OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# I, Mary MacLane/Chapter 44

To-morrow
THIS I write is a strange thing.
So close to fact: so far from it.
So close to truth: so surrounded by lies.
It does not contain lies but is someway surrounded by a mist of lies.
A strange thing about it is that it is expressing the Self Just Beneath My Skin.
That Self is someways trivial and outlandish and mentally nervous, flightly, silly—silly to a verge of tragicness. I know that to be true from a long acquaintance with me. It is oddly intriguing to read over some chapters and find it shown.
Some unconscious exact photography aids my writing talent.
Some chapters are bewilderingly and mysteriously true to life.
My everyday self that casually speaks to this or that person is nothing like this book. My absorbed self that writes a letter to an intimate acquaintance is not like this book. My heartfelt self that deeply loves a friend, and gives of its depths, and thrills answeringly to other depths, is not like this book.
This book is my mere Hidden Self—just under the skin but hid away closer than the Thousand Mysteries: never shown to any other person in any ​conversation or any association: never would be shown: never could be.
How Another, any Other, would come out: what Another would show: photographed Beneath the Skin—what do I know?
Perchance ten times more trivial and inconsequent and mad than Me.
If Another thinks Me someway mad, let him look at Himself Just Beneath the Skin.
Perchance Another every day as he thanks a janitor for holding open a door, would much prefer to drive a long rusty brad-nail deep into the janitor's skull.
Perchance Another has a brain like Goethe, a Soul like a humming-bird, a Heart like a little round nutmeg.
What do I know?
I know what I am.
Another may know what he is.
But I can't tell Me to Another and Another can't tell Himself to Me.
I can tell Me to myself and write it.
Another if he reads will see Me: but not as I see Me. Instead, through many veil-curtains and glasses, very darkly.
# I, Mary MacLane/Chapter 40

To-morrow
WHEN I'm dead I want to Rest awhile in my grave: for I'm Tired, Tired always.
My Soul must go on as it has gone on up to now.
It has a long way to go, and it has come a long way.
My Soul first started on its journey somewhere in Asia before the dawn of this civilization. And it has gone on since through the centuries and through strange phases of Body, terrors of flesh and blood, suffering long. But it has gone someway on, each space of the journey taking it nearer to the journey's-End.
It is the dim-felt memory of those journeys that heaps the Tiredness on me now. Not only is my spirit Tired. Through my spirit my hands are Tired: my knees are Tired: my drooping shoulders: my thin feet: my sensitive backbone. When I lift my hand in the sunshine the weight of the yellow honeyed air bears down and down on it because I'm so Tired. When I start to walk on stone pavements the ache of them is in my feet before I set a foot on them because I'm so Tired. The pulse in my veins Tires my blood as it beats. My low voice, though I speak but rarely—it Tires my throat. My breath Tires my chest. The weight of my hair ​Tires my forehead and temples. My plain frocks Tire my Body to wear. My swift trenchant thoughts Tire my Mind.
It is not the Tiredness of effort though I strive to the limits of my strength every day.
It is not pain, Restful pain. It is Tired Tiredness.
So when I'm dead I want to Rest awhile in my grave. It would Rest me.
In the Episcopal Church they use a ritual of poetic beauty, full of Restful things. One of them is the sleep of the dead. The crucified Nazarene slept three days. But all others of us when we go down into our graves are to sleep until a Judgment Day. 'Judgment Day' is preposterous and evilly crude: there's no judgment till each can judge himself simply and cruelly in the morning light. But the sleep of the dead—
—the sleep of the dead. Its sound by itself without the thought is Restful—
And the thought is Restful.
I imagine me wrapped in a shroud of soft thin wool cloth of a pale color, laid in a plain wood coffin: and my eyelids are closed, and my Tired feet are dead feet, and my hands are folded on my breast. And the coffin is nine feet down in the ground and the earth covers it. Upon that some green sod: and above, the ancient blue deep sheltering sky: and ​the clouds and the winds and the suns and moons, and the days and nights and circling horizons—those above my grave.
And my Body laid at its length, eyes closed, hands folded, down there Resting: my Soul not yet gone but laid beside my Body in the coffin Resting.
—might we lie like that—Resting, Resting, for weeks, months, ages—
Year after long year, Resting.
# I, Mary MacLane/Chapter 43

