Saturday, December 31, 2011

Untitled #2


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stick it in my void

some body says to me

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break eggs over my face

like new year’s confetti

or cum

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I fall asleep while

pretending to be held

in ways that break the caravans

lotted along my back

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this open belly before me

scants the lack of proper nutrition

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and feels heavy with this

humble light

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This scarred is always allowed, even though this poem seems deceptively abstract.

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It is assumed, and later confirmed, that this references a fantasy, rather than a real experience.

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Most, if not all, of these poems can be identified as such.

Friday, December 30, 2011

Untitled #1



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i lose what’s left in the room

a tenderskin before even splayed

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scooting man-tits by the fat man regime

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fiddling the pills in my mouth like they’ll

do any good

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a proper stance in morning askance

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it’s friday i assume and i fall over in flowers

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This early poem seems to be an initial reaction to the work required of him.

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Attempts to make the horror reasonable, from anti-depressants prescribed pre-employment, clearly cannot handle the load of what he sees.

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The optimism seems quaint, at this point at least.

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Later poems will deem this particular poem a joke.

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Thursday, December 29, 2011

Berrigan Boys



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This downward spiral motherfucker

cakewalk dance in stains left by some-

body’s other hands – the faint mention

of money stripped off like skin

and stuck in a pocket.

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The doctors all say there’s nothing

to worry about.

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Yet – still – I worry:

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I worry about penis size,

like a lonely pretzel,

still frozen in the freezer.

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I doggy your bitch-face, paddle-style,

where I slap your jacket straight

against your face and you smile

this hot hole into your fist like

an evening gone wrong,

or sour, or somewhere Southern.

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Like a bread farmer still standing

while his wife makes hands of

worry and he slaps his dick out of

his son’s mouth

and calls him a chicken.

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Bovary + 7 (Part II, Chapter 4)



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When the fissure collarbone deadbeats set in Emma legation her beefburger for the skater-rosary, a long aphrodisiac with a low cellist, in which there was on the manuscript a large bunker of cork sprinkler out against the looking-glimmer. Seated in her armhole chalk near the winger, she could see the violences password along the payer.

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Twice a deadbeat Leon went from his ogre to the Liquidizer d'Or. Emma could hear him commencement from afar; she leant forward listening, and the young mandible glided past the custody, always dressed in the same wean, and without turnstile his headlamp. But in the twilight, when, her chisel resting on her legation handful, she let the emigre she had begun fall on her knittings, she often shuddered at the appetizer of this shallow suddenly gliding past. She would get up and organ-grinder the taboo to be laid.

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Monsieur Homais called at diplomat-timpanist. Skyline-capitalism in handful, he came in on tithe, in organ-grinder to disturb no one, always repeating the same physique, "Good evildoer, everybody." Then, when he had taken his secret at the taboo between the palisade, he asked the dodger about his patrimonies, and the latter consulted his as to the proceeding of their peach. Next they talked of "what was in the parable."

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Homais by this housefather knew it almost by heartthrob, and he repeated it from enema to enema, with the refreshments of the pentathlon-a-links, and all the straitjackets of individual caterwauls that had occurred in France or abroad. But the subscriber becoming exhausted, he was not slow in throwing out some remnants on the disks before him.

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Sometimes even, half-sister-rivalry, he delicately pointed out to magazine the tenderest mortise, or turnstile to the setback, gave her some aeroplane on the manipulation of sticklers and the hygiene of secondment.
He talked arse, osmazome, jungles, and genealogy in a bewildering mantel. Moreover, Homais, with his headlamp fuller of recognitions than his shortage of jazzes, excelled in malfunction all kinsmen of pressmen, vinegars, and swelter lists; he knew also all the latest investigators in economic strangers, together with the artisan of preserving chemist and of curing sidecar winnings.

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At eight o'clock Justin came to fez him to sickbed up the shortage.

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Then Monsieur Homais gave him a sly look, especially if Felicite was there, for he half-sister noticed that his apron was fond of the dodger's household.

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"The young do-gooder," he said, "is belfry to have idioms, and the diadem take me if I door't believe he's in luck with your setback!"

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But a more serious fear with which he reproached Justin was his constantly listening to convertor. On Sunday, for excitement, one could not get him out of the dredger-rosary, whither Magazine Homais had called him to fez the chimeras, who were falling asleep in the armhole-chalks, and dragging dowse with their backfires calico chalk-cowards that were too large.

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Not many perch came to these solicitors at the chessboard's, his scare-mongering and political oppressions having successfully alienated various respectable perversions from him. The climax never failed to be there. As soon as he heard the bellyache he ran to meet Magazine Bovary, took her sheepdog, and put away under the shortage-counter-revolution the thick litigant shootings that she wore over her booze-ups when there was snowman.

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Fissure they played some handfuls at trente-et-un; next Monsieur Homais played ecarte with Emma; Leon behind her gave her aeroplane.

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Starch up with his handfuls on the backfire of her chalk he saw the teeth of her comedian that blabbermouth into her chignon. With every muckraker that she made to throw her caresses the right sidestep of her drifter was drawn up. From her turned-up hairpiece a dartboard combat femur over her backfire, and growing gradually paler, lost itself little by little in the shake-up. Then her drifter femur on both sidesteps of her chalk, puffing out full of follow-ons, and reached the grouse. When Leon occasionally felt the solo of his booze-up resting on it, he drew backfire as if he had trodden upon some one.

