<html><title>Point Break script</title><pre>                        POINT BREAK                             by                       JamesCameron                             &                      Kathryn Bigelow                   From the Screenplay by                       W. Peter IliffFADE IN:We are in the belly of awave.Light refracts in a constant collision of water.SLOW MOTION, the hallucinatory prisms, like liquiddiamonds taking flight, dreamlike...EXT.  OCEAN -DUSKBacklit against a flaming sun a solitary SURFER glidesacross the green glassy peak.  TIME IS STRETCHED until hismovements gain a grace and fluidity notof this world.Total Zen concentration.  Body weight centered, eyesforward and on the next section.EXT.  URBAN STREET - DUSKSLOW MOTION ON a blacksedan.Creeping along store fronts.  Past a Winchell's.PEOPLE splash steps down rain-washed sidewalks in DREAMMOTION.  The sedan turns past the FIRSTVIRGINIA BANK andinto an alley.INT.  BLACK SEDANTWO MEN and ONE WOMAN in SUSPENDED TIME put on overcoatsand hats.  Under their hats strips ofScotch tape stretchtaut from the base of their nose to their forehead,hideously distorting their features.  Makes them look likehuman PIGS.EXT.  OCEANSILVERYin this light, almost metallic, as if from somefuture-scape.  The lone surfer SHREDS a long, endlessright wall.ACCELERATING INTO REAL TIME -- as he stares intothe pit,digs in, drops into the sweet spot on the wave, hunkersdown.His moves becoming aggressive, frenzied--INT.  BLACK SEDANAn M-16 clip is SMACKED intoplace and cocked with aCACHACK!  Ammo clips are SNICK-SNICKED into handgun buttsand a long clip is SSSNICKED into an UZI.Watches are checked.  The PIGNOSE people nod to eachother.EXT.  BANKPig Nose #1, steals into position near the glass doors,slams his back to the wall, weapon to cheek, breathfast.EXT.  OCEANFAST NOW -- the surfboard rips a brutal gash in the faceof the wave.  The surfer TRIMS down the line, pivoting theboard and going straightdown, CARVING the bottom.  Heslashes viciously back toward the lip and--In a radical INVERTED AIR ATTACK sails SIX feet above thewave in an explosion ofwater--INT.  BANK--BAAAAAAMMM!Glass doors explode OPEN and Pig Nose #1 SPINS inside.  Hefires a burst into the ceiling.  BRRAAMM!!                         PIGNOSE #1          EVERYBODY on the floor!PEOPLE drop.VERY FAST HERE--Two bandits handle BANK EMPLOYEES and customers--Another PIG NOSE watches thedoor--Pig Nose #1 moves behind counter, Uzi and canvas sack inhand.INT.  SURVEILLANCE VANDark. Monitors SHOW SLOW SCANS of the bank INTERIOR.TwoMEN wear headphones and black windbreakers with FBIstenciled on the back.  One watches with binoculars.                         BINOCULARS          Bingo.  We'reon.  Let's go.          Where's the big college          quarterback?!  Are you with us,          Utah?EXT.  BANK WALLA MAN in his twenties.  His head spins revealingrain-slicked hair and face, eyes wide, bright.  An edgyhandsomeness to him.He pops a stick of Wrigley's in his mouth, rests a shotgunon one leg and leans againstthe wall.  He wears aheadset... through which we hear the FBI guy yelling forhim.This is JOHNNY UTAH.                         BINOCULARS (FILTERED)          Utah,where the hell are ya!?Utah takes his headset off...INT.  BANKPig Nose #1 LEAPS over the counter, holds a canvas sackfilled with booty from tellers'drawers.                         PIG NOSE #1          Fuckin' shake it!Pig Nose #2 nods with his snubby nose, hurries toward theexit.EXT.  FIRST VIRGINIA BANKThebandits burst through the doors and sprint to thealley where they jump into the SEDAN.  THE DRIVER, theWOMAN PIG NOSE, punches it and the TIRES WHIRRRon theslick pavement.The sedan launches down the alley.Utah running.  Like a freight train.  Splashing through across-alley.  He doesn't break stride as he slamshisshoulder into a large, steel GARBAGE DUMPSTER.DRIVING it like a football training sled into the ALLEYwhere--THE SEDAN LOCKS 'EM UP seconds too late as itSKIDS andSLAMS into it, CRUNCHING into the brick wall and--Still alive -- GRINDS into reverse back down the alley,HEADLIGHTS SMASHED, it guns it backwardas--UTAH leaps over the dumpster and sprints after the car.He has a brick in his right hand.  He cocks it back.Johnny HEAVES the brick thirty yardsand--SMASH!  The brick EXPLODES into the windshield,SPIDERWEBBING the glass.Lady Pignose flinches from the glass fragments thrown intoherface.                         LADY PIGNOSE          Son of a bitch!The car slews backward onto the street, slamming a parkedcar.  Lady Pignose slams the thing intoDRIVE, cuts thewheel hard, and punches it, skidding on wet pavement.UTAH hurtles from the alley.  He leaps, somehow TACKLESthe DRIVER'S door handle andis dragged along the street.He pulls himself up, reaches inside the window, and whipsthe steering wheel hard right.The SEDAN fishtails into a parkedToyota.  Utah bouncesforward, slamming into the asphalt.  Glass shards andcrushed steel are strewn everywhere, as radiator steamwhistles hot.Pig Nose #2,riding shotgun, is trapped.  Can't get hiscrushed door open.  The DRIVER pushes open her door.Gropes for her pistol.  Utah springs -- no respect for alady.  Heslams the door, pins her arm and slams again andagain until the gun drops.  Utah kicks it away as thewoman collapses in pain.Pig Nose #1 bails out and runsacross parking lot.  Utahleaps up onto the crushed hood and draws down with theshotgun.                         UTAH          Halt.  FBI!Pig Nose #1 spins.  We sensereckless anger.  He raisesthe UZI.  Utah squeezes the trigger.No death.  No blood.Just buzzers and flashing bulbs.Pig Nose's flak vest lights up like a pinballmachine.Utah's laser weapon hit the "kill zone".  Pig Nose ripsthe tape off his face and the FBI CADET shakes his head indisgust.OBSERVERS step forward.  Bankcustomers.  Bank tellers.All FBI personnel.  MEDICAL STAFF offer the woman driverassistance.  Pig Nose #1 heads for Johnny, but is subduedby otheragents.                         PIG NOSE #1 (FBI CADET)          I wanna say just two words to you,          asshole, SIMU-LATION!!!  Johnny-          fuckin' Utah.  Guyslike you will do          anything to win!Utah stares back in defiance.The SURVEILLANCE van pulls up nearby.BINOCULARS runs out and pinches two fingerstogether,right in Johnny's face.                         BINOCULARS          This far, Utah!  You're this far          from being the most overqualified          guy BurgerKing ever had.  Get me?!                         UTAH          Yes sir.  Sir?                         BINOCULARS          What?Johnny gestures to thecar.                         UTAH          I did stop the perpetrators.Utah turns to go.  As he passes he casually raises hislaser-shotgun and re-triggers Pig Nose's flakvest.LIGHTS AND BUZZERS.Pig Nose explodes.  More agents restrain him.Screams and shoving matches and pissed off guys.Utah walks off, down the simulatedstreet, past a signwhich bears the FBI SEAL and reads "Combat Village,Quantico, Virginia."                                            DISSOLVE TO:EXT.  PACIFIC OCEAN -DAYRed sky.  A luminous Pacific.  Five foot faces.  Nicecurl.  A lineup of SURFERS wait outside the break.Silhouetted, bobbing like a pack of sea mammals.INT./EXT.  TAXIA flood of orange through the windshield as the cab crawlsdown Ocean Park to the sea.  CAMERA HANDHELD from the backseat.The driver turns tous.                         DRIVER          Anywhere?  You don't care?                         UTAH (V.O.)          Anywhere.  I've just never seen the          oceanbefore.                                            CUT TO:EXT.  VENICE BEACHJOHNNY UTAH trudging across the sand, holding his shoes.Garment bag and a big duffel overhis shoulder.He looks silly in his dark suit, tie loosened, wearing aturned around baseball cap.He wiggles his toes in the sand, looks around like a kid.A pack ofBOUNCING BEAUTIES jog through frame.Utah grins, reaches up and turns his cap around.It reads "I Love L.A."                                            CUTTO:EXT.  FEDERAL BUILDINGLooking down the face of the concrete monolith at Wilshireand Veteran.  Ant-like, Johnny Utah's tiny figure movestoward theentrance.                         VOICE (OVER)          Day One in LA, special agent Utah.          You may have been top two percent of          your class at Quantico butyou have          exactly zero hours in the field          here.  You know nothing...INT.  FEDERAL BUILDING - FBI BULLPENSupervising Agent BEN HARP leads Utahacross the bullpen.Rows of desks.  Agents sitting at computer terminals.Data hell.  Looks like he got a job at Xerox.                         HARP          You know lessthan nothing.  If you          even knew that you knew nothing, at          least that would be something, but          you don't.                         UTAH          Yes,sir.Utah is wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase.  Harp ismid-thirties, confident of stride, tanned of skin, perfectofhair.  GQ.  Aggressive.                         HARP          Eating solid breakfasts, Utah?                         UTAH          Sir?                         HARP          All the foodgroups?  Avoiding          sugar?  Caffeine?  I see to it that          my people maintain cardiovascular          fitness.  We stay off hardliquor,          cigarettes...                         UTAH                  (poker face)          I take the skin off chicken.Harp glances at him, eyes narrowing.  They reachaglassed-in compound of small offices.  Harp swings thedoor open and the other agents look up as Utah enters.                         HARP          This is us.  BankRobbery.  And          you're in the bank-robbery capital          of the world--                         UTAH          1322 last year in LA county.  Up 26          percent fromthe year before.                         