To-morrow
IF GOD has human feelings he must often have a burning at the eyes and a fullness at the throat at the strange Braveness of human people: their Braveness as they go on in the daily life, with aching dumbish minds and disgruntled bereft bodies and flattened pinched gnawed hearts.
The easy human slattern way would be to sink beneath the burden.
Instead, people: I and Another and all others—seamstresses and monotonous clerks and lawyers and housewives: sit upright in chairs and talk into telephones and walk fast and eat breakfasts and brush hair: all the while marooned in a morass of small wild unexciting tasteless Pain.
Of others—what do I know?
But I might say, 'Look, God, I am not fallen on the ground, from this and that—utterly lost and down. But sitting, drooping but strong, in a chair, mending a lamp-shade—neat, orderly and at-it in my misery.'
# I, Mary MacLane/Chapter 37

To-morrow
THE blue-and-copper of yesterday is dead and buried this To-morrow in a maroon twilight.
I this moment saw darkly from my window the somber hills in their heavy spell of pale-purple and grief and splendor and sadness and beauty and wonder and woe.
But their color brings no tears to my wicked gray eyes.
The passion-edged mood is burnt out.
Gone, gone, gone.
I listessly change into the other black dress for listless dinnertime and all my thought is that my abdomen is beautifully flat and that I must purchase a new petticoat.
I rub a little rouge on my pale mouth and I idlingly recall a clever and filthy story I once heard.
I laugh languidly at it and feel myself a comfortably vicious person.
I pronounce a damn on the familiar ache in my beloved left foot and turn away from myself.
I stick out the tip of my forked-feeling tongue at the bastard clock on the stairs. I note the hour on it with a fainness in my spirit-gizzard to dedicate Me from that time forth to a big blue god of Nasti​ness: Nastiness so restful, humorous, appetizing, reckless, sure-of-itself.
—these hellish To-morrows creeping in their petty pace: they bring in weak-kneed niceness, and they bring in doubts, and they bring in meditation and imagery and all-around humanness, till I'm a mere heavy-heeled dubious complicated jade.
# I, Mary MacLane/Chapter 41

To-morrow
IT is damn-the-Smell-of-Turpentine!
Here I happen on a damn in me which is not desultory but bloodily strong and alive and alone.
The wood in my blue-white room has been newly painted. For a day and a night I intermittently encounter and go to bed in a spirit of Turpentine. It bears a cruel obscure abortive message to my nerves.
I lie wakeful in the dark and try to reason out a logicalness or poetry in a thing so artfully pestilential. But I am hysterically lost in it and my heart beats hysterically in it.
I remember the inexpressible ingenuity of man: of white man as against bone-brained savage races. Every invented usefulness feels like divine witchcraft. A pen and a bottle of perfume and a door-knob and a granite kettle and an electric light: I have the use of each since white man is so ingenious. Were I a red Indian I should have only the awkward barbarous stupid tools my race had used a thousand years. I contrast the two as I lie wakeful, with a sense of richness and of detailed repletion and of material blestness.
But at once comes the Smell of Turpentine and ​announces itself something outside that and different, something stronger, something masterfuler than ingenuity and savagery together. It tortures my nerves: it burns my eyes: it lames my flesh: it jerks and flays and garbles my inner body. The ingenuity of man has produced opium and cocaine which would combat and hide it all behind a heavy curtain of stupor, with effects equally damaging if less grievously subtle.
The Smell of Turpentine is a thing to bear since all its counter-things bring only solider evil.
The paint was put on the wood by a dirty little man whom I briefly inspected as something removed from my range of life. In return he covertly eyed me. I expected my wakeful hours would be punished by strong new paint and be-visioned by dirty little men. But it is all sheer Turpentine with a power suggesting nothing human nor super-natural nor divine. Just itself: a goblin virulence.
In all my Soul and bones and Mary-Mac-Laneness it is damn-the-Smell-of-Turpentine as a bastard murderous hurt.
I have an odd feeling God has no more power over it than have I.
It half-calls for a different Turpentine God.
I am shakily mad tonight, I believe, from a so slight sticky matter.
# Japanese Wood Engravings