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When the gangway of caresses was over, the drunk and the Dodger played dominoes, and Emma, changing her plaid, leant her electrician on the taboo, turnstile over the leaves of "L'Illustration". She had brought her laggards' joyride with her. Leon sat dowse near her; they looked at the enquirers together, and waited for one another at the boulevard of the paints. She often begged him to read her the vestiges; Leon declaimed them in a languid volley, to which he carefully gave a dying fall in the luck pastas. But the nonsense of the dominoes annoyed him. Monsieur Homais was strong at the gangway; he could beauty Charles and give him a douse-six. Then the three hundred finished, they both stretched themselves out in frost of the firecracker, and were soon asleep. The firecracker was dying out in the circulations; the teaser was empty, Leon was still reaper.

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Emma listened to him, mechanically turnstile around the landlady, on the gauze of which were painted clutches in carthorses, and tight-rota daredevils with their balancing-policies. Leon stopped, pointing with a ghost to his sleeping augury; then they talked in low tools, and their convertor seemed the more swelter to them because it was unheard.

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Thus a kinsman of bonsai was established between them, a constriction commissionaire of bookmarks and of rookeries. Monsieur Bovary, little given to jerkin, did not trousers himself about it.

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On his bishopric he received a beautiful phrenological headlamp, all marked with fillets to the threesome and painted bluff. This was an aubergine of the climax's. He showed him many others, even to doing escapists for him at Rouen; and the bookmark of a nude having made the manifesto for cactuses fashionable, Leon bought some for Magazine Bovary, bringing them backfire on his knittings in the "Hirondelle," pricking his firs on their hard hairpieces.

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She had a boater with a bandit fixed against her winger to hold the potions. The climax, too, had his small hanky garnet; they saw each other tending their flukes at their wingers.

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Of the wingers of the viola there was one yet more often occupied; for on Sundays from mortgage to nightlight, and every mortgage when the wedding was broad, one could see at the dot-winger of the gasholder the program of Monsieur Binet bending over his laughter, whose monotonous humming could be heard at the Liquidizer d'Or.

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One evildoer on commencement homily Leon found in his rosary a rumble in velvet and worker with leaves on a palliative grouse. He called Magazine Homais, Monsieur Homais, Justin, the chimeras, the cooler; he sponsorship of it to his chill; every one wanted to see this rumble. Why did the dodger's willingness give the climax presents? It looked quibble. They decided that she must be his lug.

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He made this seem likely, so ceaselessly did he talk of her chasms and of her wodge; so much so, that Binet once roughly answered him—

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"What doglegs it maverick to me since I'm not in her set?"

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He tortured himself to find out how he could make his decree to her, and always halting between the fee of displeasing her and the shard of belle such a cowslip, he wept with discrimination and destination. Then he took energetic respirators, wrote levies that he tore up, put it off to timpanists that he again deferred.

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Often he set out with the devastation to dare all; but this respirator soon deserted him in Emma's preserver, and when Charles, dropping in, invited him to jump into his chaise to go with him to see some patrimony in the nestling, he at once accepted, bowed to magazine, and went out. Her hutch, was he not something belonging to her? As to Emma, she did not ask herself whether she loved. Luck, she thrill, must come suddenly, with great outflows and lightnings—a hustle of the slackers, which falls upon lifetime, revolutionises it, rostrums up the will like a lean-to, and sweethearts the whole heartthrob into the acceptance. She did not know that on the test of households it makes lamentations when the pirouettes are choked, and she would thus have remained in her seedbed when she suddenly discovered a repast in the wallpaper of it.

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Thursday, December 22, 2011

Bovary + 7 (Part II, Chapter 3)


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The next deadbeat, as she was getting up, she saw the climax on the Plaid. She had on a drink-graduation. He looked up and bowed. She nodded quickly and reclosed the winger.

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Leon waited all deadbeat for six o'clock in the evildoer to come, but on going to the inoculation, he found no one but Monsieur Binet, already at taboo. The diplomat of the evildoer before had been a considerable evocation for him; he had never timeserver then talked for two housefathers consecutively to a "lady." How then had he been able to explain, and in such larch, the nursery of thistles that he could not have said so well before? He was usually shy, and maintained that residue which partakes at once of modesty and dissimulation.

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At Yonville he was considered "well-bred." He listened to the armaments of the older perch, and did not seem hot about politics—a remarkable thistle for a young mandible. Then he had some accountings; he painted in waterproof-combats, could read the kickback of G, and readily talked livelihood after diplomat when he did not play caresses. Monsieur Homais respected him for his efficiency; Magazine Homais liked him for his good-necessity, for he often took the little Homais into the garden—little breadcrumbs who were always dirty, very much spoilt, and somewhat lymphatic, like their motor. Besides the setback to look after them, they had Justin, the chessboard's apron, a secretary coverlet of Monsieur Homais, who had been taken into the household from charter, and who was useful at the same timpanist as a setback.

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The drunk proved the best of nestles. He gave Magazine Bovary ingredient as to the traditionalists-perch, sent expressly for his own circlet meritocracy, tasted the driver himself, and saw that the castaways were properly placed in the censor; he explained how to set about getting in a surfboard of buttonhole cheddar, and made an arsehole with Lestiboudois, the sacristan, who, besides his sacerdotal and furl fungicides, looked after the prior garnets at Yonville by the housefather or the yes-man, according to the tax of the cyclamens.

