OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# I, Mary MacLane/Chapter 6

To-morrow
I SUPPOSE there's nothing quite peculiar to even my inmost self in what I ponder and what I experience and what I feel.
My only elemental 'differentness' is that I find it and write it.
But I used to think at eighteen—those thrice-fired adolescent moments—that only I suffered, only I reached achingly out into the mists, only I tasted new-bloomed life-petals intolerably sweet and bitter on my lips.
The egotism of youth is merciless, measureless, endlessly vulnerable. Youth plays on itself as one plays on a little dulcimer, with music as sweet, but with a crude cruel recklessness which jerks and breaks the strings.
I have got by that stage of egotism. But I've entered on another wilder, more lawless—farther-seeing if less be-visioned.
While I sit here this midnight in a Neat Blue Chair in this Butte-Montana for what I know a legion-women of my psychic breed may be sitting lonely in neat red or neat blue or neat gray or neat any-colored chairs—in Wichita-Kansas and South Bend-Indiana and Red Wing-Minnesota and Portland-Maine and Rochester-New York and Waco-Texas ​and La Crosse-Wisconsin and Bowling Green-Kentucky: each feeling Herself set in a wrong niche, caught in a tangle of little vapidish cross-purpose: each waiting, waiting always—waiting all her life—not hopeful and passionate like Eighteen but patient or blasphemous or scornful or volcanic like Early-Thirty: the waiting-sense giving to each a personal quality big and suggestive and nurturing—and with it a long-accustomed feeling like a thin bright blade stuck deep in her breast: each more or less roundly hating Waco-Texas and Portland-Maine and Red Wing-Minnesota and the other places: and each beset by hot unquiet humannesses inside her and an old yearn of sex and the blood warring with myriad minute tenets dating from civilization's dawn-times.
But though I am of that psychic breed no little tenets war in me.
It's as if a prelate and a wood-nymph had fathered and mothered me: making me of a ridiculous poignant conscience and of no human traditions.
I am free of innate conventionalities, free as a wildcat on a twilight hill. I am free of them as I sit here, quiet-looking in my plain black dress. The virile Scotch-Canadian curl is brushed and brushed out of my hair to make it lie smooth and discreet over my ears and forehead. My feet are ​shod daintily like a charming girl's. My nails are pinkly polishedly pointed. My narrow black eyebrows look nearly patrician in their sereneness. My lips are stilly sad. My eyelids droop like the sucking dove's. But my gray eyes beneath the lids—when I raise them to the glass, my own Essence looks out of them, tiredly vivid. It seems made of languor and barbaricness and despair: and vague guiltiness, and some pure disastrous heathen religion, and lust: and lurid consciousness of everyday things and smouldering melancholy and blazing loving hatred of life.
My gray eyes out-look the wildcat's on a twilight hill.
But—so far as the Sitting goes—I sit here in my Neat Blue Chair the same as they all sit in any-colored chairs in their Wichitas and La Crosses.
# I, Mary MacLane/Chapter 60

To-morrow
MY damnedest damningest quality is Wavering—Wavering—
I might say I prefer the dawn to the twilight or the twilight to the dawn.
Neither would be true.
I love the dawn—I love the twilight.
What I unconsciously prefer is the long negative Wavering space-of-day between the two.
I might say I prefer heaven to hell or hell to heaven.
Neither would be true.
My garbled gyral nature, partaking uneasily of both, prefers to wander and hang and float about between the two.
I might say I prefer strength to weakness or weakness to strength.
Neither would be true.
What I prefer is a hellish hovering, an endless torturing Tenterhook between the two.
And that Wavering preference is against my will, against my reason, against my judgment, against my taste and liking—against my life, my welfare, my salvation: against the clear lights of my spirit.
I know I work intently and industriously at the articles of my damnation in the Wavering—Wavering—
​I know it would be better to die at once: failing that, to live but to live positively as a beggar, a whore, a thief or a milliner. Knowing that, I know also I Waver: I know I shall prefer to Waver: I know I shall constantly Waver.
I am constant—I am remarkably profoundly constant—in my Wavering.
In the morning as I dress I draw on a stocking—a long black or white glistening stocking. I know I do it only because the mixed big world, which refuses to Waver, is pushing—pushing me. I would choose if I could—though loathing my choice—to stay with my bare foot and my stocking in my hand, Wavering. Between drawing it on and pausing barefoot, Wavering. I prefer not to draw on the stocking: I prefer not to be barefoot: I prefer Wavering—Wavering—
When I'm hungry I choose: not to let food alone: not to eat it: to have it by me and Waver, Waver emptily. Not to enjoy its anticipation: not to contemplate it. No—no! To Waver! I reach and take the food because the world in its pushing pushes me.
If the world stopped pushing—
One reason it will be pleasant to be dead: I can then no longer Waver.
Worms will eat me unwaveringly. Or they may ​then do the Wavering. But I shall no more pause with a bare foot and an empty stocking, a dish of food and a gnawing midriff.
Here I sit as yet, alive and Wavering.
The Wavering is not the pale cast of thought: it is not my way of analysis: it is only Wavering—Wavering—
Wavering is not among the blue-green Stones in my antique necklace: not by that name—not as one Stone.
It is a marked and hateful and hellish gift of this present Me who house my Soul.
It is half of this Mary MacLane—who is I—: and I know.
I am constant alone—noticeably tensely constant—in my Wavering: and less constant in Wavering than in the ghoulish preference.
An odd and subtle doom.
# I, Mary MacLane/Chapter 62