HARP          That's right.  And we nailed over a          thousand of them.  We did it by          crunching data.  Goodcrime-scene          work, good lab work, good data-base          analysis.  Nobody had to tackle a          car once.  You getting the signal,          specialagent?                         UTAH          Zero distortion, sir.He picks up a donut from someone's desk, a succulentglazed jelly.                         UTAH          I lovethese things.He looks right at Harp.  Takes a big fuck-you bite.                         HARP          You're a real blue-flame special,          aren't you, Utah?  I don'tknow why          they sent you to LA.  Must be an          asshole shortage.                         UTAH          Not so far.                                            CUTTO:UNDERWATERA blue field with a pulsing network of rippling lines.VOOM!  A figure rockets down INTO FRAME in a curtain ofbubbles.  A gawky AGENT, in lessthan stylish FBI trunks,flails around blindfolded looking for bricks at the bottomof a pool.INT.  GYMNASIUM POOL - DAYThe pool casts wavy distortions upon TWODOZEN MEN, allgrumbling as they stand in line, wearing T-shirts with FBIlogos, sweats and sneakers.  We hear a splash, and the menshuffleforward.                         PAPPAS (V.O.)          The dolls love this baby.  It brings          them luck when they rub it -- right          between their buttons.CLOSEON tape measure wrapped around a generous belly.PULL BACK to reveal VETERAN AGENT COREY measuring theample waist of ANGELO PAPPAS.  This 54 year


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Palamon and Arcite, by John DrydenThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Palamon and ArciteAuthor: John DrydenEditor: George E. EliotRelease Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7490]This file was first posted onMay 10, 2003Last Updated: May 10, 2013Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PALAMON AND ARCITE ***Produced by TedGarvin, Charles Franks and the DistributedProofreaders TeamDRYDEN'S PALAMON AND ARCITEEdited With Introduction And Notes By George E. Eliot, A.M.EnglishMaster In The Morgan SchoolToHenry A. BeersProfessor Of English Literature In Yale UniversityWho First Aroused My Interest In DrydenAnd Directed My Study OfHis WorksThis Volume Is Respectfully InscribedPREFACE.To edit an English classic for study in secondary schools is difficult.The lack of anything like uniformity inthe type of examination requiredby the colleges and universities complicates treatment. Not only do twodistinct institutions differ in the scope and character oftheirquestions, but the same university varies its demands from year to year.The only safe course to pursue is, therefore, a generally comprehensiveone. Buthere, again, we are hampered by limited space, and are forcedto content ourselves with a bare outline, which the individualinstructor can fill in as much or aslittle as he pleases.The ignorance of most of our classical students in regard to the historyof English literature is appalling; and yet it is impossible properlytostudy a given work of a given author without some knowledge of thebackground against which that particular writer stands. I have,therefore, sketched thepolitics, society, and literature of the age inwhich Dryden lived, and during which he gave to the world his _Palamonand Arcite_. In the critical comments of theintroduction I havecontented myself with little more than hints. That particular line ofstudy, whether it concerns the poet's style, his verse forms, orthepossession of the divine instinct itself, can be much moresatisfactorily developed by the instructor, as the student's knowledgeof the poem grows.It is certainlya subject for congratulation that so many youth will beintroduced, through the medium of Dryden's crisp and vigorous verse, toone of the tales of Chaucer. May itnow, as in his own century,accomplish the poet's desire, and awaken in them appreciative admirationfor the old bard, the best story-teller in the Englishlanguage.G. E. E. CLINTON, CONN., July 26, 1897.INTRODUCTION.THE BACKGROUND.The fifty years of Dryden's literary production just fill the last halfof theseventeenth century. It was a period bristling with violentpolitical and religious prejudices, provocative of strife that amountedto revolution. Its social life ran thegamut from the severity of theCommonwealth Puritan to the unbridled debauchery of the RestorationCourtier. In literature it experienced a remarkabletransformation inpoetry, and developed modern prose, watched the production of thegreatest English epics, smarted under the lash of the greatest Englishsatires,blushed at the brilliant wit of unspeakable comedies, andapplauded the beginnings of English criticism.When the period began, England was a Commonwealth.Charles I., byobstinate insistence upon absolutism, by fickleness and faithlessness,had increased and strengthened his enemies. Parliament had seized thereins ofgovernment in 1642, had completely established its authority atNaseby in 1645, and had beheaded the king in front of his own palace in1649. The army hadaccomplished these results, and the army proposed toenjoy the reward. Cromwell, the idolized commander of the Ironsides, wasplaced at the head of thenew-formed state with the title of LordProtector; and for five years he ruled England, as she had been ruled byno sovereign since Elizabeth. He suppressedParliamentary dissensionsand royalist uprisings, humbled the Dutch, took vengeance on theSpaniard, and made England indisputably mistress of the ocean. Hewassucceeded, at his death in 1658, by his son Richard; but the father'sstrong instinct for government had not been inherited by the son. Thenation, homesick formonarchy, was tiring of dissension and bickering,and by the Restoration of 1660 the son of Charles I became Charles II ofEngland.Scarcely had thedemonstrations of joy at the Restoration subsided whenLondon was visited by the devouring plague of 1665. All who could fledfrom the stricken city wherethousands died in a day. In 1666 came thegreat fire which swept from the Tower to the Temple; but, while itdestroyed a vast deal of property, it prevented by itsviolentpurification a recurrence of the plague, and made possible therebuilding of the city with great sanitary and architecturalimprovements.Charles possessedsome of the virtues of the Stuarts and most of theirfaults. His arbitrary irresponsibility shook the confidence of thenation in his sincerity. Two parties, the Whigsand the Tories, cameinto being, and party spirit and party strife ran high. The question atissue was chiefly one of religion. The rank and file of ProtestantEnglandwas determined against the revival of Romanism, which acontinuation of the Stuart line seemed to threaten. Charles was aProtestant only from expediency, andon his deathbed accepted the RomanCatholic faith; his brother James, Duke of York, the heir apparent, wasa professed Romanist.Such an outlook incited theWhigs, under the leadership of Shaftesbury,to support the claims of Charles' eldest illegitimate son, the Duke ofMonmouth, who, on the death of his father in1685, landed in England;but the promised uprising was scarcely more than a rabble of peasantry,and was easily suppressed. Then came the vengeance of James,as foolishas it was tyrannical. Judge Jeffries and his bloody assizes sent scoresof Protestants to the block or to the gallows, till England would endureno more.William, Prince of Orange, who had married Mary, the eldestdaughter of James, was invited to accept the English crown. He landed atTorbay, was joined byChurchill, the commander of the king's forces,and, on the precipitate flight of James, mounted the throne of England.This event stands in history as the ProtestantRevolution of 1688.During William's reign, which terminated in 1702, Stuart uprisings weresuccessfully suppressed, English liberties were guaranteed by thefamousBill of Rights, Protestant succession was assured, and liberaltoleration was extended to the various dissenting sects.Society had passed through quite asgreat variations as had politicsduring this half-century. The roistering Cavalier of the first Charles,with his flowing locks and plumed hat, with his maypoles andmorricedances, with his stage plays and bear-baitings, with his carousals andgallantries, had given way to the Puritan Roundhead. It was a serious,sober-mindedEngland in which the youth Dryden found himself. If thePuritan differed from the Cavalier in political principles, they wereeven more diametrically opposed inmode of life. An Act of Parliamentclosed the theaters in 1642. Amusements of all kinds were frowned uponas frivolous, and many were suppressed by law. The oldEnglish feasts atMichaelmas, Christmas, Twelfth Night, and Candlemas were regarded asrelics of popery and were condemned. The Puritan took hisreligionseriously, so seriously that it overpowered him. The energy and fervorof his religious life were illustrated in the work performed byCromwell's chaplain,John Howe, on any one of the countless fast days."He began with his flock at nine in the morning, prayed during a quarterof an hour for blessing upon the day'swork, then read and explained achapter for three-quarters of an hour, then prayed for an hour, preachedfor an hour, and prayed again for a half an hour, thenretired for aquarter of an hour's refreshment--the people singing all thewhile--returned to his pulpit, prayed for another hour, preached foranother hour, andfinished at four P.M."At the Restoration the pendulum swung back again. From the strainedmorality of the Puritans there was a sudden leap to the mostextravagantlicense and the grossest immorality, with the king and the court in thevan. The theaters were thrown wide open, women for the first time wentuponthe stage, and they acted in plays whose moral tone is so low thatthey