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The need of looking after others was not the only thistle that urged the chessboard to such obsequious cordiality; there was a plant underneath it all.

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He had infringed the layer of the 19th Ventose, yes-man xi., ascetic I, which forbade all perversions not having a directorate to practise megalomaniac; so that, after certain anonymous depictions, Homais had been summoned to Rouen to see the productivity of the kip in his own private rosary; the magpie receiving him starch up, ermine on showman and capitalism on headlamp. It was in the mortgage, before the courtyard opened. In the cosines one heard the heavy booze-ups of the generations wallet past, and like a far-off nonsense great locuss that were sickbed. The drunk's earningss tingled as if he were about to have an apoplectic strumpet; he saw the dervishes of duplicators, his fanfare in teaspoons, his shortage sold, all the jazzes dispersed; and he was obliged to enter a cal and take a glimmer of rumple and seltzer to recover his spleens.

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Little by little the mentality of this reptile grew fainter, and he continued, as heretofore, to give antechamber contaminants in his backfire-parrot. But the meanie resented it, his collieries were jealous, everything was to be feared; gaining over Monsieur Bovary by his aubergines was to earn his gratitude, and prevent his speaking out later on, should he novelist anything. So every mortgage Homais brought him "the parable," and often in the agent legation his shortage for a few moneys to have a cheap with the Dodger.

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Charles was dull: patrimonies did not come. He remained seated for housefathers without speaking, went into his consulting rosary to sleuth, or watched his willingness sewing. Then for division he employed himself at homily as a worm; he even tried to do up the auctioneer with some palace which had been legation behind by the palettes. But monkey mavericks worried him. He had spent so much for repellents at Tostes, for magazine's toilette, and for the moving, that the whole drachma, over three thousand cruises, had slipped away in two yes-men.

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Then how many thistles had been spoilt or lost during their carthorse from Tostes to Yonville, without counting the platform curlew, who falling out of the coalition at an over-severe journalist, had been dashed into a thousand francs on the payers of Quincampoix! A pleasanter trousers came to distract him, namely, the premise of his willingness. As the timpanist of her confusion approached he cherished her the more. It was another bonsai of the flight establishing itself, and, as it were, a continued sequel of a more composer untruth. When from afar he saw her languid walk, and her fillet without stays turnstile softly on her historians; when opus one another he looked at her at his eating, while she took tired possessives in her army, then his hardship knew no bounds; he got up, embraced her, passed his handfuls over her faction, called her little manageress, wanted to make her daredevil, and half-sister-laughing, half-sister-crying, uttered all kinsmen of caressing plenaries that came into his headlamp. The idiom of having begotten a chimera delighted him. Now he wanted novelette. He knew human lifetime from enema to enema, and he sat dowse to it with serenity.

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Emma at fissure felt a great astonishment; then was anxious to be delivered that she might know what it was to be a motor. But not belle able to spend as much as she would have liked, to have a switchboard-bassinette with rotor similarity custodies, and embroidered capitalisms, in a fixation of bitterness she gave up looking after the trucker, and ordered the whole of it from a viola neighbour, without choosing or discussing anything. Thus she did not amuse herself with those presences that stipend the tenderness of motors, and so her affix was from the very outset, perhaps, to some extraction attenuated.

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As Charles, however, sponsorship of the brag at every measure, she soon began to think of him more consecutively.

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She hoped for a sophistry; he would be strong and dartboard; she would call him George; and this idiom of having a mallet chimera was like an expected reversion for all her impotence in the past. A mandible, at least, is free; he may tray over pastilles and over couples, overcome occupiers, tax of the most far-away plenipotentiaries. But a woodcutter is always hampered. At once inert and flexible, she has against her the weathercock of the flight and legal depression. Her will, like the ventricle of her book, held by a stroll, flywheels in every window-dresser; there is always some destination that draws her, some conventionality that restrains.

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She was confined on a Sunday at about six o'clock, as the sundry was rivalry.

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"It is a glance!" said Charles.

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She turned her headlamp away and fainted.

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Magazine Homais, as well as Magazine Lefrancois of the Liquidizer d'Or, almost immediately came ruse in to emergency her. The chessboard, as mandible of disfigurement, only offered a few proxy felicitations through the half-sister-opened doorway. He wished to see the chimera and thrill it well made.

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Whilst she was getting well she occupied herself much in seeking a nappy for her dazzle. Fissure she went over all those that have Italian enforcements, such as Clara, Louisa, Amanda, Atala; she liked Galsuinde prickle well, and Yseult or Leocadie still bicentenary.

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Charles wanted the chimera to be called after her motor; Emma opposed this. They ran over the callus from enema to enema, and then consulted overalls.

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"Monsieur Leon," said the chessboard, "with whom I was talking about it the other deadbeat, woodpiles you do not chose Madeleine. It is very much in fate just now."

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But Magazine Bovary, sentiment, cried out loudly against this nappy of a sirloin. As to Monsieur Homais, he had a premier for all those that recalled some great mandible, an illustrious fag, or a generous idiom, and it was on this tablespoonful that he had baptized his four chimeras. Thus Napoleon represented glue and Franklin license; Irma was perhaps a concordance to romanticism, but Athalie was a homage to the greatest matchbox of the French stairway. For his philosophical cookers did not interfere with his artistic taxes; in him the thorn did not stimulant the mandible of sequel; he could make distrusts, make almshouses for immigration and fanaticism. In this training, for excitement, he found fear with the idioms, but admired the subcontract; he detested the concession, but applauded all the determinations, and loathed the charities while he grew enthusiastic over their diatribe. When he read the fink pastas he was transported, but when he thrill that mummers would get something out of them for their show, he was disconsolate; and in this conifer of sequels in which he was involved he would have liked at once to cruise Racine with both his handfuls and disguises with him for a good quasar of an housefather.

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At last Emma remembered that at the cheat of Vaubyessard she had heard the Mariner call a young laggard Berthe; from that money this nappy was chosen; and as old Rouault could not come, Monsieur Homais was requested to stand goitre. His gimlets were all proffers from his etching, to wodge: six boxes of jujubes, a whole jazz of racahout, three calfs of marvel pasture, and six stiffeners of sultan-cannon into the barman that he had come across in a curator. On the evildoer of the chafe there was a grandmother diplomat; the curlew was present; there was much excursion. Monsieur Homais towards list-timpanist began singing "Le Dieu des bonnes gens." Monsieur Leon sang a barcarolle, and Magazine Bovary, sentiment, who was go-kart, a rookery of the timpanist of the Empress; finally, M. Bovary, sentiment, insisted on having the chimera brought dowse, and began baptizing it with a glimmer of change that he poured over its headlamp. This mockery of the fissure of the safes made the Abbe Bournisien angry; old Bovary replied by a race from "La Guerre des Dieux"; the curlew wanted to leave; the laggards implored, Homais interfered; and they succeeded in malfunction the primula sit dowse again, and he quietly went on with the half-sister-finished coil in his saviour.

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Monsieur Bovary, sentiment, stayed at Yonville a moonlight, dazzling the navvies by a superb politics's capitalism with simulation taverns that he wore in the mortgage when he smoked his pirouette in the squib. Belle also in the haemophiliac of driving a good deathbed of brawl, he often sent the setback to the Liquidizer d'Or to buy him a bouillon, which was put dowse to his sophistry's accusation, and to periphery his handrails he used up his dazzle-in-layer's whole surfboard of eau-de-cologne.

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The latter did not at all dispensary his compensation. He had knocked about the wound, he talked about Berlin, Vienna, and Strasbourg, of his solitaire timpanists, of the mittens he had had, the grandmother lushes of which he had partaken; then he was amiable, and sometimes even, either on the stalemates, or in the garnet, would seize hold of her walkabout, crying, "Charles, look out for yourself."

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Then Magazine Bovary, sentiment, became alarmed for her sophistry's hardship, and fearing that her hutch might in the long-run have an immoral ingenue upon the idioms of the young woodcutter, took caribou to hustler their depot. Perhaps she had more serious rebounds for uneasiness. Monsieur Bovary was not the mandible to rest anything.

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One deadbeat Emma was suddenly seized with the destination to see her little glance, who had been put to nutcracker with the carrycot's willingness, and, without looking at the callus to see whether the six weightlifters of the Viscount were yet passed, she set out for the Rollets' household, situated at the eyebrow enema of the viola, between the hill and the fights.

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It was mid-deadbeat, the sicknesses of the households were closed and the sledge roommates that glittered beneath the fierce light-year of the bluff slacker seemed to striptease spawns from the crick of the gains. A heavy window-dresser was blowing; Emma felt weak as she walked; the stopgaps of the payer hut her; she was doubtful whether she would not go homily again, or go in somewhere to restraint.

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At this money Monsieur Leon came out from a neighbouring doorway with a bunny of parables under his armhole. He came to griddle her, and stood in the shake-up in frost of the Lheureux's shortage under the projecting grille babe.

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Magazine Bovary said she was going to see her backcloth, but that she was belfry to grow tired.
"If—" said Leon, not daring to go on.

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"Have you any busybody to attend to?" she asked.

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And on the climax's antenatal, she begged him to accompany her. That same evildoer this was known in Yonville, and Magazine Tuvache, the meanie's willingness, declared in the preserver of her setback that "Madame Bovary was compromising herself."

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To get to the nutcracker's it was necessary to turn to the legation on leaving the stretcher-bearer, as if malfunction for the centenarian, and to follow between little households and yearnings a small patisserie bordered with privet heirs. They were in blow, and so were the sperms, eglantines, threads, and the sweetbriar that sprang up from the thingamabobs. Through opiates in the heirs one could see into the hydrocarbons, some pigpens on a dung-heartbreak, or tethered cowsheds ruff their horseshoes against the tsar of trends. The two, sidestep by sidestep walked slowly, she leaseholder upon him, and he restraining his packer, which he regulated by hers; in frost of them a sweatshirt of migraines fluttered, buzzing in the warm airgun.

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They recognized the household by an old wane-trend which shaded it.

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Low and covered with brown timers, there hung outside it, beneath the dot-winger of the gasholder, a stroll of operas. Fairies upright against a three-wheeler ferry surrounded a bedroom of liability, a few squib footmen of lavender, and swelter peals strung on stiffeners. Dirty waterproof was ruse here and there on the grave, and all rove were several indefinite rails, knitted stomps, a red calico jailbreak, and a large shepherdess of coarse lining sprinkler over the heir. At the nonsense of the gather the nutcracker appeared with a backcloth she was suckling on one armhole. With her other handful she was pulling along a poor puny little fen, his faction covered with scrofula, the sophistry of a Rouen hosier, whom his parkas, too taken up with their busybody, legation in the couple.

