OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Story of Mary MacLane/February 23

I STAND in the midst of my sand and barrenness and gaze hard at everything that is within my range of vision—and ruin my eyes trying to see into the darkness beyond.
And nearly always I feel a vague contempt for you, fine, brave world—for you and all the things that I see from my barrenness. But I promise you, if some one comes from among you over the sunset hill one day with love for me, I will fall at your feet.
I am a selfish, conceited, impudent little animal, it is true, but, after all, I am only one grand conglomeration of Wanting—and when some one comes over the barren hill to satisfy the wanting, I will be humble, humble in my triumph.
It is a difficult thing—a most difficult thing—to live on as one year follows another, from childhood slowly to ​womanhood, without one single sharer of your life—to be alone, always alone, when your one friend is gone. Oh, yes, it is hard! Particularly when one is not high-minded and spiritual, when one's near longing is not a God and a religion, when one wants above all things the love of a human being—when one is a woman, young and all alone. Doubtless you know this. After all, fine brave world, there are some things that you know very well. Whether or not you care is a quite different matter.
You have the power to take this wooden heart in a tight, suffocating grasp. You have the power to do this with pain for me, and you have the power to do it with ravishing gentleness. But whether or not you will is another matter.
You may think evil of me before you have finished reading this. You will be very right to think so—according to your standards. But sometimes you see ​evil where there is no evil, and think evil when the only evil is in your own brains.
My life is a dry and barren life. You can change it.
Yes, you can change it. Stranger things have happened. Again, whether you will—that is a quite different thing.
No doubt you are the people and wisdom will die with you. I do not question that. I will admit and believe anything you may assert about yourselves. I do not want your wisdom, your judgment. I want some one to come up over the barren sunset hill. My thoughts are the thoughts of youth, which are said to be long, long thoughts.
Your life is multi-colored and filled with people. My life is of the gray of sand and barrenness, and consists of Mary MacLane, the longing for Happiness, and the memory of the anemone lady.
​This Portrayal is my deepest sincerity, my tears, my drops of red blood. Some of it is wrung from me—wrung by my ambition to tell everything. It is not altogether good that I should give you all this, since I do not give it for love of you. I am giving it in exchange for a few gayly-colored things. I want you to know all these passions and emotions. I give them with the utmost freedom. I shall be furious indeed if you do not take them. At the same time, the fact that I am exchanging my tears and my drops of red blood for your gayly-colored trifles is not a thing that thrills me with delight.
But it's of little moment. When the Devil comes over the hill with Happiness I will rush at him frantically headlong—and nothing else will matter.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/February 1

OH, THE wretched bitter loneliness of me!
In all the deep darkness, and the silence, there is never a faint human light, never a voice!
How can I bear it—how can I bear it!
# The Story of Mary MacLane/February 25

MARY MACLANE—what are you, you forlorn, desolate little creature? Why are you not of and in the galloping herd? Why is it that you stand out separate against the background of a gloomy sky? Why can you not enter into the lives and sympathies of other young creatures? There have been times when you strained every despairing nerve to do so—before you realized that these things were not for you, that the only sympathy for you was that of Mary MacLane, and the only things for you were those you could take yourself—not which were given you. And your things are few, few, you starved, lean little mud-cat—you worn, youth-weary, obscure little genius!
Oh, it is a wearisome waiting—for the Devil.
# The Story of the Amulet

* related portals: Children's literature, Fantasy.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category.
[Free audiobook available at Librivox ]
The
Story of the Amulet
BY E. NESBIT
AUTHOR OF "THE TREASURE SEEKERS," "THE WOULD-BE-GOODS," ETC.
WITH 48 ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. R. MILLAR
NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET
(See page 140.)
TO DR. WALLIS BUDGE OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED AS A SMALL TOKEN OF GRATITUDE FOR HIS UNFAILING KINDNESS AND HELP IN THE MAKING OF IT

### CONTENTS

CHAPTER
* The Psammead
* The Half Amulet
* The Past
* Eight Thousand Years Ago
* The Fight in the Village
* The Way to Babylon
* 'The Deepest Dungeon Below the Castle Moat'
* The Queen in London
* Atlantis
* The Little Black Girl and Julius Caesar
* Before Pharaoh
* The Sorry-Present and the Expelled Little Boy
* The Shipwreck on the Tin Islands
* The Heart's Desire
# The Story of the 62nd/December 1942 Guards of Honor

The book is divided into daily or semi-daily logs or journal entries of varying length. The longer ones stand on their own, while others are grouped by their time of writing. The groupings and subdivisions are not originally in the book, but rather introduced to make it more readable online.

## Guard of Honor (December 3, 1942)

General Gaffet spoke to all Officers at the Orphanage, Rue de Rabat. The Sixty Second furnished three officers and fifty enlisted men, for Guard of Honor.

## Guard of Honor (December 7, 1942)

The Sixty Second furnished one officer and fifty enlisted men for Guard of Honor for General Schmelier.

## Guard of Honor (December 12, 1942)

The Sixty Second furnished one officer and fifty enlisted men for Guard of Honor for General Giraud.

## Escort of Honor (December 13, 1942)

The Sixty Second furnished vehicles, officers and enlisted men, to participate in a parade of French and American troops to escort the 47th Infantry Regiment through Casablanca. Several visiting generals were in the reviewing stand.

## Guard of Honor (December 22, 1942)

The Sixty Second furnished three officers and 104 enlisted men for Guard of Honor, at a Decoration Ceremony for nine officers and enlisted men.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Vocation of Man/Preface

PREFACE.
Whatever in the more recent Philosophy can be useful beyond the limits of the schools is intended to form the contents of this work, set forth in that order in which it would naturally present itself to unscientific thought. The more profound arguments by which the subtle objections and extravagances of over-refined minds are to be met, — whatever is but the foundation of other Positive Science, — and lastly, whatever belongs to Pedagogy in its widest sense, that is, to the deliberate and arbitrary Education of the Human Race, — shall remain beyond the limits of our task. These objections are not made by the natural understanding; — Positive Science it leaves to Scholars by profession; and the Education of the Human Race, in so far as that depends upon human effort, to its appointed Teachers and Statesmen.
This book is therefore not intended for philosophers by profession, who will find nothing in it that has not been already set forth in other writings of the same author. It ought to be intelligible to all readers who are able generally ​to understand a book at all. To those who only wish to repeat, in somewhat varied order, certain phrases which they have already learned by rote, and who mistake this business of the memory for understanding, it will probably be found unintelligible.
It ought to attract and animate the reader, and to elevate him above the world of sense, to a transcendental region; — at least the author is conscious that he has not entered upon his task without such inspiration. Often, indeed, the fire with which we commence an undertaking disappears during the toil of execution; and thus, at the conclusion of a work, we are in danger of doing ourselves injustice upon this point. In short, whether the author has succeeded in attaining his object or not, can only be determined by the effect which the work shall produce on the readers to whom it is addressed, — and in this the author has no voice.
I must, however, remind my reader that the “ I ” who speaks in this book is not the author himself, but it is his earnest wish that the reader should himself assume this character, and that he should not rest contented with a mere historical apprehension of what is here said, but really and truly, during reading, hold converse with himself, deliberate, draw conclusions, and form resolutions, like his representative in the book, and, by his own labour and reflection, develope out of his own soul, and build up within himself, that mode of thought the mere picture of which is laid before him in the work.
# The Vocation of the Scholar

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Original title: Einige Vorlesungen über die Bestimmung des Gelehrten (1794).

## Contents

* Preface
* Lecture 1: The Absolute Vocation of Man
* Lecture 2: The Vocation of Man in Society
* Lecture 3: The Distinction of Classes in Society
* Lecture 4: The Vocation of the Scholar
* Lecture 5: Examination of Rousseau's Doctrine Concerning the Influence of Art and Science on the Well-being of Man
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/March 16

TO-DAY I walked over the sand, and it was almost beautiful. The sun was sinking and the sky was filled with roses and gold.
Then came my soul and confronted me. My soul is wondrous fair. It is like a young woman. The beauty of it is too great for human eyes to look upon. It is too great for mine. Yet I look.
My soul said to me: "I am sick."
I answered: "And I am sick."
"We may be well," said my soul. "Why are we not well?"
"How may we be well?" I asked.
"We may throw away all our vanity and false pride," said my soul. "We way take on a new life. We may learn to wait and to possess ourselves in patience. We may labor and overcome."
"We can do none of these things," I ​cried. "Have I not tried all of them some time in my short life? And have I not waited and wanted until you have become faint with pain? Have I not looked and longed? Dear soul, why do you not resign yourself? Why can you not stay quiet and trouble yourself and me no more? Why are you always straining and reaching? There isn't anything for you. You are wearing yourself out."
My soul made answer: "I may strain and reach until only one worn nerve of me is left. And that one nerve may be scourged with whips and burned with fire. But I will keep one atom of faith. I may go bad, but I will keep one atom of faith in Love and in the Truth that is Love. You are a genius, but I am no genius. The years—a million of years—may do their utmost to destroy the single nerve. They may lash and beat it. I will keep my one atom of faith."
"You are not wise," I said. "You have been wandering and longing for a ​time that seems a thousand years—through my cold, dark childhood to my cold, dark womanhood. Is that not enough to quiet you? Is that not enough to teach you the lesson of Nothing? You are not a genius, but you are not a fool."
"I will keep my one atom of faith," said my soul.
"But lie and sleep now," I said. "Don't reach after that Light any more. Let us both sleep a few years."
"No," said my soul.
"Oh, my soul," I wailed, "look away at that glowing copper horizon—and beyond it. Let us go there now and take an infinite rest. Now! We can bear this no longer."
"No," said my soul; "we will stay here and bear more. There would be no rest yet beyond the copper horizon. And there is no need of going anywhere. I have my one atom of faith."
I gazed at my soul as it stood plainly before me, weak and worn and faint, in ​the fading light. It had one atom of faith, it said, and tried to hold its head high and to look strong and triumphant. Oh, the irony—the pathos of it!
My soul, with its one pitiful atom of faith, looked only what it was—a weeping, hunted thing.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/March 17

IN SOME rare between-whiles it is as if nothing mattered. My heart aches, I say; my soul wanders; this person or that person was repelled to-day; but nothing matters.
A great inner languor comes like a giant and lays hold of me. I lie fallow beneath it.
Some one forgot me in the giving of things. But it does not matter. I feel nothing.
Persons say to me, don't analyze any more and you will not be unhappy.
When Something throws heavy clubs at you and you are hit by them, don't be hurt. When Something stronger than you holds your hands in the fire, don't let it burn you. When Something pushes you into a river of ice, don't be cold. When something draws a cutting lash across your naked shoul​ders, don't let it concern you—don't be conscious that it is there.
This is great wisdom and fine, clear logic.
It is a pity that no one has ever yet been able to live by it.
But after all it's no matter. Nothing is any one's affair. It is all of no consequence.
And have I not had all my anguish for nothing? I am a fool—a fool.
A handful of rich black mud in a pig's yard—does it wonder why it is there? Does it torture itself about the other mud around it, and about the earth and water of which it is made, and about the pig? Only fool's mud would do so. And so, then, I am fool's mud.
Nothing counts. Nothing can possibly count.
Regret, passion, cowardice, hope, bravery, unrest, pain, the love-sense, the soul-sense, the beauty-sense—all for nothing! What can a handful of rich ​black mud in a pig's yard have to do with these? I am a handful of rich black mud—a fool-woman, fool's mud.
All on earth that I need to do is to lie still in the hot sun and feel the pig rolling and floundering and slushing about. It were folly to waste my mud nerves in wondering. Be quiet, fool-woman, let things be. Your soul is a fool's-mud soul and is governed by the pig; your heart is a fool's-mud heart, and wants nothing beyond the pig; your life is a fool's-mud life, and is the pig's life.
Something within me shrieks now, but I do not know what it is—nor why it shrieks.
It groans and moans.
There is no satisfaction in being a fool—no satisfaction at all.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/March 21

SOME people think, absurdly enough, that to be Scotch or descended from the Scottish clans is to be rather strong, rather conservative, firm in faith, and all that. The idea is one that should be completely exploded by this time. I think that the Scotch as a nation are the most difficult of all to characterize. Their traits and tendencies cover a wider field than those of any other. To be Scotch is to be anything. There is no man so narrow as a Scotchman. There is no man so broad as a Scotchman. There is no mind so versatile as a Scotch mind. At the same time only a Scotch mind is capable of clinging with bull-dog tenacity to one idea. A Scotch heart out of all, and through all, can be true as death. A Scotch heart—the same one—can be cunning and treacherous as false human hearts are made. To be English is to have limits; the Germans, ​the French, the Russians—they have all some inevitable attributes to modify their genius.
But one may be anything—anything, if one is Scotch.
Always I think of the cruel, hardened, ferocious, weather-beaten, kilted Clan MacLean wandering over bleak winter hills, fighting the powerful MacDonalds and MacGregors—and generally wiping them from the earth,—marching away with merrily shrieking pipes from fields of withered, blood-soaked heather—and all this merely to gather intensified life for me. I feel that the causes of my tragedy began long, long ago from remote germs.
My Scotch blood added to my genius sense has made me into a dangerous chemical compound. By analyzing I have brought an almost clear portrait of myself up before my mind's eyes.
When I was a child I did not analyze knowingly, but the child was this same genius, though I am one of the kind ​that changes widely and decidedly in the years. This weary unhappiness is not a matter of development.
When I was a child I felt dumbly what I feel now less dumbly. At the age of five I used sometimes to weep silently in the night—I did not know why. It was that I felt my aloneness, my foreignness to all things. I felt the heavy, heavy weight of life—and I was only five.
I was only five, and it seems a thousand years ago. But sometimes back through the long, winding, unused passages of my mind I hear that silent sobbing of the child and the unarmed wailing of a tiny, tired soul.
It mingles with the bitter Nothingness of the grown young woman, and oh, with it all—with it all I am so unhappy!
There is something subtly Scotch in all this.
But Scotch or Indian or Japanese, there is no stopping of the pain.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/March 18

BUT yes. It all matters, whether or no. Nature is one long battle, and the never-ending perishing of the weak. I must grind and grind away. I have no choice. And I must know that I grind.
Fool, genius, young lonely woman—I must go round and round in the life within, for how many years the Devil knows. After that my soul must go round and round, for how many centuries the Devil knows.
What a master-mind is that of the Devil! The world is a wondrous scheme. For me it is a scheme that is black with woe. But there may be in the world some one who finds it beautiful Real Life.
I wonder as I write this Portrayal if there will be one person to read it and see a thing that is mingled with every ​word. It is something that you must feel, that must fascinate you, the like of which you have never before met with.
It is the unparalleled individuality of me.
I wish I might write it in so many words of English. But that is not possible. If I have put it in every word and if you feel it and are fascinated, then I have done very well.
I am marvelously clever if I have done so.
I know that I am marvelously clever. But I have need of all my peculiar genius to show you my individuality—my aloneness.
I am alone out on my sand and barrenness. I should be alone if my sand and barrenness were crowded with a thousand people each filled with melting sympathy for me—though it would be unspeakably sweet.
People say of me, "She's peculiar." They do not understand me. If they ​did they would say so oftener and with emphasis.
And so I try to put my individuality in the quality of my diction, in my method of handling words.
My conversation plainly shows this individuality—more than shows it, indeed. My conversation hurls it violently at people's heads. My conversation—when I choose—makes people turn around in their chairs and stare and give me all of their attention. They admire me, though their admiration is mixed decidedly with other feelings.
I like to be admired.
It soothes my vanity.
When you read this Portrayal you will admire me. You will surely have to admire me.
And so this is life, and everything matters.
But just now I will stop writing and go downstairs to my dinner. There is a porterhouse steak, broiled rare, and ​some green young onions. Oh, they are good! And when one is to have a porterhouse steak for one's dinner—and some green young onions, one doesn't give a tupenny dam whether anything else matters or not.
# The Threat to the Labor Movement/Section 27

No Program for Present.
BUT what of the present period when the basis must be laid for the inevitable struggle? What of the millions of workers who do not share in the prosperity and who need organization, instruction in oboe elementary theory and tasks of the class struggle? What of the paralysis and death that come to a labor movement which abandons all idea of struggle because of sops thrown to various sections of it by the ruling class with a deadly purpose in mind—like a thief throws a chunk of poisoned meat to the dog who endangers the success of his looting expedition?
Berenberg replies and in replying he gives away the secret:
"Item 4:"
FOR THE PRESENT THERE IS NOTHING TO BE DONE. NO AMOUNT OF 'HUSTLING,' 'DRIVING,' 'URGING,' 'GETTING TOGETHER,' or whatever else it may be called, WILL BRING NEARER BY A SINGLE SECOND THE TRAIN OF CIRCUMSTANCES THAT ALONE CAN MAKE THE WORKER RECEPTIVE TO OUR PROGRAM. Social forces will bring him our way at last. (Emphasis mine).
It is any wonder that a leadership which exudes this poisonous fatalism finds itself in the camp of the worst enemies of the working class—the agents of imperialism in the labor movement?
This doctrine, a product of a pseudo-intellectualism which partakes of the atmosphere of the dim recesses of Greenwich Village and the smugness of the well-paid labor leaders in claw-hammer coats at a Civic Federation dinner, is a denial of Marxism which sees social forces as something the revolutionist must use and not wait for. Revolutionists, as Marx, pointed out, make history just as well as history makes revolutionists.
This is the philosophy with which the intellectuals of the socialist party have been saturating the leadership of the trade unions under their influence. It finds its reflection in the policy of worker-employer cooperation and "efficiency unionism" in such formerly militant organizations as the International Ladies' Garment Workers and the Amalgamated Clothing Workers.
# The Threat to the Labor Movement/Section 28

Accept Policy of Trade Union Officialdom.
THIS policy, hitherto pursued with some caution by the leadership of these unions, has been given a tremendous impetus by the outright pressure of the American Federation officialdom and now converges with the "Baltimore and Ohio" plans, Watson-Parker government mediation ​(the governor's commission in New York) in war on the sections of the membership which are not under the influence of the socialist party bureaucracy.
Only agreement on main lines of policy could bring such close organizational cooperation as can be seen in New York and elsewhere with Tammany Hall supporters enlisted side by side with the New Leader, the Daily Forward, the needle trade union officialdom and the socialist party bureaucracy against the majority of the membership.
The socialist party leadership is not only "making love to reaction," as Norman Thomas so delightfully puts it, but has long ago lost its virginity, become promiscuous and appears as a hardened old madam whose role is that of procuring new recruits for the house of prostitution where workers are supposed to lose all shame and which is run under the name of "American trade unionism" by the labor agents of imperialism—the Greens, Wolls, Lewises and other lesser lights.