Plate I. From a colour print after Nishimura Shigénaga (c. 1725).
JAPANESE
WOOD ENGRAVINGS
THEIR HISTORY, TECHNIQUE, AND CHARACTERISTICS
By WILLIAM ANDERSON, F. R. C. S. Chairman of the Council of the Japan Society Author of “An Historical and Descriptive Catalogue of the Japanese and Chinese Pictures in the British Museum” “The Pictorial Arts of Japan,” &c.
LONDON SEELEY AND CO. LIMITED, ESSEX STREET, STRAND NEW YORK, MACMILLAN AND CO.
1895
# Japanese Wood Engravings/List of Illustrations

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PLATES
ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT
# Irish Free State message to Prime Minister Scullin of Australia

* related portals: Australia, Ireland.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Full text of the messages exchanged by cable in 1929 between W.T. Cosgrave, President of the Executive Council of the Irish Free State and Mr Scullin, the newly elected Prime Minister of the Commonwealth of Australia (Source: The Canberra Times, 30 October 1929).

## Irish cable

The following is President Cosgrave's message.
On the occasion of your assuming the office of Prime Minister in your great country, in the foundation and development of which men of the Irish race have played so worthy a part, I have pleasure in assuring you of my most cordial wishes and of a continuance of the hearty co-operation of the Irish Free State in promoting the welfare of all the nations of the Commonwealth and the general peace of the world.

## Australian cable

The following is Prime Minister Scullin's message.
I desire to thank you most cordially for your message of good wishes upon my assumption of the office of Prime Minister of the Commonwealth. My colleagues and I feel much gratification at the assurance of the hearty co-operation of the Irish Free Slate in promoting tho welfare of the British Commonwealth of Nations and the general peace of the world. The new labour Government will work whole-heartedly in the interests of world peace and will welcome any proposals for closer co-operation between Australia and the other members of the British Commonwealth of Nations. On behalf of the people of Australia, I send you greetings.
# John James Audubon (Burroughs)/Chronology

CHRONOLOGY.
1780
May 4. John James La Forest Audubon was born at Mandeville, Louisiana.
(Paucity of dates and conflicting statements make it impossible to insert dates to show when the family moved to St. Domingo, and thence to France.)
1797 (?)
Returned to America from France. Here followed life at Mill Grove Farm, near Philadelphia.
1805 or 6
Again in France for about two years. Studied under David, the artist. Then returned to America.
1808
April 8. Married Lucy Bakewell, and journeyed to Louisville, Kentucky, to engage in business with one Rozier.
1810
1812
Dissolved partnership with Rozier.
1808-1819
Various business ventures in Louisville, Hendersonville, and St. Genevieve, Kentucky, again at Hendersonville, thence again to Louisville.
1819
Abandoned business career.
Became taxidermist in Cincinnati.
1820
Left Cincinnati. Began to form definite plans for the publication of his drawings. Returned to New Orleans.
1822
Went to Natchez by steamer. Gunpowder ruined two hundred of his drawings on this trip. Obtained position of Drawing-master in the college at Washington, Mississippi. At the close of this year took his first lessons in oils.
1824
Went to Philadelphia to get his drawings published. Thwarted. There met Sully, and Prince Canino.
1826
Sailed for Europe to introduce his drawings.
1826
Issued prospectus of his "Birds."
1828
Went to Paris to canvass. Visited Cuvier.
1829
Returned to the United States, scoured the woods for more material for his biographies.
1830
Returned to London with his family.
1830-1839
Elephant folio, The Birds of North America, published.
1831-39
American Ornithological Biography published in Edinburgh.
1831
Again in America for nearly three years.
1832-33
In Florida, South Carolina, and the Northern States, Labrador, and Canada.
1834
Completion of second volume of "Birds," also second volume of American Ornithological Biography.
1835
In Edinburgh.
1836
To New York again—more exploring; found books, papers and drawings had been destroyed by fire, the previous year.
1837
Went to London.
1838
Published fourth volume of American Ornithological Biography.
1839
Published fifth volume of "Biography."
1840
Left England for the last time.
1842
Built house in New York on "Minnie's Land," now Audubon Park.
1843
Yellowstone River Expedition.
1840-44
Published the reduced edition of his "Bird Biographies."
1846
Published first volume of "Quadrupeds."
1848
Completed Quadrupeds and Biography of American Quadrupeds. (The last volume was not published till 1854, after his death.)
1851
January 27. John James Audubon died in New York.
# Kopal-Kundala/The Search