To-morrow
A WISH that God would come personally to see me flutters in my thoughts ever and anon like a restless moth.
I am in a prison-mood and coldly content to be in it. For how long content—content is not the word: despairingly acquiescent—there's no word to express that—I can noway tell. But now I live and breathe aloof and strange-mooded. And with it I wish God would visit me a moment.
It is not a strong wish. Yet restless and persistent.
I want to be free from myself and away, loosed in the little broad big narrow World: but first and more I want God to visit me.
I want people again, those away from here who are my friends—some glowing-spirited ones who appreciate my Mind and cater to me: I want, I think, a poet to love me with some unobvious madness: but first and more I want God to visit me.
More than I want strength of spirit and flesh, more than I want a fat mental peace, more than I want to know John Keats in star-spaces: more than I want my dream-Child: I want God to visit me.
More than I wish this appalling tiredness would leave me: more than I wish this I write to be a realization, a de-fait portrait of the thin-hidden Me, ​my self-expression achieved: more than I want to be quit of my two black dresses and back in the wide sweet frivol of variegated clothes: I want God to visit me.
God must know all about that. He must have known it a long time. He still does not come. If he would come and tell me one thing, one certain thing, it would be enough. It would show me a direction and I could keep on in it by myself. If God would tell me even a sheerest matter-of-fact, for sure—like What O'Clock by his time it really is: that would be a spark from which I could build an eternal fire for myself. Forever after I could dispense with God as a personality.
I am strangely weak. Strong of will, strong of mind, but weak of purpose: damnably, damnedly. I shall never be able to write in words one one-thousandth of the dramatic drastic weakness which is in me. But I hate weakness with so deep and strong a hatred, and to know one eternal certain thing would be so roundly restful, I could then go on: I could vanquish the potent pettinesses which beset me.
I do not want from God a passport, a safe-conduct into heaven. I don't want to get into heaven. I don't know what it is, but the word has sounds of finality, as if all winds, sweet nervous petal-laden ​winds, had stopped blowing forever. For cycles and centuries to come the Soul of me will be too restless to live where winds can not blow.
I love the journey: so that only I might have one dim torch to go by. I love the pitfalls and ditches—all the dangers—black-shaded woods and wolds, and lonesome plains and briery paths, and very wet swamps, and strong whistling gales which chill me: so that I could feel but one tiny bright-bladed truth, within and without, pricking and urging me to struggle on through it all till I might emerge at last like a human being, rather than linger indifferent and inanimate like a jaded wood-nymph in drearily pleasant spaces.
# I, Mary MacLane/Chapter 55

To-morrow
I LOVE the sex-passion which is in this witching Body of me. I love to feel its portent grow and creep over me, like a climbing vine of tiny red roses, in the occasional dusks.
It is no shame or shadow or sordidness: but beauty and sweetness and light.
no token of sin: a token of virtue.
no thing to crush: rather to nurture, to garner.
no thing to forget: to remember, to think about.
no flat weak drawn-out prose: live potent clipped heated poetry.
not common and loosely human: rare and divine.
not fat daily soup: stinging wine of life.
not valueless because born of nothing and nowhere: valuable, priceless, a treasure under lock and key.
Sex-desire comes wandering in dusk-time and gulfs me as in a swift violent sweet-smelling whirlwind. It goes away sudden-variant as it came, out of a region of hot quick shadows.
And for that, for hours and days afterward, oranges and apples look brighter-colored to my eyes: hammocks swing easier as I sit in them: rugs feel softer to my feet: the black dresses lend themselves gentler to my form: pencils slide faciler on paper: my voice speaks less difficultly into telephones: meanings ​sound super-vibrant in Keats's Odes: sugar—little pinches of granulated sugar—are shaper, sweeter-sweeter in my throat.
And God grows less remote. And my wooden coffin and deep wet yellow clay grave move a long way back from me.
—all from fleeting ungratified wish of sly sex-tissues—
Also in it, and in my life from it, I sense some deathly pathos.
# Islam

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Islam."
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This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "Islam (Concept)," in Catholic Encyclopedia, (ed.) by Charles G. Herbermann and others, New York: The Encyclopaedia Press (1913)
* "Islam," in Encyclopædia Britannica (11th ed., 1911)
See also Category:Islam and Portal:Islam.
# In Maremma/Volume 2/Chapter 27

CHAPTER XXVII.
STE'S had been the usual tranquil, amorous, unoccupied life of young Italian men in old Italian cities that are away from the common track of travel: a life of sleepy calm, of often harmless dalliance, that usually has its story told from birth to death within the circle of the old town walls. Why not? Men used to be greater when they lived only on one spot, and more content. Unhappily, now, the greatness and the content are gone, because that which used to be repose too often 1s now but apathy, languor, rust.
He had studied under monks in an ecclesiastical college, ancient and solemn in art and architecture, where no boy laughed ​above his breath, and a Greek chorus was second to a Latin hymn. There he had grown up a beautiful, graceful, pensive lad, in a home straitened by penury and made austere by devotion, but keeping something of the stateliness of grander times.
To drop slowly down the wide lagoons and thread the mazes of the reed-thickets was his chief, often his only, occupation; to make his mandoline throb a love-lay under some old sculptured casement, where some fancy of the hour was hiding behind a curtain of frayed velvet or tattered tapestry, was his sole diversion. There was enough to live on; that slender pittance that kept his father and himself in a corner of the dark old palace would be enough for him to live on afterwards. No one spoke to him of action or of ambition; they were unknown words in Mantua; he lived through his years as idly and as thoughtlessly as any one of the dragon-flies above the rushes lived out their summer hour. If he were pensive and serious, it was only because the spirit of the place was on him and the sense of narrow fortunes curbed his youth.
Then, when he was twenty-four, this passion for an old man's young wife came ​on him with force and sorcery, and changed the whole tenor of his dreaming, sleepy days. He lived thenceforward only for one woman, in all the beguiling mystery of a secret and mutual love.
What he saw now was the beauty of that dead mistress. There is no coldness so unchanging, so unyielding, so absolute, as the coldness of one who loves what is lost. Actually, he never saw Musa with any eyes that realised her beauty or her girlhood.
He saw some one who was good to him in his sickness and extremity; that was all. The woman slain in Mantua, with the cruel hole in her breast and the datura lilies red with her blood, was for ever between him and this creature who tended him, fed him, sheltered him, saved him.
He had passed through one of those terrible hours in life which even in the most sensual temperaments burn out for the moment all fires of sense and quench desire in horror. He loved with all his force the woman murdered in Mantua; and yet he knew she was dead, dead, dead—a putrid thing pushed away under the friable, watery soil. The terror of that, the ghastliness of ​it, the despair of it, froze the blood in his veins. What was this girl to him?
No more than the empty lamps of the tomb whose lights had been out two thousand years.
Layout 2
# Indira and Other Stories

Illustrated by Nandalal Bose.
INDIRA AND OTHER STORIES
BY BANKIM CHANDRA CHATTERJEE
TRANSLATED BY J. D. ANDERSON, I.C.S. (Retired)
with two coloured illustrations BY NANDALAL BOSE
CALCUTTA MODERN REVIEW OFFICE 1918
Published by R. Chatterjee, 210/3/1, Cornwallis Street, Calcutta.
Printed by S. C. Majumdar, sree gauranga press, 71/1, Mirzapur Street, Calcutta.
CONTENTS.
Page.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Indira and Other Stories/Indira

Bengali original first published in 1873.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
# Indira and Other Stories/Doctor Macrurus

Bengali original, Vyaghracharya Brihallangul, originally published in the Bengali magazine Bangadarshan, Vaishakh, 1279 B.E. (1872). Published in 1874 as part of the author's book, Lok Rahasya. For another piece from the same book, see The Globe of Gold.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
# Joan of Arc (Southey)/Book 7

JOAN of ARC.
BOOK THE SEVENTH.
ARGUMENT.
Description of the English forts. The French troops attack and capture the forts of St. Loup and St. John. Attack of Fort London. Salisbury encounters the Maid. Event of that encounter. The Tournelles surrounded by the French, who dispatch a troop to Orleans for provisions, and encamp before it for the night.
JOAN of ARC
BOOK THE SEVENTH.
* ↑ Line 122. Neque enim. solis excussa lacertis Lancea, sed tenso balistæ turbine rapta, Haud unum contenta latus transire, quiescit; Sed pandens perque arma viam, perque ossa, relicta Lucan. III.Morte fugit: superest telo post vulnera cursus.
* ↑ Line 132. The bayle or lists was a space on the outside of the ditch, surrounded by strong pallisades, and sometimes by a low embattled wall. In the attack of fortresses, as the range of the machines then in use did not exceed the distance of four stadia, the besiegers did not carry on their approaches by means of trenches, but began their operations above ground, with the attack of the bayle or lists, where many feats of chivalry were performed by the Knights and men at arms, who considered the assault of that work as particularly belonging to them, the weight of their armour preventing them from scaling the walls. As this part was attacked by the Knights and men at arms, it was also defended by those of the same rank in the place, whence many single combats were fought here. This was at the first investing of the place. Grose.
* ↑ Line 141. In France only persons of a certain estate, called un fief de hauber, were permitted to wear a hauberk, which was the armor of a Knight. Esquires might only wear a simple coat of mail without the hood and hose. Had this aristocratic distinction consisted in the ornamental part of the arms alone, it would only have been ridiculous. In the enlightened and free States of Greece, every soldier was well provided with defensive arms. In Rome, a civic wreath was the reward of him who should save the life of a citizen. To use the words of Dr. Gillies, "the miserable peasants of modern Europe are exposed without defence as without remorse, by the ambition of men, whom the Greeks would have stiled tyrants."
* ↑ Line 143. The burgonet, which represented the shape of the head and features.
* ↑ Line 149. Earls and Dukes frequently wore their coronets on the crests of their helmets.
* ↑ Line 159. A breast-plate was sometimes worn under the hauberk.
# Joan of Arc (Southey)/Errata

ERRATA.
* Page 20. Line 264. this line not in italics.
* 030. Note. for line 445 read 439.
* 070. Line 530. her noblest warriors:
* 092.—048. for aveng'd—avenged.
* 098.—136. for Nabonne—Narbonne.
* 098.—140. for Rambolillet—Rambouillet.
* 102.—198. for Far—read Far, far.
* 168.—194. for———on the field;
* Verneuil to France so fatal,
* read———on the field
* Verneuil, to France so fatal;
* 182.—452. for—each man conceals,
* read—the husband hides.
* 183. in the first line place a comma, instead of a full stop.
* 183.—467. at the end of the line place a comma, instead of a full stop.
* 208.—303. for fight, read storm.
* 265.—122. for awakeing—awakening.
* 266.—125. for now the approaching hour
* read, now, that the happy hour.
* 282.—408. for giant's—giants.
* 289.—546. for battering—battering.
* 290.—561. for a semicolon, place a comma.
* 305.—838. erase the word Warrior.
* 339.—477. for deaming—deeming;
* 342.—544. for Rhadycine—Rhedycina.
* 343.—564. for stain—sting.
* 344.—569. for a full stop, place a comma.
* 359.—861. for Moloch Gods—read Moloch Idols.
# Joan of Arc (Southey)/Book 9

