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>Trapped. Crushed. Weight coming from all directions, entangled in the wreckage (you have to become one with the machine). Please no fire, no fire. Shit. This hurts. Bloody bridge; own fault (yes, bloody bridge, right colour; see the bridge, see the man drive the car, see the man not see the other car, see the big CRASH, see the bone-broken man bleed; blood colour of the bridge. Oh well own fault. Idiot). Please no fire. Blood red. Red blood. See the man bleed, see the car leak; radiator red, blood red, blood like red oil. Pump still working - shit, I said shit this hurts - pump still working but the fluid leaking out all over the fricking place. Probably get hit from behind now and serve me right, but at least no fire, yet anyway; how long, I wonder how long since? Cars; police cars (jam sandwiches) jam sandwich; me am di jam in di sandwich car am di sandwich. See the man bleed. Own fault. Pray nobody else hurt (no don't pray, atheist, remember that, always swore [mother: 'no need to use that sort of language'] always swore you'd be the atheist in the fox hole well your time has come lad because you're leaking away onto the grey-pink road and a fire might start and you might be dying anyway, and you might get hit up the backside by another car if anybody else is staring stupefied at that damn bridge so if you're going to start praying now would seem like quite a reasonable time but ahshit and whatthehell - CHRISTTHISHURTS! [OK; used only as swear-word, nothing serious, honest; swear to God.] OK: see you God, yer a basturt, so ye are.) That's telling them all, kid. What were those letters? MG; VS; and me, 233 FS. But what about - ? Where - ? Who - ? Oh shit, I've forgotten my name.
>Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.
https://books.google.de/books?id=N9Q2EAAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_atb#v=onepage&q&f=false
>According to the Stoic conception, the cosmic scene of material events, including conglomerate matter as well as space between bodies, is made up of a continuous whole. Like Aristotle, the Stoics exclude emphatically any possible existence of a void within the cosmos. However, their cosmos is, in contradiction to that of Aristotle, an island embedded in an infinite void. The cosmos is filled with an all-pervading substratum called pneuma, a term often used synonymously with air. A basic function of the pneuma is the generation of the cohesion of matter and generally of the contact between all parts of the cosmos. The term coherence was originally used by Aristotle to express continuity in an essentially geometrical and topological sense, but the Stoics gave it the physical and dynamic significance of cohesion within the physical world.
Is this book actually worth reading?
>This book is an attempt to convey a way of looking at the world quite different from the one that has largely dominated the West for at least three hundred and fifty years – some would say as long as two thousand years. I believe we have systematically misunderstood the nature of reality, and chosen to ignore, or silence, the minority of voices that have intuited as much and consistently maintained that this is the case. Now we have reached the point where there is an urgent need to transform both how we think of the world and what we make of ourselves; attempting to convey such a richer insight is the ambition of this book.
John Bergers Ways of Seeing
Nope. Iain McGilchrist: The Matter With Things.
>A handbook with the ambitious objective of dealing with a vast field of research ranging from A(esthetics) to Z(ooethology) may be excused for beginning with a few apologetic remarks on the design of such a daring undertaking.
>THE first act of the revolutionary drama on the continent of Europe has closed. The "powers that were" before the hurricane of 1848 are again the "powers that be," and the more or less popular rulers of a day, provisional governors, triumvirs, dictators with their tail of representatives, civil commissioners, military commissioners, prefects, judges, generals, officers, and soldiers, are thrown upon foreign shores, and "transported beyond the seas" to England or America, there to form new governments in partibus infidelium, European committees, central committees, national committees, and to announce their advent with proclamations quite as solemn as those of any less imaginary potentates.
based
>It is hardly an exaggeration to say that Lenin's chief contribution to the political reality of our was his creation of the Bolshevik Party, of a tool to make revolutions with--indeed, the tool for making revolutions. In this respect his personal contribution was much greater than that which he brought to the victory of the October insurrection (despite its decisiveness) and to the foundation and development of the Soviet state. October was the result of a concurrence of events and factors that were many and various: the world crisis set off by the war, the slough into which Russia had sunk, the collapse of the Tsarist regime, the upsurge of the masses demanding better conditions, the inability of the Provisional Government to satisfy them, the anger and exasperation left by the workers, peasants and soldiers. Among these contradictory forces, some pressing towards revolution while others strove vainly to block this trend, Leninism holds a substantial place. But Lenin did not make the Russian revolution. It is even debatable, as we shall see, whether he actually led it. He did, however, forge the Bolshevik Party: Leninism was embodied in the Bolshevik organization, the latter was Lenin's work, and history welded them together so thoroughly that the historian cannot separate them.
>Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
based, I'm on page 192 currently.
but boy oh boy, if you haven't got that far yet, be sure to savour that chapter about different whale species, its really interesting and not a slog at all.
Fricking oved the cetology chapter. Don't know if you're there yet, but the art history lesson is also very very kino, as is the brief Egyptology digression kek.
Great and terrible was the year of Our Lord 1918, of the Revolution the second. The summer was abundant with sun and the winter with snow, and two stars stood especially high in the sky: the shepherds’ star — the evening Venus and red, quivering Mars
"Onii-chan wakie wakie~"
I opened my eyes to the gentle voice, and before me stands Alice, completely naked.
Turning 14 this year, my imouto Alice, with silky golden hair atop a face of dazzling red pupils not unlike a ruby, a truly indescribable beauty.
"Nn...ohayou Alice."
Still a bit dazed from just waking up, I greeted a giggling Alice.
"Onii-chan still looks a bit sleepy hya~ Somethings needs to be done to such energy deprived Onii-chan-"
My imouto's face rapidly advances towards mine, and then - chuu
"!!"
As Alice presses her heavenly soft lips to mine, I was instantly awake.
"Are you awake now? Onii-chan."
With a mischievous smile, one can see a tinge of red surfacing on her cheeks.
"I specially prepared a handmade breakfast for you today. So hurry up before it gets cold-."
"Ahh I got it."
The stark nude Alice nodded her head happily in response, quickly exiting the room with her perfectly round butt swaying to her rhythm.
Even though it is a morning scene repeated countless times by now, it is a routine that never grows old.
Wanting to taste the breakfast my imouto had personally prepared, I bolted into the restroom she had gone into before, washed my face from the water left over from her bath, and dried it with her still warm bra.
I made my way towards the dining table, surprised that Yoshiko who was supposed to be dead from what happened yesterday was present.
"Here Onii-chan, eat up~"
The patiently waiting Alice prompted me with a smile.
"Oh. Itadakima~su":
Alice's egg omelette is an excellent piece of art just like each and every before. Her delicious milk also turned over the general concept of milk itself.
New murakami lookin good
never read him, is this actually how he writes? I assumed this was monotagari
No lol. It's definitely some shitty light novel.
you mean literary masterpiece
His writing is very different. He doesn't really like anime or weeb stuff.
IN THE MYRIADIC YEAR OF OUR LORD—the ten thousandth year of the King Undying, the kindly Prince of Death!—Gideon Nav packed her sword, her shoes, and her dirty magazines, and she escaped from the House of the Ninth.
>B кoнцe нoябpя, в oттeпeль, чacoв в дeвять yтpa, пoeзд Пeтepбypгcкo-Bapшaвcкoй жeлeзнoй дopoги нa вceх пapaх пoдхoдил к Пeтepбypгy. Былo тaк cыpo и тyмaннo, чтo нacилy paccвeлo; в дecяти шaгaх, впpaвo и влeвo oт дopoги, тpyднo былo paзглядeть хoть чтo-нибyдь из oкoн вaгoнa. Из пaccaжиpoв были и вoзвpaщaвшиecя из-зa гpaницы; нo бoлee были нaпoлнeны oтдeлeния для тpeтьeгo клacca, и вcё людoм мeлким и дeлoвым, нe из oчeнь дaлeкa. Bce, кaк вoдитcя, ycтaли, y вceх oтяжeлeли зa нoчь глaзa, вce нaзяблиcь, вce лицa были блeднo-жeлтыe, пoд цвeт тyмaнa.
Is that Polish?
