Aleron Grantaire // R (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fitofgrandair) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sirenspull2012-12-16 06:45 pm
fitofgrandair) wrote in sirenspull2012-12-16 06:45 pm
Entry tags:
VIDEO
This is…
[A man’s face appears, expression an odd mixture of the sardonic and amiable, with perhaps somewhere a buried uneasiness. His eyes speak of unbelief and an energy without direction.] This is the strangest book that I have ever seen. Consider my very conception of books boggled, beaten into an utter absence of understanding. I have seen a book made… What is it they call this, again? No matter, let us say ‘made monstrous,’ reshaped to suit an unearthly purpose. Am I speaking to you? I’ve no idea who you are, or whether you exist. Yet let me speak! For there is no thrill in life equal to the sound of one’s own voice.
Let it be know to all naysayers and reluctant theorists, to every doubting Thomas, that we truly do exist in the most glorious of worlds, where a man may perish one moment and roam free the next! How foolish we are to believe we might die, how foolish to fear the end when every end is a beginning! Why, just think, we may continue in this manner forever, cycling from one life into another into another, and never forgetting, and never finding darkness. The scholars of optimism would call us creatures of eternal light. Why have we wasted such years in shuddering before the great god Death, when we might in rapture have praise the god Unending?
Will it never, never end. [He blinks, appears discomforted for an instant, than shrugs.]
And here stand I, believer in nothing, adherent to no doctrine. You may count me as lost as any other man, here and elsewhere, now and forever. I am a man without port, a creature lacking in connection. I belong to this world no more than to any other… ‘This world.’ I’ve yet to know what this world is, or if it is a world; if I may be classed as alive, dead, mad. What of these titles? Call me exile, call me one of un-belonging. I will answer or ignore to my liking.
But while we’re at it, a drink? What do you say? Ah, I would give my kingdom for a bottle of wine. Of course, my kingdom amounts to a thimble—That isn’t so, I haven’t got a thimble. But I would gladly take the wine, anyway. Come, lend a hand. If you must have payment, let me serenade you with a harangue or two.
I will tell you what most surprises me: that it is not emptiness that waits beyond, but more life, or whatever we would feign call life. This, well… This puts all of my knowing to shame. [Grantaire smirks, any sign of unease covered.] But that I am accustomed to, for who can trust to knowledge? It has been a joy speaking to you; we must do this again sometime. [With that, the screen blanks, and he is gone.]
[A man’s face appears, expression an odd mixture of the sardonic and amiable, with perhaps somewhere a buried uneasiness. His eyes speak of unbelief and an energy without direction.] This is the strangest book that I have ever seen. Consider my very conception of books boggled, beaten into an utter absence of understanding. I have seen a book made… What is it they call this, again? No matter, let us say ‘made monstrous,’ reshaped to suit an unearthly purpose. Am I speaking to you? I’ve no idea who you are, or whether you exist. Yet let me speak! For there is no thrill in life equal to the sound of one’s own voice.
Let it be know to all naysayers and reluctant theorists, to every doubting Thomas, that we truly do exist in the most glorious of worlds, where a man may perish one moment and roam free the next! How foolish we are to believe we might die, how foolish to fear the end when every end is a beginning! Why, just think, we may continue in this manner forever, cycling from one life into another into another, and never forgetting, and never finding darkness. The scholars of optimism would call us creatures of eternal light. Why have we wasted such years in shuddering before the great god Death, when we might in rapture have praise the god Unending?
Will it never, never end. [He blinks, appears discomforted for an instant, than shrugs.]
And here stand I, believer in nothing, adherent to no doctrine. You may count me as lost as any other man, here and elsewhere, now and forever. I am a man without port, a creature lacking in connection. I belong to this world no more than to any other… ‘This world.’ I’ve yet to know what this world is, or if it is a world; if I may be classed as alive, dead, mad. What of these titles? Call me exile, call me one of un-belonging. I will answer or ignore to my liking.
But while we’re at it, a drink? What do you say? Ah, I would give my kingdom for a bottle of wine. Of course, my kingdom amounts to a thimble—That isn’t so, I haven’t got a thimble. But I would gladly take the wine, anyway. Come, lend a hand. If you must have payment, let me serenade you with a harangue or two.
I will tell you what most surprises me: that it is not emptiness that waits beyond, but more life, or whatever we would feign call life. This, well… This puts all of my knowing to shame. [Grantaire smirks, any sign of unease covered.] But that I am accustomed to, for who can trust to knowledge? It has been a joy speaking to you; we must do this again sometime. [With that, the screen blanks, and he is gone.]
no subject
"I might say the same about love. To know love, one must first believe in the possibility of its manifestation. My mind may compass love as a concept, but as anything more... Who are we to class these shifts within ourselves? Who are we to ensnare our caprices and changing moods in immutable terms? As if we might hold onto anything.
"Man's--and, pardon, woman's--rage at love may stem from a desire to believe too firmly that this star-struck devotion in fact exists. Where is love but in words, in our minds, in a world of ideals that can never intersect with actuality? We exist in a state of perpetual desire and label our passing wishes deep-felt passion.
"The truth of all love is illusion. The edge of love's dagger is our own ignorant, wonderfully stubborn capacity for belief."
All apt enough. But he has other matters to consider. Taking a drink from the bottle, Grantaire considers the--what is it again?--the NV tucked into his jacket pocket. A device through which he might meet Enjolras. And it can't be too soon. After the final moments... Well.
So, write him. Leave words to which he may respond. Give him space, give him time; the wounded lion is never pleased at being seen in seeming shame.
But perhaps Grantaire can be of aid.
Perhaps waiting would mean the harmful delay of any aid.
And speaking through this NV is so distant, so unreliable. Already finding himself jarred out of position (or whatever little position he had ever held) in this unknown and unknowing world, Grantaire feels no particularly strong urge to work through its particular systems. Better to bypass those unknown mediators. Better to simply go.
Simple as that.
Grantaire laughs quietly and pulls himself to his feet, taking another drink. "'Ponine, I may have been struck with a great madness, but this is a day for taking leaps as well as vacillating. This is a day the like of which have never been set down. Who then is to say what may occur? Who then is to say what stands for sense? You claim to know where Enjolras is, and so implore you to lead be thither.
"Quickly, now. Shall we?"
no subject
She scrubs quickly whilst he talks, crawling around the kitchen, and grunting every now and again to show she's listening. His words are relaxing, trancelike almost. They seem to run in circles and trip over each other. She scrubs, quick quick quick until she finishes that half of the kitchen. Done. Now there are only potatoes to peel and chop before she goes to Mr Gold's.
She stands up, smoothing down her wet skirt, and picks up the bucket to pour down the sink, still letting Grantaire's soliloquy run over her head.
But then she hears her name - her nickname no less, and she turns in astonishment.
"How did you know to call me 'Ponine? Most people say Eponine, you know? I like that you call me that though, 'Ponine."
She has no idea what a lot of the other words mean, so she looks a bit blank at first, but then she laughs.
"I will tell you what will happen. I will peel potatoes and go to Mr Gold's to clean, and then I will come here and make Hattie's dinner before leaving for Uzushio, where I will clean another kitchen, and then I will to bed. That is what shall happen, M'sieur."
And then it occurs to her - he had never stopped talking and she hadn't replied aloud, apparently, or he was choosing to ignore her.
"You wish to see M'sieur Enjolras? Now?"
She looks around quite helplessly at the kitchen. There's the bag of potatoes... But, she HAS been good most of the week. Hattie will just have to deal with it. Eponine wants to see Deadpool again.
"I will take you, M'sieur. It is another walk, though."
no subject