JOAN of ARC.
BOOK THE NINTH.
ARGUMENT.
Vision of the Maid.
JOAN of ARC.
BOOK THE NINTH.
* ↑ Line 29. The Bastille.
* ↑ Line 223. This thought is taken from Goethe's Sorrows of Werter.
* ↑ Line 709. During the siege of Jerusalem, "the Roman commander, with a generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism, laboured incessantly, and to the very last moment, to preserve the place. With this view, he again and again intreated the tyrants to surrender and save their lives. With the same view also, after carrying the second wall, the siege was intermitted four days: to rouse their fears, prisoners, to the number of five hundred, or more were crucified daily before the walls; till space, Josephus says, was wanting for the crosses, and crosses for the captives." From the Bampton Lectures of Ralph Churton. If any of my readers should enquire why Titus Vespasian, the Delight of Mankind, is placed in such a situation.—I answer, for "his generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism!
* ↑ Line 902. "The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems to grow on the breast of the Virgin." P.H.
# Joan of the Island

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
{Note: If you can't blank out the odd example of casual racism typical of that period, this is probably not the book for you]
JOAN OF THE ISLAND
JOAN OF THE ISLAND
BY
Ralph Henry Barbour and
H. P. Holt
BOSTON
SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1920,
By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
(incorporated)
CONTENTS
* chapterpage
* IFlotsam from the Four Winds1
* IIThe Girl on Tao Tao10
* IIIJoan Trent's Story25
* IVMoniz Shows His Teeth36
* VThe Fight at the Reef47
* VILeft in Charge56
* VIIMoniz Comes Back70
* VIIIA Flag of Truce81
* IXKeith is Puzzled93
* XThe Shell Bank104
* XIDrawn Blank114
* XIIOn the Beach126
* XIIIPerils Shared137
* XIVChester Pays a Visit148
* XVMoniz Sings160
* XVIA Thrust In The Dark174
* XVIIStolen!187
* XVIIIDelirium199
* XIXAt the End of the Rope210
* XXAn Attack221
* XXIMoniz Squares Accounts232
* XXIIOn the Schooner's Deck242
* XXIIILove at Dawn253
* XXIVKeith Reads the Paper264
* XXVThe Candle Gutters275
* XXVIThe Pearl of Tao Tao285
JOAN OF THE ISLAND
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1944, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 79 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Joan of Arc (Southey)/Book 6

JOAN of ARC.
BOOK THE SIXTH.
ARGUMENT.
Conrade on his way to Orleans releases a French soldier. He enters that city. Council of the leaders. Their determination. Summons of the Maid to the English Generals. They receive it with scorn. The Maid attacks, defeats them, and enters Orleans in triumph at midnight, amid thunder and lightning.
JOAN of ARC
BOOK THE SIXTH.
# Joan of Arc (Southey)/Book 4

The line numbers referenced in the footnotes in this Book are a continuation of the numbering from Book the Second, whereas the line numbering in this Book begins at 1. The lines referred to by the footnotes are therefore Footnote reference - 725.
JOAN of ARC.
BOOK THE FOURTH.
ARGUMENT.
A Messenger arrives from Orleans, representing the distress of that city, and requesting immediate succours. JOAN, in the presence of the King and assembled people, takes the armour of Orlando from his tomb in the church of St. Catharine of Fierbois. Strange conduct of the Messenger. The Maid recognizes him. She meets with Theodore. Returns despondently to the palace, and after expressing her disgust at the licentiousness of the court, announces her intention of marching on the morrow to relieve Orleans.
JOAN of ARC.
BOOK THE FOURTH.
* ↑ Line 293 Thomas Muir.
* ↑ Line 294 Though roused by that dark Vizier, Riot rude, &c. Coleridge's Poems.
* ↑ Line 489 "If they who mingled the Cup of Bitterness, drank its contents, we might look with compassion on the wickedness of great men: But alas! the storm which they raise, "beats heaviest on the exposed innocent," and the cottage of the poor man is stripped of every comfort, before the Oppressors, who send forth the mandate of death, are amerced of one Luxury, or one Vice. If calamities succeed each other in a long series, they deprecate the anger of Heaven by a Fast; which word (being interpreted) seems to signify—Prayers of Hate to the God of Love, and then a turbot feast to the rich, and their usual scanty meal to the poor, if indeed, debarred from their usual labor, they can procure even this! But if the cause be crowned by victory,———"They o'er the ravaged earth, As at an altar wet with human blood, And flaming with the fire of cities burnt, Sing their mad Hymns of Triumph—Hymns to God, O'er the destruction of his gracious works, Hymns to the father o'er his slaughter'd son." See Conciones ad Populum, or, Addresses to the People, by S. T. Coleridge