Greek
>I still get nightmares. In fact I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I’m not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares. For a while there I tried every pill imaginable. Anything to curb the fear. Excedrin PMs, Melatonin, L-tryptophan, Valium, Vicodin, quite a few members of the barbital family. A pretty extensive list, frequently mixed, often matched, with shots of bourbon, a few lung rasping bong hits, sometimes even the vaporous confidence-trip of cocaine. None of it helped. I think it’s pretty safe to assume there’s no lab sophisticated enough yet to synthesize the kind of chemicals I need. A Nobel Prize to the one who invents that puppy.
Hutched or habitated, lately, in the high-point or dream-peak of this his civilizing kind's own constructions, girded across and heaped up for starved centuries, flattening out their softer-skulled sort with the odd collapse or drop of beam, he could stretch the limb and upturn the whiskered jawbone in lazuelle reclension as none before him in the groaning death-days could. To be porcushioned and undernumbed or rather softly neutralised in the harsher sensation by the wondrous flam-heft of their fibres, these being the regal and venratious ramstock of the shepherded south, glorious to the caressing and still more to the glinting ravishment of the shear-ritual - yes, that was the life of the true sensodyne. Of the hotly dapped-up on their summerbikes, those maids of the sorbet spoon so unfailingly citral in the booths of the pleasure palace, he invited imagination to parade them up for the prawn-pluck of mental selection, and slowly, spun in swooping dizzules or skinblustered swoon, these plump figments acommoded despite the hot commerce of the O clock rays.
which book is this from?
How to Write Purple Prose by Anon
Can't but it's my copy of Datamining for dummies.
>For sale: a copy of Infinite Jest, unread.
This book is inspired by the conviction that the cataclysms which humanity has experienced in the twentieth century are only the beginning of a much more profound crisis—of a radical shift in the course of history. To characterize the scope of this crisis, I had thought of comparing it to the end of ancient civilization or to the transition from the Middle Ages to the modern period. But later I became acquainted with a bolder and, it seems to me, more penetrating approach. For example, F. Heichelheim in his fascinating An Ancient Economic History expresses the supposition that the present period of history, which has lasted over three thousand years, is coming to an end. It had its beginnings in the Iron Age, when tendencies rooted in the free development of personality led to the creation of the spiritual and cultural values upon which contemporary life is based:
It is quite possible that the economic state controls of the last decades, produced by immanent trends of our Late Capitalist Age of the twentieth century, mean the end and conclusion of the long development in the direction of economic individualism, and the beginnings of a novel organization of labor which is closer to the Ancient Oriental models of five thousand years ago than to the ideals for which the foundations were laid at the beginning of the Iron Age. (90: pp. 115-116)*
It is hardly necessary to demonstrate that one of the basic forces influencing the developing crisis of mankind is socialism. It both promotes this crisis, as a force destroying the “old world,” and undertakes to show a way out. Therefore the attempt to comprehend socialism— its origins, its driving forces, the goal toward which it leads—is dictated quite simply by the instinct for self-preservation. We fear the possibility of finding ourselves at the crossroads with blinders on, at a time when choosing which road to take may determine the whole of mankind’s future.
Thucydides of Athens wrote this history of the war fought against
each other by the Peloponnesians and the Athenians.
He began his work right at the outbreak, reckoning that this would
be a major war and more momentous than any previous conflict.
There were two grounds for this belief: both sides were at the full
height of their power and their resource for war, and he saw the rest
of the Greeks allying with one or the other, either immediately or in
intent.
nice, just started this myself hot off of Herodotus
>We shall not shock anyone, we shall merely expose ourselves to good-natured or at any rate harmless ridicule, if we profess ourselves inclined to the old-fashioned and simple opinion according to which Machiavelli was a teacher of evil.
bored of typing already
Oculum vitrium in capsula!
imagine reading
>It was a bright sunny day in early autumn, one of those days New Yorkers dote on, take pictures of, and point out to their country cousins as an example of the city at its best. The city after summer, after the pavements stop frying. The city not yet locked into the icy streets and frozen dog-wastes of winter. A picture postcard day, a day to write home to Cincinnati or Scranton or Tullahoma about, and every New Yorker with an excuse was out of doors, clogging the sidewalks, slowing traffic, frightening the pigeons. Tour buses, hot dog vendors, street musicians, flower sellers; all had noticed an increase in trade. People were more cheerful. There was an excess of happy normalcy in the air.