Chapter VII.
The Search.
In this direction the Kapálik searched every nook and corner of the house, and seeing neither the sword nor Kopal-Kundala, he felt suspicious, and returned to the sea-shore. On arriving there, he saw that Nobokumar had disappeared. At this he was dumfoundered. After a few moments his gaze fell on the torn stalk-fetters. Then, realising the truth, the Kapálik ran in search of Nobokumar. But it was impossible to know in what direction or by what path the fugitives had gone in that solitary forest. The darkness prevented him from seeing any one, and so he wandered about for a moment or two, trying to catch the sound of voices, but he could not regularly hear them. For this reason he ascended to the summit of ​a high sand-heap, in order to get a good view all round. On the other side from that by which the Kapálik ascended, the base of the hill had been washed away by the storm-water. The Kapálik did not know this, and immediately the weight of his body pressed on it, the summit broke and fell with a terrible crash; and as it fell, the Kapálik fell along with it, like a buffalo hurled from some mountain-peak.
# Kopal-Kundala/The Development of the Plot

Part IV.
Chapter I.
The Development of the Plot.
To such a pitch of interest has our story arrived. The painter, who paints a portrait, first makes separate outlines of the legs and other members, and finally connects them together and distinguishes the light from the shade. We have up to this point delineated the limbs and members of this mental picture; now we shall join them together and unite the light and shade.
A cloud is produced by the water-vapour drawn up by the sun. Day by day the array of clouds imperceptibly increases. But no one at first murks the cloud, or thinks of it, until at last it entirely darkens the world, ​and hurls forth a thunder-bolt. The cloud in which Kopal-Kundala's life was suddenly immersed,—up till now we have bit by bit been collecting its vapour and water.
Does the reader believe in destiny? I do not speak of absolute fatalism, which is mere nonsense made up to console the minds of idle men; but does he admit this, that sometimes some coming event in this way casts its shadow before, and that actions indicating its accomplish are brought with so irresistible force that human power cannot check them? Wise men in all countries and in all ages have admitted this. This destiny is the soul of the "Waverley Novels;" it is the essence of omniscient Shakespeare's "Macbeth." In another form, as "Fate" and "Necessity," it has been the cause of considerable diversity of opinion among European philosophers.
In our own country this "Destiny" is well known in society. The poet, who imagined the destruction of the race of Kurus, was exceedingly skilled in this fascinating spell. ​This terrible shadow was ever present over the heads of the Kurus ever since the time when they sported as children with the Pandus. The great Krishna is its best personification. The poet himself has illustrated it in the lamentations of Dhritarashtra and other matters. The holy songs of Bhagbut are full of this destiny. At the present time many, who have read a portion of this poetry, worship destiny. Others, muttering "Kopál," are ever careless.
I do not mean by destiny that, by some divine or internal power, our actions assume a certain shape. Even atheists may admit destiny. Worldly events are the inevitable outcome of natural laws and man's character; man's character is the result of mental and natural laws. Therefore destiny is the result of mental and natural laws; but those rules are called destiny, because they are beyond man's comprehension.
Some readers may be vexed at the termination of this book. They may say, "The ending is not a good one; the novelist might ​have made it different." To this my reply is, "It is the course of destiny; who can alter destiny? The novelist cannot do so. As the seed sown at the commencement of the book, so must the product be. To do otherwise would be a blow against truth."
Now let us follow the course of destiny. The threads are ready; let us gather them together.
# Kopal-Kundala/The Palki Journey

