disappeared.
What was left on the spot where Machu Picchu used to be was a huge crater spreading hundreds of miles, with a depth of over thirty miles.


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Evelyn Waugh's personal favorite of his novels and "a superlatively well done book" (Chicago Tribune) set in the age of Emperor Constantine.
Helena is the intelligent, horse-mad daughter of a British chieftain who is thrown into marriage with the man who will one day become the Roman emperor Constantius. Leaving home for lands unknown, she spends her adulthood seeking truth in the religions, mythologies, and philosophies of the declining ancient world, and becomes initiated into Christianity just as it is recognized as the religion of the Roman Empire. Helenaa novel that Evelyn Waugh considered to be his favorite, and most ambitious, workdeftly traverses the forces of corruption, treachery, enlightenment, and political intrigue of Imperial Rome as it brings to life an inspiring heroine.
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|Little, Brown and Company
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About the Author
Evelyn Waugh (1903-1966), whom Time called "one of the century's great masters of English prose," wrote several widely acclaimed novels as well as volumes of biography, memoir, travel writing, and journalism. Three of his novels, A Handful of Dust, Scoop, and Brideshead Revisited, were selected by the Modern Library as among the 100 best novels of the twentieth century.
Date of Birth:October 28, 1903
Date of Death:April 10, 1966
Place of Birth:West Hampstead, London
Education:Hertford College, Oxford University, 1921-1924; Heatherley's Art School, 1924
Read an Excerpt
George Weigel
Some novelists are notorious for their intricate, even prickly, personalities. In Evelyn Waugh, however, nature and grace contrived to fashion an exceptionally complex, even maddening, character; understanding him in full would require the combined skills of an archaeologist, a psychiatrist, and an old-school spiritual director. It would be a mistake, though, to miss the subtleties of Waugh's art or the depth of his artistic vision by focusing exclusively on his personal quirks and eccentricities, amusing or appalling as they may be.
Who was Evelyn Arthur St. John Waugh, born in the Hampstead area of London in 1903, the younger son of a literary critic and publisher? What was his art? To begin at the surface, he was a brilliant satirist—one of the funniest writers of the twentieth century. At the same time, his humor was complemented by his literary craftsmanship, which was arguably the most well developed among his contemporaries. However one sorts out the relative merits of Waugh, P. G. Wodehouse, Graham Greene, and others, anyone who reads Waugh closely immediately senses that he was a master craftsman of English prose.
Then there were those eccentricities. Yes, Evelyn Waugh reveled in being politically incorrect. Yes, he could be terribly self-centered and, at times, selfishly cruel. Yes, he lived a considerable part of his adult life in self-constructed physical and psychological enclaves intended to keep the world at bay—including, sometimes, the world inhabited by his six children. Yes, he affected the use of a Victorian ear trumpet in his later years. Yes, he was, as one of his biographers put it, a "displaced person" by nature. But while he may have been an eccentric, he was not a crank.
Beneath and beyond all his quirkiness, Evelyn Waugh, as he understood himself, was a Christian pilgrim—a Catholic with an intensely sacramental apprehension of reality, a craftsman with a profound belief that writing was his vocation, not simply his career. Waugh himself admitted that he was a very bad Christian, a man to whom neither prayer nor charity came easily; as he was famously reported to have said to a society matron who had complained about his boorish manners, "Madame, were it not for the faith, I should scarcely be human." At the same time, few novelists have explored with more profundity the mysterious workings of grace in the humanizing of a disparate cast of characters.
Waugh's extensive corpus lends itself to friendly arguments about which of his novels is the greatest. Two generations of critics have deplored both the piety and the lush, magenta prose of Brideshead Revisited; yet an argument can be made that Brideshead is singularly effective in tracing the divine twitch on the thread of human lives that calls us from lesser, easier, more self-centered loves to higher, truer, harder loves. Yet even those who defy critical convention and celebrate Brideshead will often be found stumping for the artistic superiority of A Handful of Dust as a cleaner, more sharply etched, more psychologically nuanced novel. I have long argued that Waugh's Sword of Honor trilogy (Men at Arms, Officers and Gentlemen, and Unconditional Surrender—known to Americans by the inferior title The End of the Battle) stands at the apex of his artistic achievement; these are, surely, the finest novels to come out of World War II, and their morally driven view of world politics, scorned in the 1960s, was proven remarkably prescient by the revolution of 1989 in East Central Europe.
Evelyn Waugh's personal favorite among his works was none of these, however. It was Helena. When it was first published in 1950, critics paid it little regard, imagining it another exercise in Waugh's alleged snobbery, this time masquerading as piety. Helena has, at times, fallen out of print, a fate that has befallen none of Waugh's other novels. Yet he loved it. His daughter Harriet remembered that Helena was "the only one of his books that he ever cared to read aloud to the whole family." Why that is so tells us much about Waugh as an artist and a man.
As for the artistry, Waugh was not modest in his claims for Helena. On the dust jacket of the first edition, he wrote, evidently without a blush, "Technically this is the most ambitious work of a writer who is devoted to the niceties of his trade." However that may be, there's something to be said for Waugh's pride in his craft here: the novel's spare narration, its crisp dialogue, its beguiling yet deceptive simplicity, the ongoing confrontation between myth and history that gives Helena its narrative line—all this suggests an intriguing experiment, in the late 1940s, with a form of postmodern fiction.
At the same time Helena was, and is, Waugh's most intentional statement about the truth of Christianity and about vocation—the divine call to a specific work in life—as the heart of Christian discipleship. Helena is full of biting historical and theological commentary (including a hilarious put-down of Edward Gibbon's anti-Christian reading of Roman history). But, in the main, we are far, far away here from what one Waugh biographer calls the "jubilant malice" with which Waugh pilloried the California way of death in The Loved One. In Helena, Waugh explored, sparely but deeply, the question that shaped the last thirty-six years of his life—how does one become a saint?
In the course of his conversion to Catholicism, which took place in 1930, Evelyn Waugh came to the conviction that sanctity was not for the sanctuary only. Every Christian had to be a saint. And one of the hardest parts of that lifelong process of self-emptying and purification was to discover one's vocation: that unique, singular something that would, in accord with God's providential design, provide the means for sanctification. Helena's sense of vocation, and the Christian scandal of particularity (the mystery of the omnipotent, omnipresent God revealing himself through limited creation, from the people of Israel to the wood of Christ's cross), to which her vocation bore witness, was what attracted Waugh to the fourth-century empress, whom the world remembers as the mother of the Emperor Constantine. Waugh later explained his choice in a letter to the poet John Betjeman, who confessed to being puzzled by the fact that, in the novel, Helena "doesn't seem like a saint":
Saints are simply souls in heaven. Some people have been so sensationally holy in life that we know they went straight to heaven and so put them in the [liturgical] calendar. We all have to become saints before we get to heaven. That is what purgatory is for. And each individual has his own form of sanctity which he must achieve or perish. It is no good my saying, 'I wish I were like Joan of Arc or St. John of the Cross.' I can only be St. Evelyn Waugh—after God knows what experiences in purgatory.
I liked Helena's sanctity because it is in contrast to all that moderns think of as sanctity. She wasn't thrown to the lions, she wasn't a contemplative, she didn't look like an El Greco. She just discovered what it was God had chosen for her to do and did it. And she snubbed Aldous Huxley, with his perennial fog, by going straight to the essential physical historical fact of the redemption.
Waugh was not a proselytizer, and Helena is no more an exercise in conventional piety than Graham Greene's The Power and the Glory, whose hero is an alcoholic priest. But Waugh was a committed Christian apologist, and his apologetic skills are amply displayed in Helena. Thus Helena was not only addressed to those Christians who were trying to figure out the meaning of their own discipleship; it was also intended as a full-bore confrontation with the false humanism that, for Waugh, was embodied by well-meaning but profoundly wrongheaded naturalistic-humanistic critics of the modern world, like Aldous Huxley and George Orwell.
More specifically, Waugh wanted to suggest that an ancient pathogen was lurking inside the hollowness of modern humanisms: gnosticism, the ancient heresy that denies the importance or meaningfulness of the world. Helena is an argument on behalf of Waugh's contention that modern humanistic fallacies are variants on the old, gnostic temptations exemplified by the Emperor Constantine and his world-historical hubris. And at the core of the gnostic temptation was, and is, the denial of the Christian doctrine of original sin—which is, in effect, a denial of some essential facts of life, including the facts of suffering and death. In Helena, the arrogantly ignorant Constantine puts it in precisely these terms to old Pope Sylvester, as the headstrong young conqueror heads off to his new capital on the Bosphorus: "You can have your old Rome, Holy Father, with its Peter and Paul and its tunnels full of martyrs. We start with no unpleasant associations; in innocence, with divine wisdom and peace."
And what was the answer to the gnostic fallacy, which produced in Constantine's time, as in ours, a kind of plastic, humanistic utopianism? For Helena, and for Waugh, it was what the aged empress went to find: the "remorseless fact of the lump of wood to which Christ was nailed in agony," as Waugh biographer Martin Stannard put it. This "remorseless lump of wood" reminds us of two very important things: it reminds us that we have been created, and it reminds us that we have been redeemed. Helena believed, and Waugh agreed, that without that lump of wood, without the historical reality it represented, Christianity was just another Mediterranean mystery religion, a variant on the Mithras cult or some other gnostic confection. With it—with this tangible expression of the Incarnation and what theologians call the hypostatic union (the Son of God become man in Jesus of Nazareth)—a window was open to the supernatural, and the "real world" and its sufferings were put into proper perspective. For God had saved the world, not by fetching us out of our humanity (as the gnostics would have it), but by embracing our humanity in order to transform it through the mystery of the cross—the mystery of redemptive suffering, vindicated in the resurrection of Jesus from the dead.
Gnosticism, and the plastic utopianism that follows in its wake, is every bit as much a temptation in the twenty-first century as it was in Helena's day. Fish don't notice water; we don't notice gnosticism for what it is—even when it's celebrated in a best-seller like The Da Vinci Code. Audiences still find it amazing, even unbelievable, when I tell them that, in the overwhelming majority of American universities today, very, very few members of the philosophy department will defend the claim that the reality we perceive discloses the truth of things. Somehow, the radical skepticism and relativism of the intellectual guilds haven't penetrated down to the level of the people who sign the checks that allow the guild members to live in style. Or perhaps ordinary people—who think that they do, in fact, know some things—feel intimidated by the serpentine arguments of today's gnostic intellectuals.
Although set more than a millennium and a half ago, Helena is a bracing antidote to this contemporary gnosticism: this "bosh" and "rubbish," as Waugh's Helena would put it. From her childhood, Helena is determined to know whether things are real or unreal, true or false—including the claims of Christianity. For her, Christianity is not one idea in a world supermarket of religious ideas. Christianity is either the truth—the Son of God really became man, really died, and really was raised from the dead for the salvation of the world—or it's more "bosh" and "rubbish." The true cross of Helena's search is not a magical talisman; it is the unavoidable physical fact that demonstrates the reality of what Christians propose, and about which others must decide.
One Waugh biographer suggests that the novelist's later years were marked by an agonizing spiritual quest for compassion and contrition. As for many of us, the contrition likely came easier than the compassion. But it is difficult to read Helena without discerning in its author the capacity for a great compassion indeed—a compassion for the human struggle with the great questions that are raised in every life, in every age. Evelyn Waugh's comic energy was once sprung from his pronounced power to hurt others, as a novel like Vile Bodies demonstrates. But in the mature Waugh, the Waugh who wrote Helena and thought it his finest achievement, the farce has been transformed into comedy, and the comedy has become, for all the chiaroscuro shadings, a divine comedy indeed.
It is reported (and I, for one, believe it) that some few years ago a lady prominent for her hostility to the church returned from a visit to Palestine in a state of exultation. "I got the real lowdown at last," she told her friends. "The whole story of the Crucifixion was made up by a British woman named Ellen. Why, the guide showed me the very place where it happened. Even the priests admit it. They call their chapel the 'Invention of the Cross.'"
It has not been my primary aim to disillusion this famous lady but to retell an old story.
This is a novel.
The novelist deals with the experiences that excite his imagination. In this case the experience was my desultory reading in history and archaeology. The resulting book, of course, is neither history nor archaeology. Where the authorities are doubtful, I have often chosen the picturesque in preference to the plausible; I have once or twice, where they are silent, freely invented; but there is nothing, I believe, contrary to authentic history (save for certain willful, obvious anachronisms that are introduced as a literary device), and there is little that has not some support from tradition or from early documents.
The reader may reasonably inquire: how much is true? The Age of Constantine is strangely obscure. Most of the dates and hard facts, confidently given in the encyclopedias, soften and dissolve on examination. The life of St. Helena begins and ends in surmise and legend. We may take it as certain that she was the mother of Constantine by Constantius Chlorus; that she was proclaimed empress by her son; that she was in Rome in 326 when Crispus, Licinianus, and Fausta were murdered; that she went soon after to Jerusalem and associated herself with building the churches at Bethlehem and Olivet. It is almost certain that she directed excavations in which pieces of wood were found, which she and all Christendom immediately accepted as the cross on which our Lord died; that she took part away, with many other relics, and left part at Jerusalem; that she lived some of her life at Nish, in Dalmatia, and at Trèves. Some hagiographers have fancied her at Nicaea in 325. We do not know that.
We do not know where she was born or when. Britain is as likely a place as any other and British historians used always to claim her. We do not know that Constantius visited Britain in 273, for we have no details of his early life. His position and abilities would have qualified him to be the emissary to Tetricus, but it is pure guesswork to represent him as so employed. Helenopolis (Drepanum), on the Bosphorus, claimed to be Helena's birthplace on the grounds of its name, but Constantine was whimsical in these displays of family feeling. He named at least one other town (in Spain) after his mother, and for his sister, Constantia, he renamed the port of Maiouma in Palestine, where she cannot conceivably have been born. In preferring Colchester to York I have been guided by the picturesque. The date—as all dates in this age—is uncertain. Helena's panegyrist describes her as past eighty when she went to Jerusalem, but I have taken this as a pious exaggeration.
We do not know that the wood Helena found is the true cross. We need make no difficulty about the possibility of its preservation, for the distance in time between Helena and our Lord is not greater than between ourselves and Charles I,* but if we do accept its authenticity, we must, I think, allow an element of the miraculous in its discovery and identification. We do know that most of the relics of the true cross now venerated in various places have a clear descent from the relic venerated in the first half of the fourth century. It used to be believed by the vulgar that there were enough pieces of this "true cross" to build a battleship. In the last century a French savant, Charles Rohault de Fleury, went to the great trouble of measuring them all. He found a total of 4,000,000 cubic millimeters, whereas the cross on which our Lord suffered would probably comprise some 178,000,000. As far as volume goes, therefore, there is no strain on the credulity of the faithful.
The following names are entirely fictitious: Marcias, Calpurnia, Carpicius, Emolphus.
The Wandering Jew has no previous connection with Helena. I have brought them together as a device for reconciling two discrepant stories of the invention: one, that Helena was led to the spot in a dream; the second and less creditable version, that she extorted the information from an elderly rabbi by putting him down a well and leaving him there for a week.
In rather the same way I have given Constantius Chlorus a mistress, although he was reputed to be unusually chaste. One historian makes Helena an elderly concubine from Drepanum. I contrived the drowned Bithynian as a hint to the knowing that I thought nothing of the credibility of this tale.
There are some other echoes and reflections of this kind scattered about the following pages, but it would be tedious to point them out. They are there to be found by anyone whom they amuse.
The story is just something to be read; in fact a legend.
Evelyn Waugh
* At the time Helena was published, roughly 300 years.
Court Memoir
Once, very long ago, before ever the flowers were named that struggled and fluttered below the rain-swept walls, there sat at an upper window a princess and a slave reading a story, which even then was old: or, rather, to be entirely prosaic, on the wet afternoon of the Nones of May in the year (as it was computed later) of our Lord 273, in the city of Colchester, Helena, red-haired, youngest daughter of Coel, paramount chief of the Trinovantes, gazed into the rain while her tutor read the Iliad of Homer in a Latin paraphrase.
Recessed there in the fortification they might have seemed an incongruous couple. The princess was taller and lighter than the general taste required; her hair, sometimes golden in the sunlight, was more often dull copper in her cloudy home; her eyes had a boyish melancholy; the mood—at once resentful, abstracted, and yet very remotely tinged with awe—of British youth in contact with the classics. There would be decades in the coming seventeen centuries when she would have been thought beautiful; born too soon, she was, here in Colchester, among her own people, dubbed the plain one.