Absolutely terrible opening. Completely overwritten, far too long, and amounts to a weather report and travelogue. Worse, it just goes on and on for another two pages of bullshit before anything relevant to the story happens.
The book is the novelization of Ghostbusters. It takes a page to just get to the New York Public Library, then another page just to introduce Alice, the librarian whose encounter with the ghost in the stacks kicks off the story.
>Thursday, 7th November—
>Beyond the Indian hamlet, upon a forlorn strand, I happened on a trail of recent footprints. Through rotting kelp, sea cocoa-nuts & bamboo, the tracks led me to their maker, a White man, his trowzers & Pea-jacket rolled up, sporting a kempt beard & an outsized Beaver, shoveling & sifting the cindery sand with a teaspoon so intently that he noticed me only after I had hailed him from ten yards away. Thus it was, I made the acquaintance of Dr. Henry Goose, surgeon to the London nobility. His nationality was no surprise. If there be any eyrie so desolate, or isle so remote, that one may there resort unchallenged by an Englishman, 'tis not down on any map I ever saw.
I'd be very surprised if anyone who hadn't read it (or reverse searched it) was even in the ballpark of what it is.
Cloud atlas
It was the best of times it was THE BLURST OF TIMES
>Today, I am pleased that Fate chose the city of Braunau on the Inn of Northern Austria as my birthplace. This little town is on the frontier of the two German states whose reunion, at least for those of us from the younger generation, will be the accomplishment of a lifetime. We must do everything we can to reunite these states.
>The classic texts are those that survive their interpretations. The more they are dissected, the more elusive they seem. The more persistently they are wooed by the intellect, the more icily they stare part their transcendental suitors. And the deeper the forces of hermeneutical interpretative illumination and philological re-construction penetrate the fabric woven by the classical text, the more adamantly that text resists the impact of interpretation.
>Ever since my childhood, Father had often spoken to me about the Golden Temple.
The gale tore at him and he felt its bite deep within and he knew
that if they did not make landfall in three days they would all be
dead. Too many deaths on this voyage, he thought, I’m Pilot-Major
of a dead eet. One ship left out of ve—eight and twenty men from
a crew of one hundred and seven and now only ten can walk and
the rest near death and our Captain-General one of them. No food,
almost no water and what there is, brackish and foul.
"Let's go on an adventure; let's go on an adventure; let's go on an adventure! Come on! Let's go already!" "No, no, no! It's raining outside! Why can't you be more like Aqua? She's been in a great mood ever since it started raining." While Megumin had been very reasonable and mature lately, she was throwing a fit today, unusually enough. "That's because rainy days are auspicious for Axis followers. Besides, isn't Aqua always in a good mood?"
On 2 March 1757 Damiens the regicide was condemned "to make the amende honerable before the main door of the Church of Paris", where he was to be "taken and conveyed in a cart, wearing nothing but a shirt, holding a torch of burning wax weighing two pounds"; then, "in the said cart, to the Place de Greve, where, on a scaffold that will be erected there, the flesh will be torn from his breasts, arms, thighs and calves with red-hot pincers, his right hand, holding the knife with which he committed the said parricide, burnt with sulphur, and, on those places where the flesh will be torn away, poured molten lead, boiling oil, burning resin, wax and sulphur melted together and then his body drawn and quartered by four horses and his limbs and body consumed by fire, reduced to ashes and his ashes thrown to the winds" (Pieces originales ..., 372-4).
>The first of July fell on a Wednesday, so although it was a little unusual, Djerzinski organised his leaving drinks for Tuesday evening. Bottles of champagne nestled among containers of frozen embryos in the large Brandt refrigerator usually filled with chemicals.