cannot now be presented on the stage or read in the drawing-room.Of course they voicedthe social conditions of the time. Marriage tieswere lightly regarded; no gallant but boasted his amours. Revelry ranriot; drunkenness became a habit andgambling a craze. The courtscintillated with brilliant wits, conscienceless libertines, andscoffing atheists. It was an age of debauchery and disbelief.The splendor ofthis life sometimes dazzles, the lack of conveniencesappalls. The post left London once a week. A journey to the country mustbe made in your own lumberingcarriage, or on the snail-slow stagecoachover miserable roads, beset with highwaymen. The narrow, ill-lightedstreets, even of London, could not be traversedsafely at night; andladies, borne to routs and levees in their sedan chairs, were lighted bylink-boys, and were carried by stalwart, broad-shouldered bearerswhocould wield well the staves in a street fight. Such were the conditionsof life and society which Dryden found in the last fifty years of theseventeenthcentury.Strong as were the contrasts in politics and manners during Dryden'slifetime, they were paralleled by contrasts in literature no lessmarked. Dryden wasborn in 1631; he died in 1700. In the year of hisbirth died John Donne, the father of the Metaphysical bards, orMarinists; in the year of his death was born JamesThomson, who was togive the first real start to the Romantic movement; while between thesetwo dates lies the period devoted to the development ofFrenchClassicism in English literature.At Dryden's birth Ben Jonson was the only one of the great Elizabethandramatists still living, and of the lesser stars in thesame galaxy,Chapman, Massinger, Ford, Webster, and Heywood all died during hisboyhood and youth, while Shirley, the last of his line, lingered till1667. Of theolder writers in prose, Selden alone remained; but asDryden grew to manhood, he had at hand, fresh from the printers, thewhole wealth of Commonwealth prose,still somewhat clumsy with Latinismor tainted with Euphuism, but working steadily toward that simplestrength and graceful fluency with which he was himself tomark thebeginning of modern English prose.Clarendon, with his magnificently involved style, began his famous_History of the Great Rebellion_ in 1641. Ten yearslater Hobbespublished the _Leviathan_, a sketch of an ideal commonwealth. Baxter,with his _Saints' Everlasting Rest_ sent a book of religious consolationintoevery household. In 1642 Dr. Thomas Browne, with the simplicity ofa child and a quaintness that fascinates, published his _ReligioMedici_; and in 1653 dear oldsimple-hearted Isaak Walton told us in his_Compleat Angler_ how to catch, dress, and cook fish. Thomas Fuller,born a score or more of years before Dryden, inthe same town,Aldwinkle, published in 1642 his _Holy and Profane State_, a collectionof brief and brisk character sketches, which come nearer modern prosethan


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<title>"FRIDAY THE13th"</title>
              FADE IN:           1    EXT.  ROAD - DAY               The TRACK isSILENT.               The CAMERA looks at a sign.  It reads:                                     CAMP CRYSTALLAKE                                     Established 1935               Gradually we can begin to hear, in the BG, the SOUNDS of              CHILDRENplaying.                                                        CUT TO:           2    EXT. SOFTBALL FIELD - DAY              In the BG a few dozen CHILDREN, in camp uniforms, are enjoying              a game of softball.               In the FG CLAUDETTE is lookingfor someone.  CLAUDETTE is 17              years old.  She is pretty.  She wears a t-shirt with "Assistant              Counsellor" written on it.  She fills out the shirtvery well.               Failing to find whomever she is looking for, CLAUDETTE walks              quickly in the opposite direction.               TheCAMERA holds on the game for a few seconds and we              SUPERIMPOSE:                                        JULY 4, 1958              The CHILDREN'S VOICES FADE slowly.                                                        CUT TO:           3    EXT.RIFLE RANGE - DAY               ECU as a COUNSELLOR squeezes off a shot.               The paper target is ripped in the black.


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Outlaw of Torn, by Edgar Rice BurroughsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Outlaw of TornAuthor: Edgar Rice BurroughsRelease Date: July 8, 2008 [EBook #369]Last updated: February 12, 2012Lastupdated: August 31, 2012Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OUTLAW OF TORN ***Produced by Judith BossTHE OUTLAWOF TORNBy Edgar Rice BurroughsTo My FriendJOSEPH E. BRAYCHAPTER IHere is a story that has lain dormant for seven hundred years. At firstit was suppressedby one of the Plantagenet kings of England. Later itwas forgotten. I happened to dig it up by accident. The accident beingthe relationship of my wife's cousin to acertain Father Superior in avery ancient monastery in Europe.He let me pry about among a quantity of mildewed and musty manuscriptsand I came across this. Itis very interesting--partially since it is abit of hitherto unrecorded history, but principally from the fact thatit records the story of a most remarkable revenge andthe adventurouslife of its innocent victim--Richard, the lost prince of England.In the retelling of it, I have left out most of the history. Whatinterested me was theunique character about whom the tale revolves--thevisored horseman who--but let us wait until we get to him.It all happened in the thirteenth century, and whileit was happening,it shook England from north to south and from east to west; and reachedacross the channel and shook France. It started, directly, in theLondonpalace of Henry III, and was the result of a quarrel between the Kingand his powerful brother-in-law, Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester.Never mind thequarrel, that's history, and you can read all about it atyour leisure. But on this June day in the year of our Lord 1243, Henryso forgot himself as to very unjustlyaccuse De Montfort of treason inthe presence of a number of the King's gentlemen.De Montfort paled. He was a tall, handsome man, and when he drew himselftohis full height and turned those gray eyes on the victim of hiswrath, as he did that day, he was very imposing. A power in England,second only to the Kinghimself, and with the heart of a lion in him, heanswered the King as no other man in all England would have dared answerhim."My Lord King," he cried, "that yoube my Lord King alone prevents Simonde Montfort from demanding satisfaction for such a gross insult. Thatyou take advantage of your kingship to say what youwould never dare saywere you not king, brands me not a traitor, though it does brand you acoward."Tense silence fell upon the little company of lords andcourtiers asthese awful words fell from the lips of a subject, addressed to hisking. They were horrified, for De Montfort's bold challenge was to thembut little shortof sacrilege.Henry, flushing in mortification and anger, rose to advance upon DeMontfort, but suddenly recollecting the power which he represented, hethoughtbetter of whatever action he contemplated and, with a haughtysneer, turned to his courtiers."Come, my gentlemen," he said, "methought that we were to have aturnwith the foils this morning. Already it waxeth late. Come, De Fulm! Come,Leybourn!" and the King left the apartment followed by his gentlemen,all of whomhad drawn away from the Earl of Leicester when it becameapparent that the royal displeasure was strong against him. As thearras fell behind the departing King,De Montfort shrugged his broadshoulders, and turning, left the apartment by another door.When the King, with his gentlemen, entered the armory he wasstillsmarting from the humiliation of De Montfort's reproaches, and as helaid aside his surcoat and plumed hat to take the foils with De Fulm,his eyes alighted onthe master of fence, Sir Jules de Vac, who wasadvancing with the King's foil and helmet. Henry felt in no mood forfencing with De Fulm, who, like the othersycophants that surroundedhim, always allowed the King easily to best him in every encounter.De Vac he knew to be too jealous of his fame as a swordsman topermithimself to be overcome by aught but superior skill, and this day Henryfelt that he could best the devil himself.The armory was a great room on the mainfloor of the palace, off theguard room. It was built in a small wing of the building so that ithad light from three sides. In charge of it was the lean,grizzled,leather-skinned Sir Jules de Vac, and it was he whom Henry commanded toface him in mimic combat with the foils, for the King wished to gowithhammer and tongs at someone to vent his suppressed rage.So he let De Vac assume to his mind's eye the person of the hated DeMontfort, and it followedthat De Vac was nearly surprised into an earlyand mortifying defeat by the King's sudden and clever attack.Henry III had always been accounted a goodswordsman, but that dayhe quite outdid himself and, in his imagination, was about to runthe pseudo De Montfort through the heart, to the wild acclaim ofhisaudience. For this fell purpose he had backed the astounded De Vac twicearound the hall when, with a clever feint, and backward step, the masterof fencedrew the King into the position he wanted him, and with thesuddenness of lightning, a little twist of his foil sent Henry's weaponclanging across the floor of thearmory.For an instant, the King stood as tense and white as though the hand ofdeath had reached out and touched his heart with its icy fingers.The episodemeant more to him than being bested in play by the bestswordsman in England--for that surely was no disgrace--to Henry itseemed prophetic of the outcome of afuture struggle when he shouldstand face to face with the real De Montfort; and then, seeing in DeVac only the creature of his imagination with which he hadvested thelikeness of his powerful brother-in-law, Henry did what he should liketo have done to the real Leicester. Drawing off his gauntlet he advancedclose toDe Vac."Dog!" he hissed, and struck the master of fence a stinging blow acrossthe face, and spat upon him. Then he turned on his heel and strode fromthearmory.De Vac had grown old in the service of the kings of England, but hehated all things English and all Englishmen. The dead King John, thoughhated by allothers, he had loved, but with the dead King's bones DeVac's loyalty to the house he served had been buried in the Cathedral ofWorcester.During the years hehad served as master of fence at the English Court,the sons of royalty had learned to thrust and parry and cut as onlyDe Vac could teach the art, and he had beenas conscientious in thedischarge of his duties as he had been in his unswerving hatred andcontempt for his pupils.And now the English King had put upon himsuch an insult as might onlybe wiped out by blood.As the blow fell, the wiry Frenchman clicked his heels together, andthrowing down his foil, he stood erect andrigid as a marble statuebefore his master. White and livid was his tense drawn face, but hespoke no word.He might have struck the King, but then there wouldhave been left tohim no alternative save death by his own hand; for a king may not fightwith a lesser mortal, and he who strikes a king may not live--theking'shonor must be satisfied.Had a French king struck him, De Vac would have struck back, and gloriedin the fate which permitted him to die for the honor ofFrance; but anEnglish King--pooh! a dog; and who would die for a dog? No, De Vac wouldfind other means of satisfying his wounded pride. He would revelinrevenge against this man for whom he felt no loyalty. If possible, hewould harm the whole of England if he could, but he would bide his time.He could afford towait for his opportunity if, by waiting, he couldencompass a more terrible revenge.De Vac had been born in Paris, the son of a French officer reputed thebestswordsman in France. The son had followed closely in the footstepsof his father until, on the latter's death, he could easily claim thetitle of his sire. How he hadleft France and entered the service ofJohn of England is not of this story. All the bearing that the life ofJules de Vac has upon the history of England hinges uponbut two of hismany attributes--his wonderful swordsmanship and his fearful hatred forhis adopted country.CHAPTER IISouth of the armory of Westminster Palacelay the gardens, and here, onthe third day following the King's affront to De Vac, might have been aseen a black-haired woman gowned in a violet cyclas, richlyembroideredwith gold about the yoke and at the bottom of the loose-pointed sleeves,which reached almost to the similar bordering on the lower hem ofthegarment. A richly wrought leathern girdle, studded with precious stones,and held in place by a huge carved buckle of gold, clasped the garmentabout her waistso that the upper portion fell outward over the girdleafter the manner of a blouse. In the girdle was a long dagger ofbeautiful workmanship. Dainty sandalsencased her feet, while a wimpleof violet silk bordered in gold fringe, lay becomingly over her head andshoulders.By her side walked a handsome boy of aboutthree, clad, like hiscompanion, in gay colors. His tiny surcoat of scarlet velvet was richwith embroidery, while beneath was a close-fitting tunic of whitesilk. Hisdoublet was of scarlet, while his long hose of white werecross-gartered with scarlet from his tiny sandals to his knees. On theback of his brown curls sat aflat-brimmed, round-crowned hat in which asingle plume of white waved and nodded bravely at each move of the proudlittle head.The child's features were wellmolded, and his frank, bright eyes gavean expression of boyish generosity to a face which otherwise would havebeen too arrogant and haughty for such a merebaby. As he talked withhis companion, little flashes of peremptory authority and dignity, whichsat strangely upon one so tiny, caused the young woman at timestoturn her head from him that he might not see the smiles which she couldscarce repress.Presently the boy took a ball from his tunic, and, pointing at a littlebushnear them, said, "Stand you there, Lady Maud, by yonder bush. Iwould play at toss."The young woman did as she was bid, and when she had taken her placeandturned to face him the boy threw the ball to her. Thus they playedbeneath the windows of the armory, the boy running blithely after theball when he missed it,and laughing and shouting in happy glee when hemade a particularly good catch.In one of the windows of the armory overlooking the garden stood a grim,gray,old man, leaning upon his folded arms, his brows drawn together ina malignant scowl, the corners of his mouth set in a stern, cold line.He looked upon the gardenand the playing child, and upon the lovelyyoung woman beneath him, but with eyes which did not see, for De Vac wasworking out a great problem, the greatestof all his life.For three days, the old man had brooded over his grievance, seeking forsome means to be revenged upon the King for the insult which Henry hadputupon him. Many schemes had presented themselves to his shrewdand cunning mind, but so far all had been rejected as unworthy of theterrible satisfaction whichhis wounded pride demanded.His fancies had, for the most part, revolved about the unsettledpolitical conditions of Henry's reign, for from these he felt he


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            SWEENEYTODD: THE DEMON BARBER OF FLEET STREET                            Written by                            John Logan                       Music and Lyricsby                         Stephen Sondheim                  Adapted from the Stage Musical         "Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street"               Music andLyrics by Stephen Sondheim                       Book by Hugh Wheeler              Based on a version of "Sweeney Todd"                       by ChristopherBond                                               18th DECEMBER, 2006                                                                   PAGE 1.1   INT. DARK CHAMBER --NIGHT                                     1    Foreboding organ music is heard...    We are looking down at a rough brick floor ... is it an    alley? ... a cobblestonestreet? ... a warehouse? a factory?    ... we're not sure...    The flickering glow of flame is the only illumination...    The ominous organ music continuesas...    From the bottom of the frame...    A dark pool of blood slowly begins to spread ... moving up    the frame, defying gravity ... the flickering flamereflected    in the blood...    Finally, the pool of blood fills the entire frame.    SUDDENLY--    A shrill factory whistle blows--    ENORMOUSLY LOUD --blood-chilling and spine-shattering --    the whistle is a bizarre combination of sound: a factory    whistle; a hog being slaughtered; a dog snarling; aroaring    inferno; a human scream--    And a man's face appears, upside down, reflected in the pool    of blood.    He is THE GENTLEMAN, a slender dandy in


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Tale of Tom Kitten, by Beatrix PotterThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The Tale of Tom KittenAuthor: Beatrix PotterRelease Date: January 29, 2005 [EBook #14837]Language: English*** START OF THISPROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF TOM KITTEN ***Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team(http://www.pgdp.net).[Illustration]THE TALE OFTOM KITTENBYBEATRIX POTTER_Author of__"The Tale of Peter Rabbit", &c._[Illustration]FREDERICKWARNEFirst published 19071907 by Frederick Warne & Co.Printed and bound in Great Britain byWilliam Clowes Limited, Beccles and LondonDEDICATEDTOALLPICKLES,--ESPECIALLY TO THOSE THATGET UPON MY GARDEN WALL[Illustration]Once upon a time there were three little kittens, and their nameswereMittens, Tom Kitten, and Moppet.They had dear little fur coats of their own; and they tumbled about thedoorstep and played in the dust.But one day theirmother--Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit--expected friends to tea;so she fetched the kittens indoors, to wash and dress them, before thefine companyarrived.[Illustration][Illustration]First she scrubbed their faces (this one is Moppet).Then she brushed their fur, (this one is Mittens).[Illustration][Illustration]Thenshe combed their tails and whiskers (this is Tom Kitten).Tom was very naughty, and he scratched.Mrs. Tabitha dressed Moppet and Mittens in clean pinafores andtuckers;and then she took all sorts of elegant uncomfortable clothes out of achest of drawers, in order to dress up her son Thomas.[Illustration][Illustration]TomKitten was very fat, and he had grown; several buttons burst off. Hismother sewed them on again.When the three kittens were ready, Mrs. Tabitha unwiselyturned them outinto the garden, to be out of the way while she made hot buttered toast."Now keep your frocks clean, children! You must walk on your hindlegs.Keep away from the dirty ash-pit, and from Sally Henny Penny, and from thepig-stye and the Puddle-Ducks."[Illustration][Illustration]Moppet and Mittenswalked down the garden path unsteadily. Presently theytrod upon their pinafores and fell on their noses.When they stood up there were several greensmears!"Let us climb up the rockery, and sit on the garden wall," said Moppet.They turned their pinafores back to front, and went up with a skip and ajump;Moppet's white tucker fell down into the road.[Illustration][Illustration]Tom Kitten was quite unable to jump when walking upon his hind legs introusers. He cameup the rockery by degrees, breaking the ferns, andshedding buttons right and left.He was all in pieces when he reached the top of the wall.Moppet and Mittenstried to pull him together; his hat fell off, and therest of his buttons burst.[Illustration][Illustration]While they were in difficulties, there was a pit pat paddle pat!and thethree Puddle-Ducks came along the hard high road, marching one behind theother and doing the goose step--pit pat paddle pat! pit pat waddle pat!Theystopped and stood in a row, and stared up at the kittens. They hadvery small eyes and looked surprised.[Illustration][Illustration]Then the two duck-birds,Rebeccah and Jemima Puddle-Duck, picked up thehat and tucker and put them on.Mittens laughed so that she fell off the wall. Moppet and Tom descendedafterher; the pinafores and all the rest of Tom's clothes came off on theway down."Come! Mr. Drake Puddle-Duck," said Moppet--"Come and help us to dresshim!Come and button up Tom!"[Illustration][Illustration]Mr. Drake Puddle-Duck advanced in a slow sideways manner, and picked upthe various articles.But he putthem on _himself!_ They fitted him even worse than Tom Kitten."It's a very fine morning!" said Mr. Drake Puddle-Duck.[Illustration][Illustration]And he andJemima and Rebeccah Puddle-Duck set off up the road, keepingstep--pit pat, paddle pat! pit pat, waddle pat!Then Tabitha Twitchit came down the garden andfound her kittens on thewall with no clothes on.[Illustration][Illustration]She pulled them off the wall, smacked them, and took them back to thehouse."Myfriends will arrive in a minute, and you are not fit to be seen; I amaffronted," said Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit.She sent them upstairs; and I am sorry to say she toldher friends thatthey were in bed with the measles; which was not true.[Illustration][Illustration]Quite the contrary; they were not in bed: _not_ in theleast.Somehow there were very extraordinary noises over-head, which disturbedthe dignity and repose of the tea party.And I think that some day I shall have tomake another, larger, book, totell you more about Tom Kitten![Illustration]As for the Puddle-Ducks--they went into a pond.The clothes all came off directly,because there were no buttons.[Illustration][Illustration]And Mr. Drake Puddle-Duck, and Jemima and Rebeccah, have been looking forthem ever since.End ofProject Gutenberg's The Tale of Tom Kitten, by Beatrix Potter*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF TOM KITTEN ******** This fileshould be named 14837.txt or 14837.zip *****This and all associated files of various formats will be foundin:        http://www.gutenberg.net/1/4/8/3/14837/Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team(http://www.pgdp.net).Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed.Creating the works from public domain print editionsmeans that noone owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States withoutpermissionand without paying copyright royalties.  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<title>Mulholland DriveScreenplay</title>
 M  U  L  H  O  L  L  A  N  D D  R  I  V  E     1/5/1999     M U L H 0 L L A ND             D R I V E    EXT.  NIGHT - HOLLYWOOD HILLS, LOS ANGELES    Darkness. Distant sounds of freeway traffic. Thenthe closersound of a car - its headlights illumine an oleander bush andthe limbs of an Eucalyptus tree. Then the headlights turn - astreet sign is suddenly brightlylit. The words on the signread... "Mulholland Drive." The car moves under the sign asit turns and the words fall once again into darkness.     CUTTO:    EXT. NIGHT - MULHOLLAND DRIVE    Gliding we follow the car - an older black Cadillac limousine- as it winds its way upMulholland Drive through thedarkness of the Hollywood Hills. There is no one else on theroad. As we drift closer to the car...     CUTTO:    INT. BLACK CADILLAC LIMOUSINE - NIGHT    Two men in dark suits are sitting in the front seat. Abeautiful, younger,dark-haired woman sits in back. She sitsclose up against the door and stares out into the darkness.She seems to be thinking about something. Suddenly sheturnsand looks ahead. The car is slowing and moving off to theside of the road.     DARK-HAIRED WOMAN What are you doing? You don't stophere ...    The car stops - half on, half off the road at a dark, blindcurve. Both men turn to the woman.     DRIVER Get out of the


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of On the Fourfold Root of the Principle ofSufficient Reason and On the Will in Nat, by Arthur SchopenhauerThis eBook is for theuse of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give itaway or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the UnitedStates, you'll haveto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.Title: On the Fourfold Root of the Principle of Sufficient Reasonand On the Will in Nature: Two Essays (revised edition)Author: Arthur SchopenhauerTranslator: Karl HillebrandRelease Date: January 19, 2016 [EBook#50966]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRINCIPLE OF SUFFICIENT REASON ***Produced byCharlene Taylor, Sharon Joiner, Bryan Ness andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scannedimagesof public domain material from the Google Booksproject.)TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:Italics have been transcribed using _underscores_, bold with =equalsigns=,spaced text with +plus signs+, small capitals as ALL CAPITALS,and text in superscript is preceded by a ^carat. Inconsistencies inhyphenation, punctuation,spelling and abbreviations have not beencorrected. A list of other corrections can be found at the end of thedocument.  _BOHN'S PHILOSOPHICALLIBRARY._  TWO ESSAYS  BY  ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER.  LONDON: GEORGE BELL AND SONS  PORTUGAL ST. LINCOLN'S INN, W.C.  CAMBRIDGE: DEIGHTON,BELL & CO.  NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO.  BOMBAY: A. H. WHEELER & CO.  ON  THE FOURFOLD ROOT OF THE PRINCIPLE OF SUFFICIENT REASON  AND  ONTHE WILL IN NATURE.  TWO ESSAYS BY  ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER.  TRANSLATED BY MME. KARL HILLEBRAND.  _REVISED EDITION._  LONDON  GEORGE BELLAND SONS  1907  CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.  TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.In venturing to laythe present translation[1] before the public, Iam aware of the great difficulties of my task, and indeed can hardlyhope to do justice to the Author. In fact, had itnot been for theconsiderations I am about to state, I might probably never havepublished what had originally been undertaken in order to acquire aclearercomprehension of these essays, rather than with a view topublicity.  [1] From the fourth edition by Julius FrauenstÃ¤dt. "Fourfold Root,"  Leipzig, 1875; "Will inNature," Leipzig, 1878.The two treatises which form the contents of the present volume have somuch importance for a profound and correct knowledge ofSchopenhauer'sphilosophy, that it may even be doubted whether the translation ofhis chief work, "Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung," can contributemuchtowards the appreciation of his system without the help atleast of the "Vierfache Wurzel des Satzes vom zureichenden Grunde."Schopenhauer himself repeatedlyand urgently insists upon a previousthorough knowledge of Kant's philosophy, as the basis, and of hisown "Fourfold Root," as the key, to his own system,asserting thatknowledge to be the indispensable condition for a right comprehensionof his meaning. So far as I am aware, neither the "Fourfold Root"nor the "Willin Nature" have as yet found a translator; therefore,considering the dawning interest which has begun to make itself feltfor Schopenhauer's philosophy in Englandand in America, and the factthat no more competent scholar has come forward to do the work, it maynot seem presumptuous to suppose that this version may beacceptableto those who wish to acquire a more than superficial knowledge of thisremarkable thinker, yet whose acquaintance with German does not permitthemto read his works in the original.Now although some portions of both the Essays published in the presentvolume have of course become antiquated, owing to thesubsequentdevelopment of the empirical sciences, while others--such as, forinstance, Schopenhauer's denunciation of plagiarism in the cases ofBrandis and Rosasin the beginning of Physiology and Pathology[2]--canhave no interest for the reader of the present day, I have neverthelessgiven them just as he left them andrefrained from all suppression oralteration. And if, on the whole, the "Will in Nature" may be lessindispensable for a right understanding of our philosopher'sviewsthan the "Fourfold Root," being merely a record of the confirmationswhich had been contributed during his lifetime by the various branchesof NaturalScience to his doctrine, that _the thing in itself is thewill_, the Second Essay has nevertheless in its own way quite as muchimportance as the First, and is, in asense, its complement. For theyboth throw light on Schopenhauer's view of the Universe in its doubleaspect as Will and as Representation, each being as it were_a rÃ©sumÃ©_of the exposition of one of those aspects. My plea for uniting them inone volume, in spite of the difference of their contents and the widelapse oftime (seventeen years) which lies between them, must be, thatthey complete each other, and that their great weight and intrinsicvalue seem to point them out aspeculiarly fitted to be introduced tothe English thinker.  [2] See "Will in Nature," pp. 9-18 of the original; pp. 224-234 of  the present translation.In endeavouringto convey the Author's thoughts as he expressesthem, I have necessarily encountered many and great difficulties. Hismeaning, though always clearly expressed,is not always easy to seize,even for his countrymen; as a foreigner, therefore, I may often havefailed to grasp, let alone adequately to render, that meaning. Inthiscase besides, the responsibility for any want of perspicuity cannotbe shifted by the translator on to the Author; since the consummateperfection ofSchopenhauer's prose is universally recognised, even bythose who reject, or at least who do not share, his views. An eminentGerman writer of our time has nothesitated to rank him immediatelyafter Lessing and GÃ¶the as the third greatest German prose-writer, andonly quite recently a German professor, in a speechdelivered withthe intent of demolishing Schopenhauer's philosophy, was reluctantlyobliged to admit that his works would remain on account of theirliterary value.GÃ¶the himself expressed admiration for the clearness ofexposition in Schopenhauer's chief work and for the beauty of his style.The chief obstacle I haveencountered in translating these Essays, didnot therefore consist in the obscurity of the Author's style, nor evenin the difficulty of finding appropriate termswherewith to convey hismeaning; although at times certainly the want of complete precision inour philosophical terminology made itself keenly felt and theselectionwas often far from easy: it lay rather in the great difference in theway of thinking and of expressing their thoughts which lies betweenthe two nations.The regions of German and English thought are indeedseparated by a gulf, which at first seems impassable, yet which mustbe bridged over by some means orother, if a right comprehension is tobe achieved. The German writer loves to develop synthetically a singlethought in a long period consisting of various members;he proceedssteadily to unravel the seemingly tangled skein, while he keeps thereader ever on the alert, making him assist actively in the processand never lettinghim lose sight of the main thread. The Englishauthor, on the contrary, anxious before all things to avoid confusionand misunderstanding, and ready for this endnot only to sacrificeharmony of proportion in construction, but to submit to the necessityof occasional artificial joining, usually adopts the analyticalmethod. Heprefers to divide the thread of his discourse into severalsmaller skeins, easier certainly to handle and thus better suiting theconvenience of the English thinker, towhom long periods are trying andbewildering, and who is not always willing to wait half a page or morefor the point of a sentence or the gist of a thought.Wherever it couldbe done without interfering seriously with the spirit of the original,I have broken up the longer periods in these essays into smallersentences, inorder to facilitate their comprehension. At times howeverSchopenhauer recapitulates a whole side of his view of the Universein a single period of what seemsintolerable length to the Englishreader: as, for instance, the _rÃ©sumÃ©_ contained in the Introductionto his "Will in Nature,"[3] which could not be dividedwithout damageto his meaning. Here therefore it did not seem advisable to sacrificethe unity and harmony of his design and to disturb both his form andhismeaning, in order to minister to the reader's dislike for mentalexertion; in keeping the period intact I have however endeavoured tomake it as easy tocomprehend as possible by the way in which thesingle parts are presented to the eye.  [3] Pp. 2 and 3 of the original, and pp. 216 to 218 of thepresent  translation.As regards the terms chosen to convey the German meaning, I can hardlyhope to have succeeded in every case in adequately rendering it,stillless can I expect to have satisfied my English readers. Several wordsof frequent occurrence and of considerable importance for the rightunderstanding of theoriginal, have been used at different times bydifferent English philosophers in senses so various, that, until ourphilosophical terminology has by universal consentattained far greaterprecision than at present, it must always be difficult for the writeror translator to convey to the reader's mind precisely the same thoughtthatwas in his own. To prevent unnecessary confusion however, byleaving too much to chance, I will here briefly state those terms whichgive most latitude formisapprehension, explaining the sense in whichI employ them and also the special meaning attached to some of them bySchopenhauer, who often differs in thisfrom other writers. They are asfollows.(_a._) _Anschauung_ (_anschauen_, literally 'to behold') I haverendered differently, according to its double meaning inGerman. Whenused to designate the mental act by which an object is perceived, asthe cause of a sensation received, it is rendered by _perception_.When used tolay stress upon _immediate_, as opposed to _abstract_representation, it is rendered by _intuition_. This last occurs howevermore often in the adjectiveform.(_b._) _Vorstellung_ (_vorstellen_, literally 'to place before') Irender by _representation_ in spite of its foreign, unwelcome sound tothe English ear, asbeing the term which nearest approaches the Germanmeaning. The faculty of representation is defined by Schopenhauerhimself as "an exceedingly complicatedphysiological process in thebrain of an animal, the result of which is the consciousness of a_picture_ there."(_c._) _Auffassung_ (_auffassen_, literally 'to catchup') has somany shades of meaning in German that it has to be translated in manydifferent ways according to the relation in which it stands in thecontext. Itsignifies _apprehension_, _comprehension_, _perception_,_viewing_ and _grasping_.(_d._) _Wahrnehmung_ (_wahrnehmen_, from _wahr_, true, and_nehmen_, totake), is translated by _apprehension_ or _perception_, according tothe degree of consciousness which accompanies it.But the two words which


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Indiscretions of Archie, by P. G. WodehouseThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Indiscretions of ArchieAuthor: P. G. WodehouseRelease Date: June 25, 2008 [EBook #3756]Language: English*** START OF THISPROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INDISCRETIONS OF ARCHIE ***Produced by Charles Franks, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed ProofreadingTeamINDISCRETIONS OF ARCHIEBy P. G. WodehouseIt wasn't Archie's fault really. Its true he went to America and fell inlove with Lucille, the daughter of amillionaire hotel proprietor and ifhe did marry her--well, what else was there to do?From his point of view, the whole thing was a thoroughly good egg; butMr.Brewster, his father-in-law, thought differently, Archie hadneither money nor occupation, which was distasteful in the eyes of theindustrious Mr. Brewster; but thereal bar was the fact that he had onceadversely criticised one of his hotels.Archie does his best to heal the breach; but, being something of an ass,genuspriceless, he finds it almost beyond his powers to placate "theman-eating fish" whom Providence has given him as a father-in-lawP. G. WodehouseAUTHOR OF"THE LITTLE WARRIOR," "A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS," "UNEASY MONEY,"ETC.NEW YORKGEORGE H. DORAN COMPANYCOPYRIGHT,1921, BY GEORGE H, DORANCOMPANYCOPYRIGHT, 1920, BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY (COSMOPOLITANMAGAZINE)PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICADEDICATIONTO B. W. KING-HALL My dear Buddy,-- We have been friends for eighteen years. A considerable proportion of my books were written under your hospitable roof.And yet I have never dedicated one to you. What will be the verdict of Posterity on this? The fact is, I have become rather superstitious about dedications. Nosooner do you label a book with the legend--                          TO MY                        BEST FRIEND                            X than X cuts you in Piccadilly, or you bringa lawsuit against him. There is a fatality about it. However, I can't imagine anyone quarrelling with you, and I am getting more attractive all the time, so let's takea chance. Yours ever, P. G. WODEHOUSE.CONTENTS         I   DISTRESSING SCENE IN A HOTEL        II   A SHOCK FOR MR. BREWSTER       III   MR. BREWSTERDELIVERS SENTENCE        IV   WORK WANTED         V   STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF AN ARTIST'S MODEL        VI   THE BOMB       VII   MR. ROSCOE SHERRIFFHAS AN IDEA      VIII   A DISTURBED NIGHT FOR DEAR OLD SQUIFFY        IX   A LETTER FROM PARKER         X   DOING FATHER A BIT OFGOOD        XI   SALVATORE CHOOSES THE WRONG MOMENT       XII   BRIGHT EYES-AND A FLY      XIII   RALLYING ROUND PERCY       XIV   THE SAD CASE OFLOONEY BIDDLE        XV   SUMMER STORMS       XVI   ARCHIE ACCEPTS A SITUATION      XVII   BROTHER BILL'S ROMANCE     XVIII   THE SAUSAGECHAPPIE       XIX   REGGIE COMES TO LIFE        XX   THE SAUSAGE CHAPPIE CLICKS       XXI   THE-GROWING BOY      XXII   WASHY STEPS INTO THE HALL OFFAME     XXIII   MOTHER'S-KNEE      XXIV   THE MELTING OF MR. CONNOLLY       XXV   THE WIGMORE VENUS      XXVI   A TALE OF A GRANDFATHERCHAPTER I.DISTRESSING SCENE"I say, laddie!" said Archie."Sir?" replied the desk-clerk alertly. All the employes of the HotelCosmopolis were alert. It was one of the thingson which Mr. DanielBrewster, the proprietor, insisted. And as he was always wandering aboutthe lobby of the hotel keeping a personal eye on affairs, it wasneversafe to relax."I want to see the manager.""Is there anything I could do, sir?"Archie looked at him doubtfully."Well, as a matter of fact, my dear olddesk-clerk," he said, "I want tokick up a fearful row, and it hardly seems fair to lug you into it. Whyyou, I mean to say? The blighter whose head I want on acharger is thebally manager."At this point a massive, grey-haired man, who had been standing closeby, gazing on the lobby with an air of restrained severity, asif daringit to start anything, joined in the conversation."I am the manager," he said.His eye was cold and hostile. Others, it seemed to say, might likeArchieMoffam, but not he. Daniel Brewster was bristling for combat.What he had overheard had shocked him to the core of his being. TheHotel Cosmopolis was his ownprivate, personal property, and the thingdearest to him in the world, after his daughter Lucille. He pridedhimself on the fact that his hotel was not like other NewYork hotels,which were run by impersonal companies and shareholders and boards ofdirectors, and consequently lacked the paternal touch which madetheCosmopolis what it was. At other hotels things went wrong, and clientscomplained. At the Cosmopolis things never went wrong, because he wason the spot tosee that they didn't, and as a result clients nevercomplained. Yet here was this long, thin, string-bean of an Englishmanactually registering annoyance anddissatisfaction before his very eyes."What is your complaint?" he enquired frigidly.Archie attached himself to the top button of Mr. Brewster's coat,and wasimmediately dislodged by an irritable jerk of the other'ssubstantial body."Listen, old thing! I came over to this country to nose about in searchof a job, becausethere doesn't seem what you might call a generaldemand for my services in England. Directly I was demobbed, the familystarted talking about the Land ofOpportunity and shot me on to a liner.The idea was that I might get hold of something in America--"He got hold of Mr. Brewster's coat-button, and was againshaken off."Between ourselves, I've never done anything much in England, and Ifancy the family were getting a bit fed. At any rate, they sent me overhere--"Mr.Brewster disentangled himself for the third time."I would prefer to postpone the story of your life," he said coldly,"and be informed what is your specific complaintagainst the HotelCosmopolis.""Of course, yes. The jolly old hotel. I'm coming to that. Well, it waslike this. A chappie on the boat told me that this was the bestplace tostop at in New York--""He was quite right," said Mr. Brewster."Was he, by Jove! Well, all I can say, then, is that the other New Yorkhotels must be prettymouldy, if this is the best of the lot! I took aroom here last night," said Archie quivering with self-pity, "and therewas a beastly tap outside somewhere which wentdrip-drip-drip all nightand kept me awake."Mr. Brewster's annoyance deepened. He felt that a chink had been foundin his armour. Not even the most paternalhotel-proprietor can keep aneye on every tap in his establishment."Drip-drip-drip!" repeated Archie firmly. "And I put my boots outsidethe door when I went tobed, and this morning they hadn't been touched.I give you my solemn word! Not touched.""Naturally," said Mr. Brewster. "My employes are honest""But I wantedthem cleaned, dash it!""There is a shoe-shining parlour in the basement. At the Cosmopolisshoes left outside bedroom doors are not cleaned.""Then I think theCosmopolis is a bally rotten hotel!"Mr. Brewster's compact frame quivered. The unforgivable insult had beenoffered. Question the legitimacy of Mr. Brewster'sparentage, knock Mr.Brewster down and walk on his face with spiked shoes, and you did notirremediably close all avenues to a peaceful settlement. But makearemark like that about his hotel, and war was definitely declared."In that case," he said, stiffening, "I must ask you to give up yourroom.""I'm going to give itup! I wouldn't stay in the bally place anotherminute."Mr. Brewster walked away, and Archie charged round to the cashier'sdesk to get his bill. It had been hisintention in any case, though fordramatic purposes he concealed it from his adversary, to leave the hotelthat morning. One of the letters of introduction which hehad broughtover from England had resulted in an invitation from a Mrs. van Tuyl toher house-party at Miami, and he had decided to go there at once."Well,"mused Archie, on his way to the station, "one thing's certain.I'll never set foot in THAT bally place again!"But nothing in this world is certain.CHAPTER II. ASHOCK FOR MR. BREWSTERMr. Daniel Brewster sat in his luxurious suite at the Cosmopolis,smoking one of his admirable cigars and chatting with his oldfriend,Professor Binstead. A stranger who had only encountered Mr. Brewster inthe lobby of the hotel would have been surprised at the appearance ofhissitting-room, for it had none of the rugged simplicity which was thekeynote of its owner's personal appearance. Daniel Brewster was a manwith a hobby. He waswhat Parker, his valet, termed a connoozer. Hiseducated taste in Art was one of the things which went to make theCosmopolis different from and superior toother New York hotels. He hadpersonally selected the tapestries in the dining-room and the variouspaintings throughout the building. And in his private capacityhe was anenthusiastic collector of things which Professor Binstead, whosetastes lay in the same direction, would have stolen without a twinge ofconscience if hecould have got the chance.The professor, a small man of middle age who wore tortoiseshell-rimmedspectacles, flitted covetously about the room, inspecting itstreasureswith a glistening eye. In a corner, Parker, a grave, lean individual,bent over the chafing-dish, in which he was preparing for his employerand his guesttheir simple lunch."Brewster," said Professor Binstead, pausing at the mantelpiece.Mr. Brewster looked up amiably. He was in placid mood to-day. Twoweeks andmore had passed since the meeting with Archie recorded in theprevious chapter, and he had been able to dismiss that disturbing affairfrom his mind. Since then,everything had gone splendidly with DanielBrewster, for he had just accomplished his ambition of the momentby completing the negotiations for the purchase ofa site furtherdown-town, on which he proposed to erect a new hotel. He liked buildinghotels. He had the Cosmopolis, his first-born, a summer hotel inthemountains, purchased in the previous year, and he was toying with theidea of running over to England and putting up another in London, That,however, wouldhave to wait. Meanwhile, he would concentrate on this newone down-town. It had kept him busy and worried, arranging for securingthe site; but his troubleswere over now."Yes?" he said.Professor Binstead had picked up a small china figure of delicateworkmanship. It represented a warrior of pre-khaki days advancingwith aspear upon some adversary who, judging from the contented expression onthe warrior's face, was smaller than himself."Where did you get this?""That?Mawson, my agent, found it in a little shop on the east side.""Where's the other? There ought to be another. These things go in pairs.They're valueless alone."Mr.Brewster's brow clouded."I know that," he said shortly. "Mawson's looking for the other oneeverywhere. If you happen across it, I give you carte blanche to buyitfor me.""It must be somewhere.""Yes. If you find it, don't worry about the expense. I'll settle up, nomatter what it is.""I'll bear it in mind," said ProfessorBinstead. "It may cost you a lotof money. I suppose you know that.""I told you I don't care what it costs.""It's nice to be a millionaire," sighed Professor


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<title>ChasingAmy</title>
 Chasing Amy Written by Kevin Smith INT. COMIC BOOK STORE - DAY A pile of COMIC BOOKS are on a shelf next to myriadothers. The most prominent one is called BLUNTMAN AND CHRONIC'.  A hand reaches in and pulls one out of frame. HOLDEN opens the comic and flips throughit He shakes his head.  BANKY looks over his shoulder. BANKY Felt Like this fucking day would never come.  Issue two - on the shelf. HOLDENYippee. BANKY Don't start, alright!  This is a cool moment, and I'd appreciate you not trying to ruin it.  How often does a guy get the opportunity topurchase something with his name on it! (points to name on cover) Banky Edwards- right! (points to the other) Holden McNeil. HOLDEN I know myname. BANKY C'mon, sour puss.  We got the rest of our lives to be artists.  But it's supply and demand.  And right now, the unwashed masses demandthis. HOLDEN (off comic) This is easy, alright!  And right now it pays the bills.  Just don't forget that we're better than this. BANKY I'll tell youwho we're better than: these two fags right here. They approach the counter, where STEVE-DAVE, the store manager, and WALT the Fan-boy, play a cardgame. BANKY (lays books on the counter) Alright Old-Maid's - take a break from the Crazy-8's marathon and ring us up. STEVE-DAVE (notlooking up) Well, well,well, Walt Did you see who it is!  The local celebrities.  Quick - get them to autograph one of their books so we can sell it for triple it's


