Some little time ago I stood among immemorial English trees that seemed to take hold upon the stars like a brood of Ygdrasils. As I walked among these living pillars I became gradually aware that the rustics who lived and died in their shadow adopted a very curious conversational tone. They seemed to be constantly apologizing for the trees, as if they were a very poor show.
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“How are you, Podge?” I said, as I sat down in a leather armchair beside him.
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Here is the queer story of David William Duck, related by himself. Duck is an old man living in Aurora, Illinois, where he is universally respected. He is commonly known, however, as “Dead Duck.”
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Of all their cherished ceremonies, there are none the Chinese observe with more scrupulous exactness than those connected with death and mourning.
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Great news everybody.
Leonid Radvinsky, the man responsible for revolutionizing the porn industry, one of the most loathsome Jews ever to haunt this world, dropped dead at the age of 43.
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Andrea Tafi, painter and worker-in-mosaic of Florence, had a wholesome terror of the Devils of Hell, particularly in the watches of the night, when it is given to the powers of Darkness to prevail. And the worthy man’s fears were not unreasonable, for in those days the Demons had good cause to hate the Painters, who robbed them of more souls with a single picture than a good little Preaching Friar could do in thirty sermons.
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It was an exquisitely beautiful Italian morning, promising heat that a mild and constant breeze would temper. The East was one glitter.
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Great news everybody.
Teen Vogue, the magazine turning your teenage daughters into obnoxious communist sluts, is no more.
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Dick Cheney, the most powerful vice-president in the history of America, notorious scumbag, alleged war criminal, heart attack collector, father of a dumb bitch and a lesbian, has, alas, kicked the bucket.
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Jane Goodall was a primatologist, anthropologist, ethnologist, naturalist, conservationist, researcher, vegan, animal rights campaigner, shamanistic witch doctor – but above all, she was a famous person.
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“The average prisoner, approaching the moment of execution,” says Dr. Mereness, “is in a mental haze or wild delirium produced by the fear of death. In two instances, however, this was lacking. Both men, after being strapped in the chair, said: ‘Good-by, Doc!’”
The minute hand on my watch indicates 5:44 a. m. I am standing in a direct line with the chair.
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Remember Dorian Johnson, the illiterate buffoon who sparked the “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot” hoax by lying about Michael Brown’s death in 2014?
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While cruising through Transylvania, a region full of hungry bears, a 48-year-old Italian tourist spotted a mama bear with her 3 cubs on the side of the road, got off his bike, took some pictures, and tried to feed the bears, right next to a sign that says “DO NOT FEED THE BEARS”.
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He had become very ill—could hardly move from where he lay; and she, who loved him, and was to have married him, and spent all her waking hours in thinking what she could do for him, persuaded him to have a telephone installed and brought to his bedside so that he and she could talk, and he could talk with others, too. Every night he rang her up and they had a long conversation; many times in the day also. Nothing, as it happened, could have saved his life, but this modern device lightened his last weeks.
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Yes, I will tell you why I did it. I can talk to you, because you are a gentleman. You will understand. Those others were horrible men, policemen. They hustled me, they took me by the arm—me! Did you ever see a prison cell before? I never did. It’s a queer place to receive you in, but that isn’t my fault. They won’t let me out.
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When L’Olonnois and his buccaneers entered the town of Gibraltar they found that the greater part of the inhabitants had fled, but there were many people left, and these were made prisoners as fast as they were discovered. They were all forced to go into the great church, and then the pirates, fearing that the Spaniards outside of the town might be reënforced and come back again to attack them, carried a number of cannon into the church and fortified the building.
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When I am gone, that is the end of the world.
All its movements, of government, of wars, of business, of social redemption, of eugenics and women’s rights, of church, of art, of education, of finance, sport, romance, vengeance – the whole boiling kettle of human affairs will have disappeared, and “like an insubstantial fabric vanished leave not a wrack behind.”
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“Are you sure?”
The doctor nodded briefly. “Very sure, and the quicker the better!”
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It is reported that the last words of Charles Frohman before he went down on the ill-starred “Lusitania” were: “Why should we fear death? It is the most beautiful adventure of life.”
It was a great heart said that, holding it-self a bit aloof from the game, not too entangled with earth’s interests. For the fine soul is always above his pleasures, above his pains.
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When Parepa was here she was everywhere the people’s idol. The great opera houses in all our cities and towns were thronged. There were none to criticise or carp. Her young, rich, grand voice was beyond compare. Its glorious tones are remembered with an enthusiasm like that which greeted her when she sung.
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I am a broken man.
My little brother Timmy died before my eyes.
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“Man is by nature an experimenter,” argued my friend, Dr. Armand, a psychologist of some repute, “and he is steadily delving into the Unknown and bringing to light knowledge that is often appalling in its intricacy of concept.
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Thornton Stowe was always a puzzle to me. Very methodical in everything from early childhood, he always seemed utterly devoid of impulsive emotion. The only thing he ever did that really surprised me was to suddenly declare, one evening, that he loved Josephine Thralton and was betrothed to her.
(more…)I am gutted.
I just found out that Mark Gormley has passed away.
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A few weeks ago, while looking over some old papers which I found in the desk of my deceased father, I chanced upon the following manuscript. Whether it is a true record of some adventure in my father’s life, or a bit of fiction which he had at some time prepared for publication, I do not know; but I am inclined to believe that it is indeed a true narrative.
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Great news everybody: Dr. Fauci is still getting death threats.
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From a memorial oration delivered by James Gillespie Blaine in the House of Representatives on February 27, 1882.
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Alas, Lord Nathaniel Charles Jacob Rothschild, 4th Baron Rothschild, is dead.
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“I am not so superstitious as some of your physicians—men of science, as you are pleased to be called,” said Hawver, replying to an accusation that had not been made.
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I went to see my friend in the hospital. He had been there a month, with a bad foot. His only locomotion was being lifted from his chair to his bed and back.
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It was in Burma, a sodden morning of the rains. A sickly light, like yellow tinfoil, was slanting over the high walls into the jail yard. We were waiting outside the condemned cells, a row of sheds fronted with double bars, like small animal cages. Each cell measured about ten feet by ten and was quite bare within except for a plank bed and a pot of drinking water. In some of them brown silent men were squatting at the inner bars, with their blankets draped round them. These were the condemned men, due to be hanged within the next week or two.
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