> The format of this book is simple and straightforward. The first sections pertain
to material contained in the PLAYERS HANDBOOK, and each pertinent
section is in corresponding order. Much information was purposely omitted from
the latter work, as it is data which would not normally be known — at least
initially — to a person of the nature which this game presupposes, i.e. an
adventurer in a world of swords & sorcery. It is incumbent upon all DMs to be
thoroughly conversant with the PLAYERS HANDBOOK, and at the same time
you must also know the additional information which is given in this volume, for
it rounds out and completes the whole. While players will know that they must
decide upon an alignment, for example, you, the DM, will further know that
each and every action they take will be mentally recorded by you; and at
adventure’s end you will secretly note any player character movement on the
alignment graph.
>While Bonaparte was crossing the Syrian desert and chafing over the siege of Acre, the long gathering storm of war known as the Second Coalition had broker upon France.
I don't know what we were. With the exception of Comyn, we had started out Americans, but after three years, in our British tunics and British wings and here and there a ribbon, I don't suppose we had even bothered in three years to wonder what we were, to think or to remember.
It was a thrust like lightning.
A spearhead thrust to pierce my heart.
Trying to dodge it would be useless.
Being lightning, it's invisible to the human eye.
But...
The lightning that tries to pierce me...
...Is repelled by the moonlight that tries to save me.
Clang, a beautiful sound.
No, the sound before me is heavier than steel.
The armor she is wearing is not beautiful at all and as unrefined as the cold night.
The sound wasn't beautiful at all.
It was actually the sound of steel.
It's just that the knight is beautiful enough to turn it into a charming sound like a bell.
"―――I ask of you. Are you my Master?"
She asks in a voice that lights up the darkness.
"I have come forth in response to your summons.
From this time forward, my sword shall be with you and your fate shall be with me. Now, our contract is complete."
>A GREEN HUNTING CAP squeezed the top of the fleshy balloon of a head. The
green earflaps, full of large ears and uncut hair and the fine bristles that grew in the ears
themselves, stuck out on either side like turn signals indicating two directions at once.
Full, pursed lips protruded beneath the bushy black moustache and, at their corners, sank
into little folds filled with disapproval and potato chip crumbs. In the shadow under the
green visor of the cap Ignatius J. Reilly’s supercilious blue and yellow eyes looked down
upon the other people waiting under the clock at the D. H. Holmes department store,
studying the crowd of people for signs of bad taste in dress. Several of the outfits,
Ignatius noticed, were new enough and expensive enough to be properly considered
offenses against taste and decency. Possession of anything new or expensive only
reflected a person’s lack of theology and geometry; it could even cast doubts upon one’s
soul. Ignatius himself was dressed comfortably and sensibly. The hunting cap prevented
head colds. The voluminous tweed trousers were durable and permitted unusually free
locomotion. Their pleats and nooks contained pockets of warm, stale air that soothed
Ignatius. The plaid flannel shirt made a jacket unnecessary while the muffler guarded
exposed Reilly skin between earflap and collar. The outfit was acceptable by any theological and geometrical standards, however abstruse, and suggested a rich inner life.
> 1 The book of the generation of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham.
> St. Paul saith, “When that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.” Now mark what is “that which is perfect,” and “that which is in part.” “That which is perfect” is a Being, who hath comprehended and included all things in Himself and His own Substance, and without whom, and beside whom, there is no true Substance, and in whom all things have their Substance. For He is the Substance of all things, and is in Himself unchangeable and immoveable, and changeth and moveth all things else. But “that which is in part,” or the Imperfect, is that which hath its source in, or springeth from the Perfect; just as a brightness or a visible appearance floweth out from the sun or a candle, and appeareth to be somewhat, this or that. And it is called a creature; and of all these “things which are in part,” none is the Perfect. So also the Perfect is none of the things which are in part. The things which are in part can be apprehended, known, and expressed; but the Perfect cannot be apprehended, known, or expressed by any creature as creature. Therefore we do not give a name to the Perfect, for it is none of these. The creature as creature cannot know nor apprehend it, name nor conceive it.