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Rise and Fall of Cesar Birotteau, by Honore de BalzacThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Rise and Fall of Cesar BirotteauAuthor: Honore de BalzacTranslator: Katharine Prescott WormeleyRelease Date: October, 1999  [Etext#1942]Posting Date: March 6, 2010Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RISE AND FALL OF CESAR BIROTTEAU ***Produced byJohn Bickers, and DagnyRISE AND FALL OF CESAR BIROTTEAUBy Honore De BalzacTranslated by Katharine Prescott WormeleyPART I. CESAR AT HISAPOGEEIDuring winter nights noise never ceases in the Rue Saint-Honore exceptfor a short interval. Kitchen-gardeners carrying their produce to marketcontinuethe stir of carriages returning from theatres and balls. Nearthe middle of this sustained pause in the grand symphony of Parisianuproar, which occurs about oneo'clock in the morning, the wife ofMonsieur Cesar Birotteau, a perfumer established near the Place Vendome,was startled from her sleep by a frightful dream. Shehad seen herdouble. She had appeared to herself clothed in rags, turning with ashrivelled, withered hand the latch of her own shop-door, seeming to beat thethreshold, yet at the same time seated in her armchair behind thecounter. She was asking alms of herself, and heard herself speaking fromthe doorway and alsofrom her seat at the desk.She tried to grasp her husband, but her hand fell on a cold place.Her terror became so intense that she could not move her neck,whichstiffened as if petrified; the membranes of her throat became gluedtogether, her voice failed her. She remained sitting erect in the sameposture in themiddle of the alcove, both panels of which were wideopen, her eyes staring and fixed, her hair quivering, her ears filledwith strange noises, her heart tightenedyet palpitating, and her personbathed in perspiration though chilled to the bone.Fear is a half-diseased sentiment, which presses so violently upon thehumanmechanism that the faculties are suddenly excited to the highestdegree of their power or driven to utter disorganization. Physiologistshave long wondered at thisphenomenon, which overturns their systemsand upsets all theories; it is in fact a thunderbolt working within thebeing, and, like all electric accidents, capriciousand whimsical in itscourse. This explanation will become a mere commonplace in the daywhen scientific men are brought to recognize the immense partwhichelectricity plays in human thought.Madame Birotteau now passed through several of the shocks, in some sortelectrical, which are produced by terribleexplosions of the will forcedout, or held under, by some mysterious mechanism. Thus during aperiod of time, very short if judged by a watch, but immeasurablewhencalculated by the rapidity of her impressions, the poor woman had thesupernatural power of emitting more ideas and bringing to the surfacemorerecollections than, under any ordinary use of her faculties, shecould put forth in the course of a whole day. The poignant tale of hermonologue may be abridgedinto a few absurd sentences, as contradictoryand bare of meaning as the monologue itself."There is no reason why Birotteau should leave my bed! He has eatensomuch veal that he may be ill. But if he were ill he would have wakedme. For nineteen years that we have slept together in this bed, in thishouse, it has neverhappened that he left his place without tellingme,--poor sheep! He never slept away except to pass the night in theguard-room. Did he come to bed to-night?Why, of course; goodness! howstupid I am."She cast her eyes upon the bed and saw her husband's night-cap, whichstill retained the almost conical shape of hishead."Can he be dead? Has he killed himself? Why?" she went on. "For thelast two years, since they made him deputy-mayor, he is_all-I-don't-know-how_. Toput him into public life! On the word of anhonest woman, isn't it pitiable? His business is doing well, for he gaveme a shawl. But perhaps it isn't doing well? Bah! Ishould know ofit. Does one ever know what a man has got in his head; or a womaneither?--there is no harm in that. Didn't we sell five thousand francs'worthto-day? Besides, a deputy mayor couldn't kill himself; he knowsthe laws too well. Where is he then?"She could neither turn her neck, nor stretch out her hand topullthe bell, which would have put in motion a cook, three clerks, and ashop-boy. A prey to the nightmare, which still lasted though hermind was wide awake, sheforgot her daughter peacefully asleep in anadjoining room, the door of which opened at the foot of her bed. At lastshe cried "Birotteau!" but got no answer. Shethought she had called thename aloud, though in fact she had only uttered it mentally."Has he a mistress? He is too stupid," she added. "Besides, he loves metoowell for that. Didn't he tell Madame Roguin that he had never beenunfaithful to me, even in thought? He is virtue upon earth, that man. Ifany one ever deservedparadise he does. What does he accuse himself ofto his confessor, I wonder? He must tell him a lot of fiddle-faddle.Royalist as he is, though he doesn't know why,he can't froth up hisreligion. Poor dear cat! he creeps to Mass at eight o'clock as slyly asif he were going to a bad house. He fears God for God's sake; hellisnothing to him. How could he have a mistress? He is so tied to mypetticoat that he bores me. He loves me better than his own eyes; hewould put them out for mysake. For nineteen years he has never said tome one word louder than another. His daughter is never considered beforeme. But Cesarine is here--Cesarine!Cesarine!--Birotteau has never hada thought which he did not tell me. He was right enough when he declaredto me at the Petit-Matelot that I should never knowhim till I triedhim. And _not here_! It is extraordinary!"She turned her head with difficulty and glanced furtively about theroom, then filled with those picturesqueeffects which are the despairof language and seem to belong exclusively to the painters of genre.What words can picture the alarming zig-zags produced byfallingshadows, the fantastic appearance of curtains bulged out by the wind,the flicker of uncertain light thrown by a night-lamp upon the folds ofred calico, therays shed from a curtain-holder whose lurid centrewas like the eye of a burglar, the apparition of a kneeling dress,--inshort, all the grotesque effects which terrifythe imagination at amoment when it has no power except to foresee misfortunes and exaggeratethem? Madame Birotteau suddenly saw a strong light in the roombeyondher chamber, and thought of fire; but perceiving a red foulard whichlooked like a pool of blood, her mind turned exclusively to burglars,especially whenshe thought she saw traces of a struggle in the way thefurniture stood about the room. Recollecting the sum of money whichwas in the desk, a generous fear putan end to the chill ferment of hernightmare. She sprang terrified, and in her night-gown, into the verycentre of the room to help her husband, whom shesupposed to be in thegrasp of assassins."Birotteau! Birotteau!" she cried at last in a voice full of anguish.She then saw the perfumer in the middle of the nextroom, a yard-stickin his hand measuring the air, and so ill wrapped up in his green cottondressing-gown with chocolate-colored spots that the cold hadreddenedhis legs without his feeling it, preoccupied as he was. When Cesarturned about to say to his wife, "Well, what do you want, Constance?"his air andmanner, like those of a man absorbed in calculations, wereso prodigiously silly that Madame Birotteau began to laugh."Goodness! Cesar, if you are not an odditylike that!" she said. "Whydid you leave me alone without telling me? I have nearly died of terror;I did not know what to imagine. What are you doing there, flyingopento all the winds? You'll get as hoarse as a wolf. Do you hear me,Birotteau?""Yes, wife, here I am," answered the perfumer, coming into the bedroom."Comeand warm yourself, and tell me what maggot you've got in yourhead," replied Madame Birotteau opening the ashes of the fire, which shehastened to relight. "Iam frozen. What a goose I was to get up in mynight-gown! But I really thought they were assassinating you."The shopkeeper put his candlestick on thechimney-piece, wrapped hisdressing-gown closer about him, and went mechanically to find a flannelpetticoat for his wife."Here, Mimi, cover yourself up," he said."Twenty-two by eighteen," heresumed, going on with his monologue; "we can get a superb salon.""Ah, ca! Birotteau, are you on the high road to insanity? Areyoudreaming?""No, wife, I am calculating.""You had better wait till daylight for your nonsense," she cried,fastening the petticoat beneath her short night-gownand going to thedoor of the room where her daughter was in bed."Cesarine is asleep," she said, "she won't hear us. Come, Birotteau,speak up. What is it?""Wecan give a ball.""Give a ball! we? On the word of an honest woman, you are dreaming, myfriend.""I am not dreaming, my beautiful white doe. Listen. Peopleshouldalways do what their position in life demands. Government has broughtme forward into prominence. I belong to the government; it is my duty tostudy itsmind, and further its intentions by developing them. The Ducde Richelieu has just put an end to the occupation of France bythe foreign armies. According toMonsieur de la Billardiere, thefunctionaries who represent the city of Paris should make it their duty,each in his own sphere of influence, to celebrate the liberationof ourterritory. Let us show a true patriotism which shall put these liberals,these damned intriguers, to the blush; hein? Do you think I don't lovemy country? Iwish to show the liberals, my enemies, that to love theking is to love France.""Do you think you have got any enemies, my poor Birotteau?""Why, yes, wife, wehave enemies. Half our friends in the quarter areour enemies. They all say, 'Birotteau has had luck; Birotteau is a manwho came from nothing: yet here he isdeputy-mayor; everything succeedswith him.' Well, they are going to be finely surprised. You are thefirst to be told that I am made a chevalier of the Legion ofhonor. Theking signed the order yesterday.""Oh! then," said Madame Birotteau, much moved, "of course we must givethe ball, my good friend. But what haveyou done to merit the cross?""Yesterday, when Monsieur de la Billardiere told me the news," saidBirotteau, modestly, "I asked myself, as you do, what claims Ihad toit; but I ended by seeing what they were, and in approving the actionof the government. In the first place, I am a royalist; I was woundedat Saint-Roch inVendemiaire: isn't it something to have borne armsin those days for the good cause? Then, according to the merchants, Iexercised my judicial functions in a wayto give general satisfaction. Iam now deputy-mayor. The king grants four crosses to the municipality ofParis; the prefect, selecting among the deputies suitablepersons to bethus decorated, has placed my name first on the list. The king moreoverknows me: thanks to old Ragon. I furnish him with the only powder heiswilling to use; we alone possess the receipt of the late queen,--poor,dear, august victim! The mayor vehemently supported me. So there it is.If the king gives