Her tutor certainly regarded her with aversion as, at once, the symbol of his low condition and the daily task that made that condition irksome. He went by the name of Marcias and was then in the prime of what seemed his manhood; swarthy skin, black beard, beak-nose and homesick eyes spoke of his exotic origin; winter and summer his rheumy cough protested against his exile. Hunting days were his solace when the princess was away from dawn to sunset and he, left sole lord of the schoolroom, could write his letters. These letters were his life; elegant, esoteric, speculative, rhapsodic, they traveled the world from Spain to Bithynia, from free rhetorician to servile poet. They got talked about and had brought Coel more than one offer for his purchase. He was one of the younger intellectuals, but here fate had landed him, in drizzle and draft, the property of a convivial, minor royalty, the daily companion of an adolescent girl. There was no taint of impropriety in their conjunction, for in his boyhood a precocious and transitory taste for the ballet had once caused Marcias to be assigned for the Eastern market and he had been suitably pruned by the surgeon.
"And Helen of the white arms, fair among women, let fall a round tear and veiled her face in shining linen; and Aithre, daughter of Pitheus and the ox-eyed Klymene, attended her to the Scaean Gate. Do you think I read this to amuse myself???"
"It is only the fishermen," said Helena, "coming up from the sea for tonight's beano. There's basketfuls of oysters. Sorry; go on about the ox-eyed Klymene."
"And Priam, sitting among the elders of his court said: 'Small wonder that Trojans and Greeks are in arms for Princess Helen. She breathes the air of high Olympus. Sit, dear child; this war is not thine, but of the Immortals.'"
"Priam was a sort of relation of ours, you know."
"So I have heard your father frequently observe."
From this sheltered room on a clear day one could descry the sea, but now the distance was lost in mist, which, even as she watched, closed swiftly over marsh and pasture, villas and huts, over the baths where the district commander and his new guest had lately entered, till it filled the ditch and lapped the walls below her; on such a day Helena thought, not for the first time—for such days were common in her bright springtide—on such a day the hilltown, which rose so modestly above the fens, might stand in the clouds among the high winds of the mountains and these squat battlements might overhang a limitless gulf; and while with half her mind she heard the voice behind her—"For she did not know that these, her twin brethren, lay fast in Sparta, in their own land, under the life-giving earth"—she half-sought an eagle mounting from the white void below.
Then the swift squall passed and the fog reopened, bringing her back within a few feet to earth. Only the brick cupola of the baths remained obscure, bound in its own exhalation of steam and smoke. How near the ground they sat!
"Were the Trojan walls taller than ours at Colchester?"
"Oh, yes; I think so."
"Very much."
"Have you seen them?"
"They were destroyed utterly in the olden days."
"Nothing left, Marcias? Nothing to mark where they stood?"
"There's a modern town the tourists flock to. The guides will show you anything you ask for—the tomb of Achilles, Paris's carved bed, the wooden leg of the great horse. But of Troy itself there is nothing left but poetry."
"I don't see," said Helena, looking out along the sturdy face of the masonry, "how they could ever quite destroy a city."
"The world is very old, Helena, and full of ruins. Here in a young country like Britain you may find that hard to realize, but in the East there are heaps of sand that were once great cities. They are thought to be unlucky. Even the wandering tribes keep clear of them for fear of ghosts."
"I shouldn't be afraid," said Helena. "Why don't people dig? Some of Troy's bound to be there still, hidden underneath the tourists' town. When I am educated I shall go and find the real Troy—Helen's."
"Plenty of ghosts there, Helena. The poets have never let those heroes sleep in peace."
The slave turned back to the manuscript but before he could resume reading, Helena asked: "Do you think, Marcias, they could ever destroy Rome?"
"Why not?"
"Well, I hope they don't; not yet, anyway. Not before I've had the chance to go and look round. Do you know, I have never in my life met anyone who's actually been to the City?"
"Few cross from Gaul to Italy now, since the troubles."
"I'm going one day. The barbarian prisoners, you know, in the colossal theater fight with elephants. Have you ever seen an elephant, Marcias?"
"They're as big as six horses."
"So I believe."
"I'm going to see everything for myself one day, when I'm educated."
"My child, no one knows where he is going. I hoped once to go to Alexandria. I have a friend there whom I have never seen, a most sophistical man. We have so much to say to one another that cannot be written. The museum was to have bought me. Instead they sent me north and sold me in Cologne to the Immortal Tetricus and he sent me here as a present to your father."
"Perhaps, when I am educated, Papa will set you free."
"He talks of it sometimes, after dinner. But what is freedom, to be given and taken? Freedom to be a soldier and to be ordered here and there and cut down in the end by the barbarians in a bog or a forest; freedom to amass a fortune so great that the Immortal Emperor covets it and sends his executioner to collect it? I have my own secret freedom, Helena. What more can your father give me?"
"Well, a trip to Alexandria to see your sophistical chum."
"The mind of man has no legal status. Who can say which is the more free, I or the Immortal Emperor?"
"I sometimes think, you know," said Helena, leaving her tutor sailing free and wide in the void that he made his chilly home, "that it was a good deal more agreeable being an Immortal in Helen's time than it is now. Do you know what has happened to the Immortal Valerian? Papa told me last evening as a great joke. They have him on show in Persia, stuffed."
"Perhaps," said the slave, "we are all immortal."
"Perhaps," said the princess, "we are all slaves."
"Sometimes, my child, you make startlingly intelligent observations."
"Marcias, have you seen the new staff officer who arrived from Gaul? It is for him that papa is giving the banquet tonight."
"All of us slaves—to the earth, 'the life-giving earth.' They are talking now about a Way and a Word; a Way of purification, a Word of enlightenment. It is all the rage in Antioch, I hear, where they have more than twenty genuine Indian sages at work teaching a new way of breathing."
"He is very pale and serious. I'm sure he's employed in some very secret and important mission."
Meanwhile in the hot room the district commander was occupied, less complacently, with the same thought. All over, except where numerous scars recorded his service on the frontier, the general was red and healthily sweating; it was a tough old body, much chopped about, lacking a finger here, a toe there, the free use of a tendon somewhere else, but the face under his bald and dewy head retained the puzzled innocence of early youth. Opposite him in the torrid twilight, like a corpse in a mortuary, lay Constantius, as pale as when he entered, damp and white and wiry, still asking questions. He had asked questions ever since he had arrived two days ago, respectfully as befitted a junior officer, insistently as one who had a right to know;
pertinent, delicate questions on topics that, if raised at all between a senior and a junior officer, should have been raised by the general.
"Shocking business about the Divine Valerian," said the district commander, seeking to turn the conversation to wider interests.
"Very shocking, sir."
"First a mounting block, then a footstool, now a dummy, skinned, tanned, stuffed full of straw, swinging from the rafters for the Persians to poke fun at. I only heard the full story the other day."
"Yes, it's had the most disastrous effect on our prestige in the East," said Constantius. "I was in Persia last winter and found things very sticky. Do you think, if the news gets about, it's likely to have any effect on the frontier legions—the Second Augusta, for instance? How is the morale of the Second Augusta?"
"Splendid body of men. Only wish they could have a cut at the Persians; they'd show them."
"Are they? Do you? That's very interesting. We had rather disquieting reports of the Second Augusta. Wasn't there some trouble in November about their winter quarters?"
"No," said the general.
"Well, we can safely leave the Persians to the Immortal Aurelian." Constantius rose from his slab of marble. "I'll see you in the tepid room, sir."
The general grunted and turned on his face, glad to be rid of the fellow yet resentful of his manner of going; when he had joined under the Divine Gordian, junior officers had deferred to their seniors or known the reason why.
"Depend upon it," thought the general, unhappy at this, by long habit, the happiest hour of the day, when the annoyances of the flesh welled up and were washed away, when the stiff old muscles relaxed and deep inside him he felt the digestive juices flowing fresh and expectant of dinner; "depend upon it that fellow is up to something."
Constantius's papers were in order, under Tetricus's own seal; a liaison officer on a routine tour of the province. "Routine my eye," thought the general. Who was this "we" who knew so much and wanted to know so much more? "Not Tetricus, or I'm a Pict," thought the general. How had "we" come to hear of that disgraceful business of the Second Augusta at Chester? The general clapped his hands and the slave brought, ready prepared for him, the draft he always took at about this hour; cold, Celtic beer spiced with ginger and cinnamon, a beverage the general had taught them to make; it had the property of simultaneously creating and satisfying thirst; the general drank deeply and rubbed his old flanks.
When at length he marched to the tepid room Constantius had finished his massage.
"I'll see you in the cool room, sir," he said and took the cold plunge, not, as the general did, with many frank hissings and splutterings, but calmly and deliberately descending the steps one by one as though to some religious lustration, and emerging into the hot towels, swathing himself in them, and proceeding sedately to his couch in the hall beyond as though vested for the altar.