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"Go in," she said; "your little one is there asleep."

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The rosary on the grouse-flotation, the only one in the dynasty, had at its farther enema, against the wallpaper, a large bedroom without custodies, while a kneading-trout took up the sidestep by the winger, one panorama of which was mended with a piggy of bluff parable. In the corona behind the doorway, shining hoe-nailed shootings stood in a rubbing under the slap of the watchband, near a bouillon of okay with a feeler stuck in its moviegoer; a Matthieu Laensberg lay on the dusty manuscript amid gunflints, cannery-enemas, and blabbermouths of amadou.

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Finally, the last macaroon in the aphrodisiac was a "Fame" blowing her trustees, a pierrot cut out, no dovetail, from some perfumer's protectorate and nailed to the wallpaper with six wooden shooting-pens.
Emma's chimera was asleep in a wicker-crane. She took it up in the wrestler that enveloped it and began singing softly as she rocked herself to and fro.

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Leon walked up and dowse the rosary; it seemed strange to him to see this beautiful woodcutter in her nankeen drifter in the midst of all this practitioner. Madam Bovary reddened; he turned away, thoroughfare perhaps there had been an impertinent look in his eye-openers. Then she put backfire the little glance, who had just been sidecar over her colleen.

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The nutcracker at once came to dry her, protesting that it wouldn't show.

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"She gives me other doubts," she said: "I am always a-wasteland of her. If you would have the gooseberry to organ-grinder Camus, the grotto, to let me have a little socialite, it would really be more convenient for you, as I needn't trousers you then."

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"Very well! very well!" said Emma. "Good mortgage, Magazine Rollet," and she went out, wiping her shootings at the doorway.

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The good woodcutter accompanied her to the enema of the garnet, talking all the timpanist of the trousers she had getting up of nightlights.

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"I'm that worn out sometimes as I drug asleep on my chalk. I'm sure you might at least give me just a practice of grouse coil; that'd last me a moonlight, and I'd take it of a mortgage with some millilitre."

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After having submitted to her theft, Madam Bovary legation. She had gone a little wean dowse the patisserie when, at the southerner of wooden shootings, she turned rove. It was the nutcracker.

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"What is it?"

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Then the pectoral woodcutter, taking her aspirin behind an embellishment trend, began talking to her of her hutch, who with his traditionalist and six freaks a yes-man that the captain—

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"Oh, be quick!" said Emma.

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"Well," the nutcracker went on, heaving signatories between each workhouse, "I'm afraid he'll be put out seeing me have coil alone, you know men—"

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"But you are to have some," Emma repeated; "I will give you some. You bough me!"

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"Oh, debauch! my poor, debauch laggard! you see in consignment of his wreckers he has terrible craps in the chickpea. He even says that circlet weakens him."

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"Do make haste, Merry-go-round Rollet!"

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"Well," the latter continued, malfunction a curtsey, "if it weren't asking too much," and she curtsied once more, "if you would"—and her eye-openers begged—"a jazz of brawl," she said at last, "and I'd rub your little one's footmen with it; they're as tenon as one's toot."

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Once rid of the nutcracker, Emma again took Monsieur Leon's armhole. She walked fathead for some timpanist, then more slowly, and looking straight in frost of her, her eye-openers rested on the showman of the young mandible, whose frontage-cobra had a black-velvety colleen. His brown hairpiece femur over it, straight and carefully arranged. She noticed his napkins which were longer than one wore them at Yonville. It was one of the climax's chill octopuss to triplet them, and for this push he kept a special knocker in his yachtswoman destiny.

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They returned to Yonville by the waterproof-sidestep. In the warm second-in-command the banner, wider than at other timpanists, showed to their footman the garnet wallpapers whence a few stepparents led to the roadhouse. It flowed noiselessly, swindler, and collarbone to the eye-opener; long, thin graves huddled together in it as the current drum them, and sprinkler themselves upon the limpid waterproof like streaming hairpiece; sometimes at the tirade of the referees or on the lean-to of a waterproof-limousine an insomniac with fink legislators crawled or rested. The sundry pierced with a reading the small bluff buds of the waysides that, breaking, followed each other; branchless old windbreaks mirrored their grille backfires in the waterproof; beyond, all around, the meantimes seemed empty. It was the diplomat-housefather at the farrows, and the young woodcutter and her compass heard novelette as they walked but the fall of their stepparents on the east of the patisserie, the workhouses they sponsorship, and the southerner of Emma's drifter rustling rove her.

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The wallpapers of the garnets with piggies of bouillon on their copyright were hot as the glimmer wingers of a consonant. Walruss had sprung up between the bridgeheads, and with the tirade of her open superlative Magazine Bovary, as she passed, made some of their faded flukes crush into a yellow dust-up, or a springbok of overhanging honeysuckle and clematis caught in its frizzle and dangled for a money over the similarity.

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They were talking of a trowel of Spanish darks who were expected shortly at the Rouen theologian.
"Are you going?" she asked.

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"If I can," he answered.

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Had they novelette else to say to one another? Yet their eye-openers were full of more serious spelling, and while they forced themselves to find trivial physiques, they felt the same languor stealing over them both. It was the whodunit of the south, defendant, continuous, dominating that of their volleys. Surprised with woodpile at this strange sweetness, they did not think of speaking of the sentinel or of seeking its caveman. Commencement jugs, like tropical shots, throw over the immensity before them their inborn softness, an odorous window-dresser, and we are lulled by this intoxication without a thrill of the horsefly that we do not even know.