>I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
>The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
>Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
>Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
>Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
>Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
The human urge to create does not find expression in works of art alone: it also produces religion and mythology. It produces the whole culture, of which the works of art in a particular style-epoch have to be regarded as one of the expression forms.
>My dear Mark,
Today I went to see my physician Hermogenes, who has just returned to the Villa from a rather long journey in Asia. No food could be taken before the examination, so we had made the appointment for the early morning hours. I took off my cloak and tunic and lay down on a couch. I spare you details which would be as disagreeable to you as to me, the description of the body of a man who is growing old, and is about to die of a dropsical heart. Let us say only that I coughed, inhaled, and held my breath according to Hermogenes' directions. He was alarmed, in spite of himself, by the rapid progress of the disease, and was inclined to throw the blame on young Iollas, who has attended me during his absence. It is difficult to remain an emperor in presence of a physician, and difficult even to keep one's essential quality as man. The professional eye saw in me only a mass of humors, a sorry mixture of blood and lymph. This morning it occurred to me for the first time that my body, my faithful companion and friend, truer and better known to me than my own soul, may be after all only a sly beast who will end by devouring his master. But enough. ... I like my body; it has served me well, and in every way, and I do not begrudge it the care it now needs. I have no faith, however, as Hermogenes still claims to have, in the miraculous virtues of herbs, or the specific mixture of mineral salts which he went to the Orient to get. Subtle though he is, he has nevertheless offered me vague formulas of reassurance too trite to deceive anyone; he knows how I hate this kind of pretense, but a man does not practice medicine for more than thirty years without some falsehood. I forgive this good servitor his endeavor to hide my death from me. Hermogenes is learned; he is even wise, and his integrity is well above that of the ordinary court physician. It will fall to my lot as a sick man to have the best of care. But no one can go beyond prescribed limits: my swollen limbs no longer sustain me through the long Roman ceremonies; I fight for breath; and I am now sixty.
Yourcenar?
yeah just started it today. some day I aspire to be like Hadrian's weird wizard grandfather
Hey I just finished this. I unironically think it is Twain's best ~~*novel*~~. I don't know how far you are into it, but it is an excellent treat.
Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor
Pavlovitch Karamazov, a land owner well known in our district
in his own day, and still remembered among us owing to his
gloomy and tragic death, which happened thirteen years ago,
and which I shall describe in its proper place. For the present I
will only say that this “landowner”—for so we used to call him,
although he hardly spent a day of his life on his own estate—was
a strange type, yet one pretty frequently to be met with, a type
abject and vicious and at the same time senseless. But he was one
of those senseless persons who are very well capable of looking
after their worldly affairs, and, apparently, after nothing else.
Fyodor Pavlovitch, for instance, began with next to nothing; his
estate was of the smallest; he ran to dine at other men's tables,
and fastened on them as a toady, yet at his death it appeared that
he had a hundred thousand roubles in hard cash. At the same
time, he was all his life one of the most senseless, fantastical
fellows in the whole district. I repeat, it was not stupidity—the
majority of these fantastical fellows are shrewd and intelligent
Chapter I. Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov 3
enough—but just senselessness, and a peculiar national form of
it.
I'm about halfway through. I like it best of C.S. Lewis's stuff so far. (although I've only read Narnia and Mere Christianity)
Der Knabe war klein, die Berge waren ungeheuer. Von einem der schmalen Wege zum anderen kletterte er durch eine Wildnis von Farren, die besonnt dufteten oder im Schatten ihn abkühlten, wenn er sich hineinlegte. Der Fels sprang vor, und jenseits toste der Wasserfall, er stürzte herab aus Himmelshöhe. Die ganz bewaldeten Berge mit den Augen messen, scharfe Augen, sie fanden auf einem weit entfernten Stein zwischen den Bäumen die kleine graue Gemse! Den Blick verlieren in der Tiefe des blau schwebenden Himmels! Hinaufrufen mit heller Stimme aus Lebenslust! Laufen, auf bloßen Füßen immer in Bewegung! Atmen, den Körper baden innen und außen mit warmer, leichter Luft! Dies waren die ersten Mühen und Freuden des Knaben, er hieß Henri.