The slaves knew every inch of the general's body but they seldom got through the afternoon's rubbing without a fair amount of cursing. Today the general was fretful but silent. He wallowed briefly in the cold water then, his mind resolved, sought the couch next to Constantius. A question greeted him before he was fully settled.
"This fellow Coel we're dining with this evening; what sort of fellow is he, sir?"
"You'll see for yourself. He's all right. Perhaps he lacks gravity."
"Is he of any importance in local politics?"
"Politics," said the general, "politics"; and then after a pause he said what he had made up his mind to say when he lay alone in the hot room. "You'll find Britain in a highly prosperous state, more so, I daresay, than any province in the empire, and the reason is that we don't go in for politics over here. We come under Gaul and we take our orders from there, provided they don't give us too many; when they do, we just seem to forget about them. Posthumus, Lollianus, Victorinus, Victoria, Marius, Tetricus—they're all one to us."
"Would you say, sir, that Tetricus has a considerable following among—?"
"Just a minute, young man, I haven't finished what I was saying.
"I've been a regimental soldier all my life until they retired me here. I've never gone in for politics or for intelligence or for special missions. You've asked me a lot of questions in the last two days and I haven't asked you one. I haven't asked you who you are or what you want. Your letters say you are a member of Tetricus's staff; that's quite good enough for me. As I've told you, I've never gone in for secret-service work and it's too late now, but I'm not quite a fool yet. Allow me to give a little advice. Next time you want to pass yourself off as a member of Tetricus's staff, don't boast about making trips to Persia, and if you want me to think you come from Cologne, don't pick your personal guard from a legion that has served on the Danube for the last fifteen years.
"And now, if you will excuse an old man's infirmity, I propose to sleep."
"And Aphrodite caught up Paris in a cloud of darkness and bore him to his own fragrant and high-vaulted chamber and herself sought Helen where she stood among her women above the Scaean Gate. She plucked her perfumed gown and said: 'Come, Paris is waiting on his carved bed, radiant, delicately clad as though he were resting from the dance.' And Helen, daughter of Zeus, slipped away from her attendant women and stood in her shining veil in Paris's room. Laughter-loving Venus set a chair for her by the bed, and Helen said: 'Would you had fallen in battle.' But Paris answered: 'We too have Immortal allies. Come. My love is sweet and hot as the day I took ship with you from Sparta, as the night on sea-girt Kranae where I first knew you. Come.' So they lay together on the fretted bed while beyond the walls Menelaus roamed like a wild beast seeking for Paris and finding him not in all the watching host. Neither Greek nor Trojan would hide Paris for they hated him as they hated black Death itself and while he lay heedless, King Agamemnon proclaimed Menelaus the victor and fair Helen forfeit."
"What a lark!" said Princess Helena. "What a sell! Can't you just see Menelaus ramping and raging about and being smacked on the back by everyone and Agamemnon pompously declaring him the winner? And there was Helen tucked up with Paris all the time. Oh, what sucks!"
"It is an incident quite inconsistent with the heroic virtues," said Marcias. "For that reason the great Longinus considers it the interpolation of a later hand."
"Ah," said Helena, "the Great Longinus."
He was a figure half of fun to her, this stupendous pundit, half of awe; her second heroic myth. The first was her nurse's father, a sapper sergeant slain by the Picts; she never tired, as a child, of stories of his valor and integrity, and when she was translated from nursery to schoolroom, Longinus inappropriately took a place beside him; Marcias paid him more than filial homage; his name occurred hourly, at every lesson. Omniscient, polymath, throned in the remote splendors of Palmyra, Longinus had become invested in her mind with the legends of her race, identified with those white-robed men of the sickle and the mistletoe whose garbled lore was still whispered in the kitchen quarters. These dissimilar paragons were the twin deities of her adolescence; she had a homely, humorous intimacy with them, but also awe.
The snores of the district commander still rang through the dome while Constantius neatly dressed himself and went alone through the rain and mire to the city gates.
"There he goes," said Helena, "the man of mystery, the beauty."
When he reached his quarters he called the commander of the guard.
"Corporal major, the men are to take down their regimental numerals immediately."
"Very good, sir."
"And, corporal major, impress upon them the need for absolute security. If anyone asks any questions, they're from the Rhine."
"They've been told, sir."
"Well, tell them again. If I hear anyone's been talking, I'll confine the lot to barracks."
Then Constantius called his valet and his hairdresser and set about such adornments for dinner as were possible to a field officer traveling light, on confidential business.
The ladies did not dine with the gentlemen but they dined extremely well; their cozier parlor lay between hall and kitchen, and Helena's aunt, who ruled the household, made her own choice of the dishes before they left the charcoal and conducted them under her own eyes, succulent and piping hot, less elaborately garnished than those that appeared before the king, but with all their pure flavors unimpaired. Moreover, instead of lolling in manly style among the cushions and being fed by slaves, the ladies of the household squatted square to their victuals at a low table, rolled back their sleeves, and got their hands well into the pot. The plain but abundant fare comprised oysters stewed with saffron, boiled crabs, soles fried in butter, suckling pig seethed in milk, roast capons, tidbits of lamb spitted between slices of onion, a simple, sweet confection of honey and eggs and cream, and a deep Samian pitcher of home-brewed mead; it would not have done in Italy or Egypt but it was well suited to the British ladies' taste and circumstances.
"What a spread!" said Princess Helena, when she had guzzled. "What a blowout!"
The ladies were putting themselves in order for the concert. Helena's hair, which at her lesson had hung in thick russet plaits, was now maturely dressed and bedizened; she wore a robe of embroidered silk, which had come to her by dromedary and ship and pack mule and porter from distant China; her narrow slippers shone with stones and gold thread, and when she had washed her hands and white forearms—"Helen of the white arms, fair among women," she thought as she dabbled in the steaming limewater—she planted all sixteen various rings, which had been the youngest sister's share of her mother's jewel chest, firmly on her strong young fingers.
"You look perfectly charming, child," said her aunt, adjusting the fillet on Helena's brow. "We won't go in quite yet. The gentlemen have just gone to be sick."
Presently, the ladies of the royal house made their entry. "Helen, fair among women, daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus," thought Helena, as, last but tallest of the line, behind her aunt, her father's three mistresses, her three married and two unmarried sisters, Helena saluted her father. He waved to them generally and genially from his couch and they took their places at the side of the room on their ten stiff chairs.
Then the orchestra struck up, three strings and a wayward pipe, and the singers—first one, then another, at haphazard it seemed; finally all eight of the patriarchal basses—joined their full lungs in the opening dirge.
"I expect you are used to this kind of thing," said the district commander privately to Constantius.
"To nothing quite like this."
"We have it whenever Coel gives a party. It lasts for hours."
The first direful sounds raised the king, who had already shown abundant pleasure in his entertainment, to evident transports. "My favorite piece," he explained; "the lament for my ancestors. We usually start with it. Like all true art it has the merit of prodigious length. Of course since it is in our native tongue, some of it may be lost on you. I will tell you when anything particularly fine is said. At the moment they are treating of the foundation of my family in remote, almost legendary, times by the irregular alliance of the river Scamander with the nymph Idaea. Listen."
High and thin and heartless sang the fiddles and the chanter; deep and turgid and lachrymose sang the bearded choristers. Lax and supine sprawled the soldiers; rigid and erect sat the royal women. Softly the page stepped from couch to couch with the mead bowl; heavily the district commander stumbled once more to the vomitorium.
Uncouth, hypnotic, the voices filled the hall from coffered roof to mosaic pavement and carried far into the night their tale of death.
"Brutus, great-grandson of Aeneas, has now reached Britain," said Coel at length; "we have almost, you might say, reached modern times. He is the real father of our race. He found the whole island quite empty, you know, except for a few old giants. After Brutus the story becomes much more circumstantial."
None of King Coel's family, it appeared, had died naturally; few even plausibly. One took doctored wine at the hands of his stepdaughter and ran horribly amok in the forest, naked, tearing up young trees and frightening the wolves and bears. And his was by no means the most alarming case. All the bereavements of that ancient and tuneless family—classic myth, Celtic fairy tale, and stark history—mingled and swelled inharmoniously, among the cooking smells and lamp smells and the heavy smell of mead.
Constantius was a man of temperate habits; he had seen more than one officer gormandize himself out of fine prospects in the days of the Divine Gallienus; but he had drunk deep that night, so that the sharp pain of the entertainment was dulled and he lay bemused, borne out of himself by the fumes of liquor, so that he looked down on all his talents, neatly displayed like cut gems on the engraver's tray, and saw himself almost as he was. There was little self-love in Constantius; others, not he, in the last two centuries had been consumed by that master passion; others, now the peers and playmates of the gods, had died of that sickness. Constantius in his own eyes fell short of perfection. His talents comprised all that was needed—no more; a representative collection, not unique, but adequate; he would make do. His need was simple; not today, not tomorrow, but soon, sometime before he grew too old to make proper use of it, Constantius wanted the world.