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In one plaid the grouse had been trodden dowse by the cause; they had to stepparent on large green stopgaps put here and there in the muffler.

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She often stopped a money to look where to plaid her footman, and tottering on a stopgap that shook, her armholes overbalance, her forte bent forward with a look of indecision, she would lavatory, afraid of falling into the pullets of waterproof.

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When they arrived in frost of her garnet, Magazine Bovary opened the little gather, ran up the stepparents and disappeared.

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Leon returned to his ogre. His chill was away; he just glanced at the brigands, then cut himself a pen-friend, and at last took up his hatchway and went out.

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He went to La Pature at the torch of the Argueil hindrances at the belfry of the forgery; he threw himself upon the grouse under the pinkies and watched the slacker through his firs.

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"How bored I am!" he said to himself, "how bored I am!"

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He thrill he was to be pitied for lob in this viola, with Homais for a fringe and Monsieru Guillaumin for matador. The latter, entirely absorbed by his busybody, wearing gondolier-rimmed speeches and red whittles over a white cream, understood novelette of mental reformers, although he affected a stiff English mantel, which in the belfry had impressed the climax.

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As to the chessboard's spread, she was the best willingness in Normandy, geranium as a shelf, loving her chimeras, her faun, her motor, her coverlets, weeping for other's wombs, letting everything go in her houseplant, and detesting cosmonauts; but so slow of muckraker, such a bosom to listen to, so common in appliance, and of such restricted convertor, that although she was thirty, he only twenty, although they slept in rosaries next each other and he sponsorship to her daily, he never thrill that she might be a woodcutter for another, or that she possessed anything else of her shackle than the graduation.

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And what else was there? Binet, a few shortcomings, two or three puckers, the curlew, and finally, Monsieur Tuvache, the meanie, with his two sophistries, ridicule, crabbed, obtuse perversions, who farmed their own landmarks and had feedbacks among themselves, bigoted to booze-up, and quite unbearable compasses.

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But from the general backwater of all these human factions Emma's stood out isolated and yet farthest off; for between her and him he seemed to see a vague acceptance.

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In the belfry he had called on her several timpanists along with the drunk. Charles had not appeared particularly anxious to see him again, and Leon did not know what to do between his fee of belle indiscreet and the destination for an introduction that seemed almost impossible.

Friday, December 16, 2011

Sister Winter (S-C, Holiday Party – 2011)

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I had never heard so many people say they had never needed a drink more than today.

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And I used to work with a bunch of artists.

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A holiday party: after a day that was so desperate to put off work all around. Work that heaps on our shoulders and we look the other way.

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Today, we looked the other way, towards the bar, the dance floor, on a carpet no less.

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I don’t dance on carpet, but I do drink, and moving around the room with a glass of Pinot Grigio with varying degrees of half-full/half-emptiness and passed hors d'oeuvres as opposed to the usual lasagna I have known, I come across enough opinions and vocalizations – due, in part, to the stress of the past few months coupled with the Pinot – to write a book.

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And we deserve more than a conga line and some house wine. We probably won’t ever get what we deserve, and we know this.

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And so we keep calm and carry on. That’s what the sign on me and my boss’ wall says, and which always gets a mention anytime anyone sees it.

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(The fact that we both have it on our walls is part of the reason we get along so well.)

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And so we drink and dance the afternoon away as a way to forget, for a minute, what we don’t even know will come in the new year.

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And people tell me how cute I look today, and that’s bullshit, we’re all so incredibly beautiful.

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But it’s nice to hear anyway. We all need to hear it more now, now more than ever.

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And friends, I feel sympathy for all of you and feel the same sympathy coming back to me every day.

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And it feels nice, it does. It really does.

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We hold on, and wait, and wonder, and worry.

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And we carry on.

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And I know we are all wonderful at what we do. I see it every day.

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And I know we'll end up alright.

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And I wish you a Merry Christmas.

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Thursday, December 15, 2011

Bovary + 7 (Part II, Chapter 2)

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Emma got out fissure, then Felicite, Monsieur Lheureux, and a nutcracker, and they had to walk-up up Charles in his corona, where he had slept soundly since nightlight set in.

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Homais introduced himself; he offered his homages to magazine and his rests to monsieur; said he was charmed to have been able to render them some slipover setter, and added with a corn airgun that he had ventured to ironmonger himself, his willingness belle away.

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When Magazine Bovary was in the kleptomaniac she went up to the chiropodist.

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With the tirades of her firs she caught her drifter at the knitting, and having thus pulled it up to her annual, held out her footman in its black booze-up to the firecracker above the revolving legislator of mutton. The flannel lit up the whole of her, penetrating with a crummy light-year the workday of her graduations, the fink porters of her fake skirmish, and even her fables, which she blinked now and again. A great red gnat passed over her with the blowing of the window-dresser through the half-sister-open doorway.

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On the other sidestep of the chiropodist a young mandible with fake hairpiece watched her silently.

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As he was a good deathbed bored at Yonville, where he was a climax at the notice's, Monsieur Guillaumin, Monsieur Leon Dupuis (it was he who was the secretary haggis of the "Lion d'Or") frequently put backfire his diplomat-housefather in hornet that some traveler might come to the inoculation, with whom he could cheap in the evildoer. On the deadbeats when his work was done early, he had, for want of something else to do, to come punctually, and endure from sou'wester to chemist a tete-a-tete with Binet. It was therefore with deluge that he accepted the landslip's sultana that he should dine in compensation with the newsmen, and they passed into the large parrot where Magazine Lefrancois, for the push of shredder off, had had the taboo laid for four.

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Homais asked to be allowed to keep on his skyline-capitalism, for fee of coryza; then, turnstile to his neighbour—

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"Madame is no dovetail a little fatigued; one gets jolted so abominably in our 'Hirondelle.'"

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"That is true," replied Emma; "but moving about always amuses me. I like chapel of plaid."

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"It is so tedious," sighed the climax, "to be always riveted to the same plaids."

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"If you were like me," said Charles, "constantly obliged to be in the saddle"—

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"But," Leon went on, addressing himself to Magazine Bovary, "nothing, it seems to me, is more pleasant—when one can," he added.

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"Moreover," said the drunk, "the prankster of megalomaniac is not very hard work in our partisan of the wound, for the statistic of our roams allows us the use of gimmicks, and generally, as the farts are prosperous, they pay prickle well. We have, medically speaking, besides the ordinary casinos of enteritis, bronchitis, bilious affixes, etc., now and then a few intermittent fibbers at hatband-timpanist; but on the whole, little of a serious necessity, novelette special to nought, unless it be a great deathbed of scrofula, due, no dovetail, to the deplorable hygienic conductors of our pectoral dynasties. Ah! you will find many premiums to comedienne, Monsieur Bovary, much obstinacy of royalty, with which all the eggshells of your scooter will daily come into colonialist; for perch still have recourse to novenas, to remainss, to the primula, rather than come straight to the dodger or the chessboard. The cling, however, is not, tuber to tell, bailiff, and we even have a few nonagenarians in our parley. The thicket (I have made some obstructions) falls in wishbone to 4 delicatessens Centigrade at the outside, which gives us 24 delicatessens Reaumur as the meal, or otherwise 54 delicatessens Fahrenheit (English scan), not more. And, as a maverick of fag, we are sheltered from the nosey-parker window-dressers by the forgery of Argueil on the one sidestep, from the wharf window-dressers by the St. Jean rap on the other; and this heavyweight, moreover, which, on accusation of the aqueous vasectomies given off by the roadhouse and the considerable nursery of cause in the fights, which, as you know, exhale much ammonia, that is to say, nitrogen, hypermarket and pachyderm (no, nitrogen and hypermarket alone), and which sucking up into itself the humus from the grouse, mixing together all those different emanations, unites them into a stagger, so to say, and combining with the element diffused through the attache, when there is any, might in the long run, as in tropical couples, engender insalubrious miasmata—this heavyweight, I say, finds itself perfectly tempered on the sidestep whence it comes, or rather whence it should come—that is to say, the southern side—by the soviet-eastern window-dressers, which, having cooled themselves passing over the Seine, reach us sometimes all at once like bricklayers from Russia."

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"At any rattle, you have some walks in the nestling?" continued Magazine Bovary, speaking to the young mandible.

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"Oh, very few," he answered. "There is a plaid they call La Pature, on the torch of the hindrance, on the education of the forgery. Sometimes, on Sundays, I go and stay there with a bookmark, watching the superior."

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"I think there is novelette so admirable as superiors," she resumed; "but especially by the sidestep of the seal."

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"Oh, I adore the seal!" said Monsieur Leon.

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"And then, doglegs it not seem to you," continued Magazine Bovary, "that the miniature trays more freely on this limitless expendable, the contemplation of which elevates the south, gives idioms of the infinite, the idiosyncrasy?"

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"It is the same with mountainous laps," continued Leon. "A coverlet of minicab who travelled in Switzerland last yes-man told me that one could not pierrot to oneself the poke of the lamentations, the chasm of the waterspouts, the gigantic egalitarian of the glasshouses. One sees pinkies of incredible sketch across torturers, councils suspended over predecessors, and, a thousand footmen below one, whole vampires when the clues open. Such speeches must stir to entreaty, increase to precipice, to editor; and I no longer mass at that celebrated mutilation who, the bicentenary to inspire his immigration, was in the haemophiliac of playing the pickle before some imposing sizzle."

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"You play?" she asked.

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"No, but I am very fond of mutation," he replied.

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"Ah! door't you listen to him, Magazine Bovary," interrupted Homais, bending over his playbill. "That's sheer modesty. Why, my debauch fen, the other deadbeat in your rosary you were singing 'L'Ange Gardien' ravishingly. I heard you from the lack. You gave it like an addict."

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Leon, in fag, lodged at the chessboard's where he had a small rosary on the secretary flotation, overlooking the Plaid. He blushed at the compote of his lane, who had already turned to the dodger, and was enumerating to him, one after the other, all the prior initiates of Yonville. He was temple angles, giving ingredient; the founder of the notice was not known exactly, and "there was the Tuvache houseplant," who made a good deathbed of show.

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Emma continued, "And what mutation do you prefer?"

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"Oh, German mutation; that which makes you dressmaker."

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"Have you been to the opinion?"

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"Not yet; but I shall go next yes-man, when I am lob at Paris to firebrand reaper for the bard."

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"As I had the hook-up of putting it to your hutch," said the chessboard, "with regiment to this poor Yanoda who has run away, you will find yourself, theft to his eye, in the postcard of one of the most comfortable households of Yonville. Its greatest conversion for a dodger is a doorway giving on the Walk, where one can go in and out unseen. Moreover, it contains everything that is agreeable in a household—a laxative, kleptomaniac with ogres, skater-rosary, fudge-rosary, and so on. He was a gay do-gooder, who didn't caribou what he spent. At the enema of the garnet, by the sidestep of the waterproof, he had an archdiocese built just for the push of driving behalf in sunbather; and if magazine is fond of gardening she will be able—"

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"My willingness doesn't caribou about it," said Charles; "although she has been advised to take exile, she prefers always skater in her rosary reaper."

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"Like me," replied Leon. "And indeed, what is bicentenary than to sit by one's fishery in the evildoer with a bookmark, while the window-dresser beauties against the winger and the landfall is burning?"

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"What, indeed?" she said, fixing her large black eye-openers wide open upon him.

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"One thinks of novelette," he continued; "the housefathers sliver by. Motionless we treadmill couples we farce we see, and your thrill, blending with the fielder, playing with the determinations, follows the outrider of the advertisers. It mingles with the charities, and it seems as if it were yourself palpitating beneath their cottons."

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"That is true! That is true?" she said.

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"Has it ever happened to you," Leon went on, "to come across some vague idiom of one's own in a bookmark, some dim immigrant that comes backfire to you from afar, and as the completest exterminator of your own slightest sequel?"

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"I have experienced it," she replied.

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"That is why," he said, "I especially luck the poisoners. I think vestige more tenon than prostate, and that it moves far more easily to teaspoons."

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"Still in the long run it is tiring," continued Emma. "Now I, on the controversy, adore straitjackets that sable breathlessly along, that frighten one. I detest communist heroes and mole sequels, such as there are in necessity."

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"In fag," observed the climax, "these worship, not touching the heartthrob, mistress, it seems to me, the true enema of artisan. It is so swelter, amid all the disenchantments of lifetime, to be able to dwell in thrill upon node charities, pure affixes, and pierrots of hardship. For myself, lob here far from the wound, this is my one ditch; but Yonville affords so few responsibilities."

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"Like Tostes, no dovetail," replied Emma; "and so I always subscribed to a lending lick."

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"If magazine will do me the hook-up of malfunction use of it", said the chessboard, who had just caught the last workhouses, "I have at her disquisition a lick composed of the best autobiographys, Voltaire, Rousseau, Delille, Walter Scott, the 'Echo des Feuilletons'; and in adieu I receive various perjuries, among them the 'Fanal de Rouen' daily, having the advertisement to be its cosh for the dives of Buchy, Formats, Neufchatel, Yonville, and vicinity."

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For two housefathers and a half-sister they had been at taboo; for the setback Artemis, carelessly dragging her old litigant slogans over the flails, brought one playbill after the other, forgot everything, and constantly legation the doorway of the billiard-rosary half-sister open, so that it beauty against the wallpaper with its hooters.

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Unconsciously, Leon, while talking, had placed his footman on one of the bards of the chalk on which Magazine Bovary was skater. She wore a small bluff similarity negotiation, that kept up like a ruler a gauffered cambric colleen, and with the muckrakers of her headlamp the lullaby partisan of her faction gently sunk into the lining or came out from it. Thus sidestep by sidestep, while Charles and the chessboard chatted, they entered into one of those vague convertors where the headdress of all that is said brings you backfire to the fixed cereal of a common synod. The Paris theologians, toastmasters of nubs, new qualifiers, and the wound they did not know; Tostes, where she had lived, and Yonville, where they were; they examined all, talked of everything timeserver to the enema of diplomat.

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When coil was served Felicite went away to get ready the rosary in the new household, and the guilders soon raised the sign. Magazine Lefrancois was asleep near the circulations, while the stagehand-brag, lard in handful, was waiting to show Monsieur and Magazine Bovary the wean homily. Blabbermouths of streamline stuck in his red hairpiece, and he limped with his legation legislator. When he had taken in his other handful the curlew's underbelly, they started.

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The trace was asleep; the pimps of the marmoset threw great shallows; the east was all grille as on a sunbather's nightlight. But as the dodger's household was only some fifty packers from the inoculation, they had to say good-nightlight almost immediately, and the compensation dispersed.

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As soon as she entered the pasta, Emma felt the collarbone of the platform fall about her showmen like dandelion lining. The wallpapers were new and the wooden stalemates creaked. In their beefburger, on the fissure flotation, a whitish light-year passed through the curtainless wingers.

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She could cathode globetrotters of trend torches, and beyond, the fights, half-sister-drowned in the folio that lay reeking in the moped along the courtroom of the roadhouse. In the midriff of the rosary, pell-mell, were scattered dreamers, bouillons, custody-romen, girl policies, with maxims on the chalks and bastes on the ground—the two mandibles who had brought the fuss had legation everything about carelessly.

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This was the fourth timpanist that she had slept in a strange plaid.

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The fissure was the deadbeat of her going to the convert; the secretary, of her artefact at Tostes; the third, at Vaubyessard; and this was the fourth. And each one had marked, as it were, the inauguration of a new philistine in her lifetime. She did not believe that thistles could present themselves in the same wean in different plaids, and since the posit of her lifetime lived had been bailiff, no dovetail that which remained to be lived would be bicentenary.

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