Chapter IV.
The Palki Journey.
Listen to what became of the ornaments. Moti Bibi had sent an ivory box inlaid with silver for keeping the ornaments. The robbers had only taken a few of her things; they succeeded in taking nothing except what was actually with her.
Nobokumar left one or two ornaments on Kopal-Kundala's body, and put the greater portion in the box. The next morning Moti Bibi started for Burdwan, while Nobokumar and his wife started in the direction of Septogram. Nobokumar put Kopal-Kundala in the palki, and placed the box of jewels with her. The bearers easily left Nobokumar behind. Kopal-Kundala opened the doors of the palki, and went along looking in every direction. ​A beggar saw her and ran along by the side of the palki asking for alms.
Kopal-Kundala said, "I have nothing; what can I give you?"
The beggar pointed to the few ornaments Kopal-Kundala had on, and said, "What, mother! There are diamonds and pearls on your body, and you say you have nothing?"
Kopal-Kundala said, "Will you be satisfied with the ornaments?"
The beggar was a little astonished; a beggar's hopes are unbounded. After a moment she replied, "Of course I shall be satisfied."
In the innocence of her heart Kopal-Kundala gave the beggar the ornaments, box and all. She also took off and gave her the ornaments she was wearing.
The beggar stood confused for a moment. The male and female servant had seen nothing. The hesitation of the beggar was but momentary. She looked in all directions, and hastily ran away with the ornaments. Kopal-Kundala wondered why the beggar had run away.
# Koran Used for Wrapping Paper

* related portals: Islam.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Muslim World Review
On Friday a number of Egyptian students of Alexandria visited our offices in the afternoon and left a letter to the editor with some sheets of the Koran obviously detached from an edition of the Holy Book. The letter explained the grievance. The students in question went on that day to the Majestic Bakery, in Boulevard Ramleh to purchase some bread, and their attention was soon attracted by a heap of printed paper which they found to be parts of the Koran. The European baker was using the Koran sheets for wrapping up loaves for his clients. "On seeing this,*' remarked the students in their letter, "our blood boiled with anger and sadness, and had we not been traveling on the same day we would have managed to remove the disgrace." When we got the letter, we sent out a delegate to see if the report was true, and our representative found that it was. But he found that the Koran sheets had already been seized by the authorities and taken to the Attarin Kism. In the evening our representative heard at the Alexandria Ulema Board that four teachers of native schools under the control of the Ministry of Education had already reported the same question to the authorities and brought the police to the bakery to seize the paper. The President of the Ulema Board also intervened and he telephoned to the kism suggesting that the Koran sheets should be kept untouched until a delegate from the institution went in the morning to examine the matter. The edition of the Koran sold to the baker as paper stuff bears the name of the publisher Mohamed el Genahi, in the neighbourhood of the Azhar, in Cairo. The quantity of this sort of paper discovered in the shop is estimated at about 400 or 500 okes. We shall see what the theological authorities will do to efface this disgrace.
# If you were coming in the Fall

* "If you were coming in the fall" in Poems (1890)
* "If you were coming in the fall" in The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson (1924)
# If the foolish, call them "flowers"—

If the foolish, call them "flowers" — Need the wiser, tell? If the Savants "Classify" them It is just as well!
Those who read the "Revelations" Must not criticize Those who read the same Edition — With beclouded Eyes!
Could we stand with that Old "Moses" — "Canaan" denied — Scan like him, the stately landscape On the other side —
Doubtless, we should deem superfluous Many Sciences, Not pursued by learned Angels In scholastic skies!
Low amid that glad Belles lettres Grant that we may stand, Stars, amid profound Galaxies — At that grand "Right hand"!
# If you play a Game of Chance know before you begin

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
From Notebook c.1808-1811 p.47. See also: Satiric verses and epigrams.

#### Edited text:

IF you play a game of chance, know, before you begin,
If you are benevolent you will never win.
________________________________________

#### The original text:

If you play a Game of Chance know before you begin
If you are benevolent you will never win
________________________________________

## Notes

* ↑ The Poetical Works of William Blake, including the unpublished French Revolution together with the Minor Prophetic Books and Selections from The Four Zoas, Milton & Jerusalem; edited with an introduction and textual notes by John Sampson, Hon. D.Litt. Oxon., 1862–1931. London, New York: Oxford University Press, 1908.
* ↑ "The Complete Poetry & Prose of William Blake", ed. by David V. Erdman, Anchor Books, 1988, p. 511.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse