Napoleon Bonaparte

God, I absolutely bloody love Napoleon Bonaparte. Yes, he's the brilliant French general who eventually became the King of France.

He was not only a man of politics and clever strategies; he was also consumed by passion for his lovers. And that is what I love about him. Here's an original letter he wrote to his wife, Josephine de Beauharnais:

Dec. 29, 1795

I awake all filled with you. Your image and the intoxicating pleasures of last night, allow my senses no rest.

Sweet and matchless Josephine, how strangely you work upon my heart.

Are you angry with me? Are you unhappy? Are you upset?

My soul is broken with grief and my love for you forbids repose. But how can I rest any more, when I yield to the feeling that masters my inmost self, when I quaff from your lips and from your heart a scorching flame?

Yes! One night has taught me how far your portrait falls short of yourself! You start at midday: in three hours I shall see you again.

Till then, a thousand kisses, mio dolce amor! but give me none back for they set my blood on fire.

P.S. Mio dolce amor means my sweet love.

P.P.S. Wasn't that sugary sweet???

P.P.P.S. It was said that his last words were: "France, the army, Josephine..."

Announcement

Beloved readers, due to an extremely useless and absurd examination in the start of October, I am therefore unable to post as much as I used to.

I promise that I'll catch up after the examination and I'll miss you guys. Please be patient because I know that you guys are the best. Love you.

Here's a nice poem from Alice Cary (may I write like her):

My soul is full of whispered song,—
My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so long
Are full of life and light.

And another from Lord Tennyson:

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.

Wish me luck!

Dumb Attorneys

I received this from an e-mail and according to it, scenarios below are from a book called Disorder in the Court, and are things people actually said in court, word for word, taken down and now published by court reporters.

ATTORNEY: This myasthenia gravis, does it affect your memory at all? WITNESS: Yes.
ATTORNEY: And in what ways does it affect your memory?
WITNESS: I forget.
ATTORNEY: You forget? Can you give us an example of something you forgot?

ATTORNEY: What was the first thing your husband said to you that morning?
WITNESS: He said, 'Where am I, Cathy?'
ATTORNEY: And why did that upset you?
WITNESS: My name is Susan.

ATTORNEY: Now doctor, isn't it true that when a person dies in his sleep, he doesn't know about it until the next morning?
WITNESS: Did you actually pass the bar exam?

ATTORNEY: The youngest son, the twenty-one-year old, how old is he? WITNESS: Uh, he's twenty-one.

ATTORNEY: Were you present when your picture was taken?
WITNESS: Are you shittin' me?

ATTORNEY: So the date of conception (of the baby) was August 8th? WITNESS: Yes.
ATTORNEY: And what were you doing at that time?
WITNESS: Uh... I was getting laid!

ATTORNEY: She had three children, right?
WITNESS: Yes.
ATTORNEY: How many were boys?
WITNESS: None.
ATTORNEY: Were there any girls?
WITNESS: Your Honor, I think I need a different attorney. Can I get a new attorney?

ATTORNEY: How was your first marriage terminated?
WITNESS: By death.
ATTORNEY: And by whose death was it terminated?
WITNESS: Now whose death do you suppose terminated it?

ATTORNEY: Can you describe the individual?
WITNESS: He was about medium height and had a beard.
ATTORNEY: Was this a male or a female?

ATTORNEY: Doctor, how many of your autopsies have you performed on dead people?
WITNESS: All my autopsies are performed on dead people. Would you like to rephrase that?

ATTORNEY: ALL your responses MUST be oral, OK? What school did you go to?
WITNESS: Oral.

ATTORNEY: Do you recall the time that you examined the body?
WITNESS: The autopsy started around 8:30 p. m.
ATTORNEY: And Mr. Denton was dead at the time?
WITNESS: No, he was sitting on the table wondering why I was doing an autopsy on him.

And the best for last:

ATTORNEY: Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: Did you check for blood pressure?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: Did you check for breathing?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: How can you be so sure, Doctor?
WITNESS: Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar.
ATTORNEY: I see, but could the patient have still been alive, nevertheless? WITNESS: Yes, it is possible that he could have been alive and practicing law.

Stone Angel

Oh come, my stone angel,

Pray spread your mighty wings,

When howling wind dies to a whistle,

And turn all gloom into spring.

Speak to me, my silent protector,

Your icy gaze cuts my heart,

What do I do to make you alive?

Shall I wet your lips with the rain?

Come back, my angel of dark and light,

I hear you weep in this muted stone,

Unfold your wings into the Stygian night,

End this heart and its anguished moan.

Happy Birthday, Rach

Note: This is for Rachel. (You can be the girl if you want to.) Happy Birthday!

The room was large and jammed with rich and random contents; framed paintings to the ceiling, the floor covered with genuine Persian carpets, and there the piano, the great piano out of which had come this sound, shining in the middle of this mayhem.

The girl on the bench furrowed her brows in concentration. She, the centre diamond of it all, in a long, elegant gown of silk, played the lacquered grand piano with agile, unerring fingers, her hair a broad smooth yellow glow about her shoulders.

And there came that beautiful song, clear and shining through the dark air, the pristine notes, the crystalline music. So grand, so legible of tragedy and dauntless spirit.

The piano sang on in crashing cascades, the rapid notes melting as fast as they were born, so like the last thin snowflakes of the winter, vanishing before they strike the pavements. The notes were limpid and translucent and exquisitely distinct.

Back and forth she rocked on the bench as the melody went faster and more urgent. Her slim fingers flew across the keys with astonishing preciseness. Her body arched forward with her head thrown back in a moment of passion and the chords of music crashed down in a raging torrent and flooded the room. It was like the clap of thunder, the drastic drumming of an ancient war, the rumbling ground beneath the horse's hooves.

The melody slowed into a smooth, steady stream of notes and finally ended. Her eyelids fluttered open as her lips stretched into a slow, satisfied smile. The tall, handsome boy by the corner came forth and clutched her hands in his and kissed it gently before whispering,

"Behold, the poet of music."