"They are singing of the flagellation of Boadicea," said Coel; "rather a delicate subject to us Romans, but very dear to my simple people."
The recital was scarcely less familiar to Helena than to her father; she withdrew from the catalog of mortality and, eupeptically, indulged a fantasy she had cherished since childhood. Perhaps each of the women had some such secret, interior pastime, so still they sat on their ten severe thrones. Helena was playing horses, a game that began with her first pony; a breathless, wordless steeplechase across impassable superequine obstacles, splendidly leapt, and endless stretches of resilient sward. Helena had galloped thus in solitude hours without number, but of late years, as her womanhood broke bud, a keener excitement infused the game. Two played it now. There was the will of the rider that spoke down the length of the rein, from the gloved hand to the warm and tender tongue under the bit; articulate, coaxing, commanding, now barely sensible, light as an eyelid, now steel-hard and compelling; that spoke in the stab of the spur and sudden double smart of the whip. And there was the will of the animal to shrink and start, to toss aside the restraint of bridle and saddle and the firm legs across her, to shake the confident equipoise, awake him to the intense life and the will to combat under him; leaving him nothing of what he took for granted, draw more from him until he put the whole of himself into the tussle. Then at the height of the play, in sweat and blood-flecked foam, came the sweet moment of surrender, the fusion, and the two were off together, single, full stretch over the resounding earth, as they had raced in childhood, with none but the wind to oppose them. She took some handling, the chestnut.
Thus Helena galloped while through the hypocaustic air the death song of her ancestors rumbled and wailed.
"They are singing of Cymbeline," said the king.
Presently the hand on the rein steadied her, pressed her gently back into a walk, then patted her neck, and she shook in answer the silver ornaments of her harness. They strolled together, hand in hand, as it were, like a courting couple along the waterside, until a slight shift of weight, a pressure from the leg, a gathering up of attention in the thrilling touch on the lip, set her once more stepping briskly out in the glades of her keen, young mind.
The dirge ended and the singers' throats now gurgled with mead; the piper shook out the spittle and the fiddlers tinkered with their strings. The king's applause momentarily awoke the company from their several reveries. Momentarily only; there was an interval of pledging and quaffing; then the music began again.
"This is a very modern song," said Coel; "it was written by the chief bard in my grandfather's day to commemorate the annihilation of the IX Legion"; and, deep in the toga, which contrary to metropolitan fashion he always wore at table, the old king rumbled with amusement.
Trotting through the limpid upper air of her thoughts, stepping high and delicately, nibbling the bit, tossing the buckles and sparkling bosses of her bridle, making the reins ring like a harp string with the note of assent and exultation, tenderly, sweetly displaying before the world the chivalry of her rider; thus went Helena.
And Constantius also rode; rode in triumph; not in his chariot amid the sweat and garlic-reek of the City, not behind yoked sovereigns and exotic animals, the almoners and augurs and tumblers and ceremonial troops, not in the pantomime of official triumph; but at the head of battle-worn, victorious legions, at the heart of power, at the entry into possession; he rode between crowds who were part sullen, part timorous, part flushed with gratitude for their immediate salvation, all scanning him as he passed for a sign of what was coming to them. That was Constantius's triumph as he jogged along in his service uniform into a conquered and anxious world.
And, as he lay, he looked across the hall to the row of women; scarcely observing them, his eyes passed from one rapt face to another, until in the lowest place but highest by a handbreadth, Helena raised hers to meet them. They gazed at one another, unknowing, separate, then running together like drops of condensed steam on the ewer, pausing, bulging one against the other, until, suddenly, they were one and ran down in a single minute cascade. Helena trotted on and Constantius bestrode her in triumph.
Constantius had done something unprecedented and unpremeditated, something for which his talents were ill suited; he had fallen in love.
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That sounds like something I'd join! And I understand ya. I've created so many RPs that didn't last.
Sounds cool!!!!!! ~Jade.
Alright, then. Can you fond a multi-result camp? O'll also need help creating the rest of this. :)
The curse was long forgotten. It had been cast too long ago for anyone to give it any thought. So when a little girl with a silver shimmering star bestowed on her brow was born, the shock was beyond words, and the mother went straight into her room to weep. The curse was cast many years ago, by an old witch. The witch had been unable to bear any children, so Aliatha (this had been her name,) made it a point to know each child that lived in the village. Each child was unique, in a way that only children could be. But there was one who was far more unique then the others. It was a little girl named Ursula. Ursula had hair as black as ebony, eyes that were black, yellow, hazel, green, and golden brown swirled together above a dark stormy grey, and a laugh that brightened the days like only the sun could do. The witch took an intrest in this child, more so than the rest. As the years wore on, all the children outgrew there innocent age, and became older, wiser, and less careless. All, except for Ursula, who still ran amongst the small town laughing wildly and causing mischeif and not at all behaving like a young and proper lady ought to. Aliatha, stern in her ways, regarded this with scorn. But she was nearly the only one. One day, two gentlemen came into town. They were brothers and both were oddly perculiar. Naturally, they took to Ursula, as all the people did, but stranger still was that she returned the attention. The two brothers were different, in almost all aspects. Alec, who was the older of the two by little more then a year, was serious and ammoral, with dark black hair and eyes. His brother, NiKoli, was playful, always joking around, with dark dull blonde, almost brown hair that he kept short, and vilolent violet eyes. Though the two were different as day and night, they both had something in commen that destroyed there relationship, the love for Ursula. (Rest at the helen diaries.)
My story is called Leafbreeze's Destiny. Basically it is about this kit named Leafkit and then her family is keep on being struck by tragedy but then she recieves a prophecy and she goes on this quest to bring back all of the cats who died in Leafbreeze's lifetime.~Deerleap
Ok, Im going to have to give my nook back to the person I was borrowing today. I wasnt expecting it, sorry. Heres the winner: <p> Awaiting Dark!!!! You both did great but Awaiting Dark had very good details and the plot seemed very interesting. You both did wonderful so be a good sport!!!


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Think Fast, Talk Smart: Communication Techniques
Picking the right words can be difficult. Particularly in spontaneous situations, it can be easy to say the wrong thing. Matt Abrahams, a Lecturer at the Stanford Graduate School of Business, provides a lesson on how to speak on the fly with greater confidence and clarity.
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Sumner Redstone" src="//billionaires-static.forbes.com/imageserve/0brq81N40ScJX/200x200.jpg?left=0.5" alt="" width="200" height="200" />Rupert Murdoch" src="//cache.daylife.com/imageserve/00qn7LWers5uM/200x200.jpg?center=0.5" alt="" width="200" height="200" />
Sumner Redstone is apparently livid after a New York Post article published last month referred to his alleged penchant for "young girls." The article claimed that Redstone, 87, had taken a special interest in a "scantily clad crew of six young singers" called Electric Barbarellas. The Post also reported that he aimed to make the group the subject of a new MTV show, but the band was apparently "so bad" that MTV CEO Judy McGrath said she was willing to quit over the show. The Post did note that MTV sources had denied the rumblings.
Even though the original reports came from The Daily Beast, Redstone is apparently furious at New York Post owner and fellow billionaire Rupert Murdoch. He has said he will seek revenge and is allegedly looking for legal ways to bring down Murdoch.
Murdoch representatives did not immediately return a call for comment. A representative for Redstone stated that "the perennial rumors about a rivalry with Mr. Murdoch are totally false and baseless and are no more accurate than most of the stories written about Mr. Redstone in gossip columns."
The two men have more in common than they may perhaps care to admit. They both married much younger women, though Redstone and his second wife have since divorced. Both are also entrenched in their media businesses, have little interest in would-be successors and are prepared to wage war to protect their empires.
News Corp's Murdoch, 79, has been a participant in numerous feuds over the years. His battles have ranged from the famed lifelong rivalry with fellow Aussie and one-time partner Kerry Packer to fierce competition with The New York Times, Time Warner Cable and most recently Google (in an interview last year with Sky News Australia, he threatened to remove stories from the search engine so readers would pay for content).
Meanwhile, Redstone, Viacom's largest shareholder, has had his own share of battles. An ongoing quarrel with his daughter, Shari Redstone, was publicly aired in the press in 2007– to the point where she was reportedly close to quitting her post as vice chair of the board at Viacom.
Redstone is also infamous for keeping a revolving door at Viacom, ousting Viacom chief executive Frank Biondi in 1996 and firing Viacom chief executive Tom Freston a decade later.
Redstone's distaste for Murdoch is no secret. Just this April he reportedly told an audience at the Milken Institute that it's only a matter of time before Murdoch's newspapers fail. Stay tuned as this clash of the media titans unfolds.


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Remember that famous scene in the 1942 movie "Casablanca" when the police chief played by Claude Rains (pictured, center) shuts down Humphrey Bogart's nightclub? "I'm shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on in here!" he exclaims as a croupier hands him his own winnings.
Such hypocrisy seems to be going on today in another African city--Lagos, the capital of Nigeria. That's the rowdy country long known for doing very little while email in-boxes in the U.S. and elsewhere are inundated with fraudulent pleas for help in moving frozen funds and asking for the number of your soon-to-be-drained bank account.
The phony pitches are known as "Nigerian letters" (see table at bottom of link) or "419 letters" after the unenforced section of the Nigeria criminal code that ineffectively outlaws them. Long the subject of official FBI warnings, dozens a month have been coming to us for years. The last one, addressed to "Dear friend," promised us half of a $3.7 million estate left by a "property magnate and building contractor" who died in a plane crash.
Sahara Reporters, an African version of the Huffington Post, reports that a Washington D.C.-based lawyer was arrested at the Lagos airport on suspicion he defrauded the Nigerian government out of $1.7 million in connection with real estate transactions in the United States. According to the story, the lawyer, apparently a Nigerian national but living in the U.S., pocketed the funds while handling the sale of several houses in the Washington area owned by the Nigerian embassy. The lawyer is said to believe he was owed the money in fees. The status of formal charges is unclear, but the lawyer was said to be still in detention.
At the end of "Casablanca," made by a unit of what's now Time Warner, Rains and Bogart go off as friends. So we'll wait to see whether the grandly named Economic and Financial Crimes Commission, which ordered the arrest, actually follows through. If so, perhaps it will crack down on offenses against non-Nigerians, too.


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Dog bite injuries can be very traumatic and result in serious injuries. The best Michigan dog bite lawyers understand that dog bite attacks have significant consequences for the injured party including puncture wounds, permanent scarring, permanent disfigurement, nerve damage, risk of infection, bleeding, and possibly even death. Dog bite victims usually suffer emotional trauma as well, such as depression, fright, anxiety, fear of dogs and other animals, trouble sleeping, and other psychological effects. Even a relatively minor dog bite usually requires medical care, and can result in expensive hospital and doctor's bills, and time off work. This is why you need a competent dog bite attorney.
If you or your loved one was bitten by a dog without provocation or fault of your own, you may be entitled to compensation from the dog's owner for your injuries. Contact the experienced dog bite attorneys at Metro Detroit Injury Lawyers today for a free consultation.
Michigan Dog Bite Law:
In Michigan, dog bite claims are known as strict liability causes of action. Under Michigan's dog bite statute, the injured plaintiff only needs to prove the following:
That the plaintiff suffered a dog bite;
That the dog bite was without provocation;
That the defendant owned the dog; and
That the plaintiff was lawfully at the location where the dog bite occurred.
Dog Bite Checklist:
If you or your loved one has been the victim of a dog bite attack, there are things you can do to maximize both your medical improvement and the value of your case.
Medical Treatment- Contact your physician for medical care and advice. If necessary, call an ambulance or go to the emergency room immediately.
Animal Control Report- Report the dog bite attack to the local Animal Control agency in your community. Give the officer as much detail as possible regarding the circumstances of the attack and obtain a copy of the report. The Animal Control Report will play an important evidentiary role in your case.
Photographs- Take photographs of your injuries as soon as possible, as well as where the incident took place. Continue to photograph your injuries in the days and weeks that follow.
Witnesses- Gather the names, addresses and telephone numbers of any and all witnesses to the dog bite attack.
Metro Detroit Injury Lawyers- Consult the experienced dog bite attorneys at Metro Detroit Injury Lawyers at 248-430-8929.
Timing To Bring Your Claim:
In Michigan, a dog bite victim has THREE YEARS from the date of the dog bite attack to bring a claim for damages. If you have been the victim of a dog bite attack, you should not delay in consulting with an experienced dog bite attorney.
There are some exceptions to this rule. For instance, a legal minor (child under the age of 18) has until their 19th birthday to bring a formal claim for damages after a dog bite. However, waiting to consult with an attorney is not advised.
If you have been the victim of a dog bite attack, contact the experienced dog bite attorneys at Metro Detroit Injury Lawyers today for a free consultation.
* For more information on Michigan dog bite law, visit our blog.


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Paula Deen Dropped the Price of Her Savannah Home—But We Still Definitely Can't Afford It
In case you're hunting for a 28,000-square-foot, $8.75-million dollar home in the marshes of Savannah, Paula Deen's "Riverbend" is on the market. The new price (it was originally listed for $12.5 million) still clocks in about $8.55 million above the median Savannah home price of $233K
Scroll along to take a tour of this not-so-humble abode.
Paula Deen's Savannah Home Is For Sale, But It's Out Of Our Price Range
Savannah, Georgia is one of the South's most desirable areas to live. There are beautiful oaks draped in Spanish moss, gorgeous scenic views of rivers and marshes, and plenty of historical spots. So, it's no wonder that Paula Deen's 'Riverbend' home is looking to fetch a pretty penny from a new owner. Paula Deen's 5.5-acre estate on the Wilmington River in Savannah has a 14,500 square-foot main house in French provincial style. Built in 2009, this mansion has an incredible 8 bedrooms and 8.5 baths. That's not including the guest house, the pool house, a dive-in movie theater, or a stunning Southern patio with scenic views. Originally listed at 12.5 million dollars, Paula's home was recently knocked down to a mere 8.75 million – over 8.5 million dollars more than most homes in the area. According to the real estate listing, Paula Deen's home is "the most significant offering in Savannah, Ga...This estate is aptly named "Riverbend" for its panoramic views over Wilmington River." The property has 300 feet of prime waterfront, as well – so you can imagine how wonderful it'd be to spend a morning on Paula's porch. So, if you're looking for a commercial-grade kitchen to entertain your guests or a dressing room with a vaulted ceiling and crystal chandelier, you may just want to check in Savannah.
The Exterior
The 5.5-acre estate on the Wilmington River features a 14,500 square-foot main house in French provincial style. It was built in 2009 complete with 8 bedrooms and 8.5 baths.
The Kitchen
We can't help but drool over the commercial-grade kitchen. It's as warm and inviting as we imagined.
The Bedroom
Yep, this is only one of eight bedrooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows and an elegant wood mantel are noteworthy, but the ceiling fan is really what draws our Southern hearts in. Everyone knows summers below the Mason-Dixon Line are unbearable without a ceiling fan—no matter how state-of-the-art your central air system may be.
The Pantry
Is this a pantry or the Southern Living prop closet? We love details like the library ladder and double-decker glass sideboards-turned-display-case.
The Dressing Room
A wood paneled vaulted ceiling and stately chandelier are the stars—though we would certainly feel like one seated at that vanity.
The Guesthouse
Okay, the guesthouse is kind of adorable. If Deen ends up selling this thing a la carte, we might bite.
The Patio
Summer hostesses will be happy to note outdoor amenities include three grills, four refrigerators, and a smoker.
The Pool
The pool area includes in a dive-in theatre, pool house, and hot tub. We're just going to take a minute to dream about the pool parties to be had.
The View
Situated on the Wilmington River, the property includes 300 feet of waterfront.
People Are Flocking To The Pioneer Woman's New Store
In a town with only 3500 people, fans of The Pioneer Woman are flocking to a brand new store that celebrates everything on Ree Drummond's favorites list. The Mercantile, which is located in a 100-year-old building that was purchased in 2012, is now a 25,000-square-foot bakery, deli, retail store, and coffee bar. The store averages around 6000 visitors per day – and has had almost 15,000, on occasion. But, Ree feels the pressure being more than 100 miles from Oklahoma City. "Whenever I put a recipe on my show or in my cookbook I want it to be absolutely wonderful," she said to our friends at PEOPLE. "When I envision putting a plate of my food in front of a customer or guest, it really takes it to a whole other level because I want them to feel like their trip here was worth it." We think it's worth taking a trip to "The Merc" to check out her new digs.


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Along with our baskets, I got Andrew a shirt he wanted. It's a team that he really enjoyed watching play in the March Madness games this year.
He also pre-ordered Richard Paul Evans' new book in the Walk Series for me. It comes out May 7 and I'm already dying to have it in my hands!
Happy Easter!


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Robert Minkoff, the director of "The Lion King" and multiple other children's films, graduated from Palo Alto High School in 1980, and went on to study animation at the California Institute of the Arts in San Francisco. His first movie, "Tummy Trouble," was released in 1989, and he has directed nine movies since. His new movie, "Mr. Peabody and Sherman," came out March 7. In a phone interview with Verde, Minkoff reflected on his time at Paly and how it has influenced his current life and career.
How has your childhood in Palo Alto influenced your career in directing?
When I was 15 years old, these two sisters had a book called the "Art of Disney," a big coffee table book filled with artwork from all the Disney films and on the front of it was this huge embossed picture of Mickey Mouse. Thirteen years later, we were finishing "The Lion King," and the producer came in and told us that a book was going to be written called the "Art of the Lion King." It was the same person who wrote the "Art of Disney," Christopher Finch. It was an amazing full circle. The whole point of [this story] was you can accomplish whatever dreams you have so long as you believe in it and work hard to achieve it.
Was there anything that particularly influenced your decision to go into directing?
It was really my love of animation that led me to apply to go to CalArts. I actually made a short animated film with a friend of mine who was also a Paly student named Kirk Wise. He was the one who actually told me about CalArts. I went to CalArts the year before him, but we both worked together closely, and we both ended up working at Disney. Kirk ended up directing "Beauty and the Beast."
When did you know you wanted to be a director?
I really enjoyed the process of performing and storytelling. I would go to see films, get a bit of an education about movies by watching older movies. That had quite an impact on me. I wanted to find a way to participate in that.
What's the best part of being a director?
Getting a chance to see your ideas come to life.
How did you participate in the movie business while you were at Paly?
I was an actor, did a lot of theatre. For me, animation was a great way of making films. I used to draw cartoons for the Campanile. I loved film in general and I loved animation. I did a lot of performing, a lot of singing. I was in the choir and performing in the musicals and in drama as well.
What makes your work special? What characteristics do you bring to directing?
I think my background in animation, the fact that I started my career at Disney. The experience that I had really shaped my work as a director. I think every director is different, unique, and has a different point of view. My hope is that my work is special, but that's for others to decide.
What's your style of directing?
I've directed a diverse group of movies. I've done some traditional animation, animation in live action setting, film shorts, computer animation in the live action world, live action…I've even done a martial arts film, so I really have a lot of different styles of movies.
Which of your movies would you say was the most fun to direct?
I suppose whichever movie I'm working on. It's really a privilege to be able to direct films. So whatever movie that I'm working on at any given time is the most fun.
What does being a director entail?
It's obviously a combination of things. He's a bit like the conductor of an orchestra. He's also like the master of ceremonies and a bit of a storyteller. I think that's the most important quality a director can have: an ability to tell stories.
Do you have any advice for Paly students who want to go into your field?
My advice would be to invest themselves 100 percent in whatever they want, and not give up until they get it.


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Open Car Transport is the most common type of auto shipping at Phoenix Car Transport. So, let's get clear what is Open Car Transport? It means that auto transport includes an open trailer and that your vehicle will be outdoors. And that's it! Your vehicle is safely attached and is being transported in a convenient way. It is convenient and AFFORDABLE! Yes, yes. Open Car Transport is an affordable method as well. If you want to save money, it is a great way to relocate your vehicle. This type can be used when relocating to another place with your family and friends. Trusting us your vehicle means to rest assured knowing that we will ship your vehicle with ease. For an experienced company like Phoenix Car Transport, it is never a hassle to do!
There are plenty of transport vehicle types which can do open Car Transport or Auto Hauling, starting from single trailers and ending with trucks capable of towing 10 or more vehicle. Open Car Transport is great when moving single or multiple cars, dealer cars, corporate cars etc. Also, any kind of vehicle is available to transport on an open trailer. Cars, motorcycles, vans, boats, even trucks. Feel free to offer us any kind of vehicle, we will ship it easily!
Of course! If the requirements are high, there will be many companies offering this kind of transportation. Well, it is obvious that the quality will decrease when the quantity increases. BUT, at Phoenix Car Transport, the quality of car shipping services is a top priority for us. Our company never lost its dedication to premium-quality services. We guarantee affordable services with a high-quality performance.
Get a free quote online by using our get a free quote service. Also, our live agents are always available for you to call us at (623) 500-6143. Feel free to get in touch with us with any kind of question or request. Phoenix Car Transport is your reliable friend in car shipping!


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Ultra-Clean Washable crayons are perfect for the beginning artist.
My First Crayola art tools provide children their first art supplies made especially for their little hands so they can create.
Triangular shape is easy to grasp while guiding little fingers to a proper writing grip.
Triangular shape prevents crayons from rolling away and getting lost.
Includes 8 different crayon colors that are formulated for easy clean up.
For 24 months and up.
My First Crayola Washable Tripod Grip Crayons, 8 count is rated out of 5 by 29.
Rated 5 out of 5 by ZiggyZow from 2 yr old enjoys them Gave these to my 2 yr old because he is into coloring books now and likes to lay on the carpeted floor to draw and color. I don't have to worry when he colors outside the lines (off the page) because the color comes out with soap and water. He enjoys using them because he's able to handle them easily and I feel like the tripod grip is more ergonomic for him.The paper wrapper slipped a bit when I held them, but they don't move when he holds them because he's not bearing down as much as I am. However, I hope they stay in place when the crayons begin to wear down and we have to tear away a bit of the wrappers. Not a big deal though. Other than that, they work great for him!
Date published: 2018-08-09
Rated 5 out of 5 by Audrey PG from Crayola, Great As Always! When trying a new product from Crayola, I didn't doubt for a second that the quality of product was going to be as I have come to expect from Crayola. The crayons always are brightly colored and smooth to use. My twin are just starting to grasp objects in a coordinated enough way to put a crayon to paper. They were able to grasp these easily, and although I did have to work hard to keep the crayons out of their mouths, I know with Crayola, the products are always non-toxic. Peace of mind that my children are using a safe product and quality is exactly what I got out of this product.
Date published: 2018-08-07
Rated 4 out of 5 by MrsMailman from Really nice crayons. My two year old son has been using the crayons for a couple of weeks. They are easy for him to grip, and come in multiple colors, which he seems to appreciate. My son loves to use as many colors as possible, and take up as much of the page as possible. The colors are vibrant and they glide easily over the paper. My son's only complaint about them is that he hates having the wrapper on. As a parent, I appreciate this wrapper. He is able to get the wrappers off easily, but they don't exactly slide off. It does take him some effort. I also appreciate that they are WASHABLE!!!
Date published: 2018-08-17
Rated 5 out of 5 by Coco84 from Love Crayola quality My son is just under 2 years and loves coloring outside, but we live on the second floor and his crayons often roll away and fall off the balcony. He broke one of his blue crayons this way, and every time he sees it he holds it up and says "oh no". When i saw these crayons i thought it was perfect. 1. the shape doesn't allow them to roll off the table and 2. they're washable. He also really enjoys writing on the walls and pretty much everywhere else, so the washable part of it is great, so we can easily wipe it off if we don't catch him in time.
Date published: 2018-08-09
Rated 4 out of 5 by feliciard from Great for the little ones These, of course, are the nice quality that you expect from Crayola, with a good shape for little hands. I like that they're washable too, makes cleanup a breeze. I wish they were a little more sturdy, as my 2 and 3 year olds are apt to breaking crayons pretty fast and these were no exception. Other than that, we enjoy these crayons and will continue to use them, broken or not!
Date published: 2018-08-09
Rated 5 out of 5 by Amanda from Easy to hold in little hands This comes in the same variety of colors we typically would get. The crayons are shaped as a tripod as the title and for my son, it seemed to help him be able to hold these crayons easier then the regular ones. Color is still vibrant and rich when used in his color book. These do promise to be washable and are indeed so. You do have to put a little elbow grease in getting it off of a surface, but i expected it bc with any washable crayon, that is typically the case.
Date published: 2018-08-08
Rated 5 out of 5 by HollyK from Great Crayons for Toddlers My three year old uses these crayons and she loves them. The triangle shape helps her grip properly instead of just wrapping her entire fist around on a normal crayon. The triangle shape also means they won't roll off the table which I love! We use these crayons on her washable art easel and they work well and wash off rather easily. Overall, very happy with these crayons for doodling!
Date published: 2018-08-16
Rated 5 out of 5 by jen2k from Great Crayons for my preschooler I love the size of these crayons. It makes it a lot easier for my child to use and hold. Also they are a lot harder for her to break. If she uses the normal size crayons they break everytime. This box of crayons has a great variety of colors for my little one ad she loves using them to color pictures with. They go on the paper well and look great when used.
Date published: 2018-08-08
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- reviews, product


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ring mestic drama,
the remake has been endless.
Some time ago,
the network has been passed,
The Legend Of White Snake to be remade,
and now has been a foregone conclusion,
posters are out.
I feel that the poster is very similar to the cover of some ancient words.
everybody cares most about the actor.
After all,
there are too many people in the white lady.
She is Angie Chius version of the classic,
although now the people inside and sing a bit awkward,
but everyone at the mouth will sing a who is in the ear.
Angie Chiu plays the White Snake really can be charming atmosphere,
with Xu Xian together it is very charming when down Xiaoqing together will break down the lower atmosphere mature water overflows golden hill this edition of Angie Chiu to play the White Snake both malicious fierce,
and the heart of Buddha,
the most important thing is beautiful ah ~ now is old,
but that time really is not for xian.
This version of the white lady is also the memory of the vast majority of people,
the bra
store for sale,shop chrome hearts online store outlet online,women and men outlet online
One day, a grilled classic, and then remake Angie Chiu elegant, Joey Wong style, Liu Tao sedate atmosphere, who is the best white lady in your heart?
ring mestic drama,


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Product Description
Compatible with below
1.Being mountable on a horizontal or vertical surface.
2.The fixing bracket is adjustable.
3.The large speaker with high output power provides clear audio even under noisy environment.
4. DB26 pin audio port.
Speaker Specifications:
Rated Impedance: 8Ω±15% (@ 500Hz);
Sound Pressure Level: 88±2db (1w/1m)(@ 600/700/800/900Hz AVE);
Rated Power: 15W Max. Power: 20W;
Dimensions: 155.6*92.5*140.2(mm);
Weight: about 774g;
Operating Temperature: -25℃~65℃
Application: for broadcasting.
Compatible Radios:MT680,MD780,MD880T
Additional Information
Additional Information
|Radio Type
|Next Day Delivery
Ofcom Licensing Information
Radio licensing: A guide to licensed and licence-free radios
What is a radio licence and do I need one?
There are two types of two-way radios, licenced radios and licence-free radios (PMR446).
Licenced radios require a dedicated frequency which ensures that only those on that frequency can hear transmissions. In order to access a dedicated frequency, a radio licence granted by Ofcom is required by law. Licences start at £75 for five years.
Licence-free radios (also called PMR446 radios) operate on the PMR446 radio frequency, they can be used by anyone within the UK and EU and as the title suggests they need no radio licence.
Licenced radios
Licenced radios are usually more expensive than licence-free models, but have a larger power output (of up to 5 watts for handheld radios) and so offer increased range and coverage.
For example a primary school would typically find coverage on licence-free equipment sufficient whereas licenced equipment would be better suited to a secondary school, college or university.
In addition, a licence will offer increased security of transmissions through better monitoring of frequencies, especially if the licence is specific to your site.
Licenced radios are generally more robust, with clearer audio quality and the conversation more secure. Licensed radios also offer much more functionality than license-free radios, you can make group calls, send text messages and dial up individual users.
More about your Ofcom licence
In order to obtain your licence, an application to Ofcom has to be made. We are more than happy to apply on your behalf and offer a managed service in order to maintain your Ofcom licence throughout your radio project. Or if you wish to make an application yourself, please feel free to ask us any questions along the way as we have vast experience in completing these forms and can go through it with you over the telephone. The application process is usually complete within 20 working days.
You can find out more by going to: http://licensing.ofcom.org.uk/radiocommunication-licences/business-radio/
Licence-free radios
Non licensed radios are a cheaper alternative to licensed radios and can only have a power output of 0.5 watts giving them a fairly small range.
Licence-free radios can be used in the work place and for personal use, ideally where minimal coverage is needed, within small buildings where users are communicating in a close range.
Examples where these radios can be used effectively include smaller schools and construction sites, warehouses, hospitality venues and independent retail businesses.
For leisure they can be ideal for communicating between friends and family while camping and skiing, or if you are at a leisure park or hiking.
All PMR446 radios use the same eight channels. If there are a high number of users in a given area (cities and other built up areas) frequencies become extremely congested leading to interference on the channels, although usually there are multiple channels to select in order to find a clearer channel.


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HTC have been a little lax lately but since the announcement of the Butterfly J with its stunning 5-inch 1080p display looks like the company is turning around. Unfortunately, the device was only announced for Japan and whilst we've heard word of the device coming to Verizon as the Droid DNA we've not heard anything concrete. With this being a busy season for device launches from all the carriers and manufacturers it looks like HTC could be bringing some great stuff our way soon.
Another device has recently broken out under the name of "Operaul" which is something that we haven't seen before and whilst there's not a lot known about it there has been some information come out of a benchmark on NenaMark. As we all know, NenaMark is where a lot of these upcoming phones end up during the run up to their launch. This latest device from HTC has been benchmarked with an HD 1280×720 screen resolution and thanks to NenaMark listing the 1.4Ghz clock speed as well as the Adreno 305 GPU we can tell that the device will be using Qualcomm's Snapdragon S4 Plus SoC.
The S4 Plus line of chips is something that Qualcomm have confirmed will be at the heart of Windows Phone 8 devices and it's interesting to see HTC bring this chip into play on Android. Only packing Adreno 305 instead of the more powerful 320 found in the S4 Pro would suggest that this could well be another budget offering from HTC. The S4 Plus, like the S4 Pro features the Krait CPU in quad-core and also supports LTE so this could be another phone packing LTE.
Whatever the device is or turns out to be, we'll be sure to have more information as soon as we get it!


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October 2nd through 4th, 2015: Guest Instructors & Judges West Coast Swing & Country Dance Event, San Bernardino/
Join this fun weekend of West Coast Swing & Country 2-step dancing! Also join the FB invite! Barb DeLay hosts this enjoyable event, which includes social dancing, competitions, & workshops. Phil Adams is one of the Head Judges, & Minda Robin will be also be judging. Phil & Mindia will teach a "WEST COAST SWING WHIPS" WORKSHOP on Friday, October 2nd at 4pm. (No partner needed; must no basics.)
VENUE: Doubletree Hotel in San Berardino. Visit: www.MagicDanceProductions for details.


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Of the session only two images remained, this and a detail, that I'm probably going to post on the Radiant Vista. Both images were shot from the tripod, the first with the Nikon 18-200 at 75mm, f13 and 20s. I didn't use the macro flash kit, because I really liked the colors that I got from my test shots. The background are two blue
folders, one lying flat on the table, one standing atop.
For the second image I did use the macro flash kit and the Sigma 150/2.8 macro lens at f19, but with the camera set to slow flash mode. Basically that means that the foreground is mostly lit by reduced flashes, but the shutter stays open almost for the whole time that it would take without flashes. The result is, that the background does not go black, like it would normally do. Of course you can get the same result with a proper arrangement of flashes, but as I have only two of them and wanted to light the flower with both, this was the most economic solution. The obvious drawback is, that the method fails to work on moving objects.
Early in the afternoon the fog went away, and later on there was even some sun. I used the opportunity to shoot some HDR images from the tripod. The first one is from 3:31pm, just before the sun came out. At that time there was a dense cloud cover over the whole valley, only in the south-west a patch of blue was visible.
The second image is from approximately the same position, and it is the same view as in "373 - As Time Goes By". I am shooting almost into the sun. It is just outside of the upper left corner. The result were some flares, but in Lab color mode you can get rid of them in a very elegant way. Just use the clone stamp separately on the "a" and "b" channel to eliminate the color shifts, and finally paint with a soft brush and low opacity in soft light mode on the luminance channel. It works like magic. Yes, I know, there are some flares left, but these are not the one's that I mentioned, those are really gone without a trace. What is left is only what I didn't care to tackle.
The third and last image is from our garden down to the south-east. This is the kind of light that you get when the valley is covered with clouds and the sun stands low in the west.
All three HDR images were shot with the Nikon 18-200 as seven bracketed exposures from the tripod, using the Nikon MC-36 remote control and the camera set to high speed multi-shot mode. Then the seven JPEGs were merged in Photomatix Pro, tone-mapped using the defaults, and finally finished in Photoshop.
The Song of the Day is "Lilies Of The Valley" from David Byrne's 1994 album "David Byrne". I had contemplated Bob Dylan's "Lily Of The West", but that would have been sepia. For shrill colors it must be David Byrne 🙂