Kuzeev Rail G. Kuzeev R. Essai sur l'histoire sociale de la Russie dans Ventre-deux-guerres, Paris : Gallimard. Mazitov N. Nigmatulin R. Nigmatulin devant le. Rodnov Mikhail I. Shnirelman Victor A. Sibagatov R. Problema jazyka, istorii, kul'tury Les Tatars du Bachkortostan. Stepanov V. TiSkov V. L'article 3. Selon l'article Sur ce point, voir Arel, Tiskov et R. Selon V. Stepanov , p. Pour les auteurs bachkirs, la baisse du nombre de Bachkirs entre et est la preuve de leur assimilation par les Tatars Kul'saripov, a, p.
Entretien du Voir l'article de A. Gavrilenko ; et l'entretien du Here, as elsewhere, it is the sense of beauty that comes first: then the love that is born of it: then the overpowering, over-awing sense of mystery which comes when love has revealed how much more there is in beauty than can ever be said or seen. The beginning of the poetry of Nature is the Wordsworthian ' wise passiveness. And she will not speak to every one. She is ungrateful enough, for instance, to prefer those who wander idly in gardens to those who busily lay them out and plant them.
And even the idlers must be choice spirits. The grocer hears no voices on Derwent water, not because Derwentwater is only a lake, but because the grocer is only a grocer. Words worth hears what he hears because he is what he is. And so with Hugo. What things he hears! A whole study might be given to his nature work alone.
All that can be done here is to give a few specimens of its range and its depth. It rests not on exact or detailed knowledge, but on sympathetic penetration. A tree or a flower, a lake or the sea, in passing through Hugo's temperament is transformed from an object known by sight or touch or hearing, to a being, to a living presence, dimly yet most powerfully appre hended by senses rarer, more august, and more authoritative than those plain ones of daily use.
This is true, of course, to some extent of all great poets who touch nature: and only those to whom the greatest things in poetry are closed will think that such transformations are pretty fancies, or metaphors, or mere literary traditions. They are the witness of great poets, which means the witness of the greatest of all thinkers, to that faith in a mysterious and ultimate unity underlying all crea tion which, darkly and differently understood, has come down through the ages from the Psalmists and Plato and Virgil to Wordsworth and Tennyson and Victor Hugo.
Take it in its very simplest form, so elementary as to escape notice, till you put this welcome to spring beside such things as even the spring odes of Horace and see how, in its presence, for all their beauty, they seem narrow and limited, with a note that hardly rises above that of rejoicing at the escape from wintry discomfort:.
Or take it again, in this charming piece, the most beautiful of compliments, and so much more :. Is there any parallel to these exquisite lines except Shelley's still more exquisite 'With a Guitar. To Jane'? No doubt Shelley, most divinely absorbed of poets, gets deeper into the heart of things than Hugo, who covers so much ground that he can hardly stay to explore it; for it is only Shakspeare who has the secret of touching all themes of human interest, and showing in each the sovereign intimacy of those who touch but one.
But let us follow Hugo a little further. This inti mate sympathy, which with him as with Wordsworth makes man in the presence of nature take the place not of an observer from outside but of an interpreter from within, is carried into all moods. Indeed there is more in it even than that; Hugo, like Words worth, found that man never wins his own secret so well as at the moment when he is listening for nature to reveal hers.
Only those to whom Nature means most can do these quiet things with her, which whisper so much that no loud verses can say.
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One only regrets the forced antithesis of the last line, which is rather like that which spoils the end of Words worth's 'Skylark. But nature is not always in this mood of soothing gentleness. There is the night of Macbeth as well as the night of Lorenzo and Jessica:. Again and again he returns to this mystery of a darkness which can be felt:. The business of poetry is to say for us what we cannot say for ourselves.
Who does not realise, when he reads such verses as these, how much he had felt of this dark terror of the night, though the experience had slumbered in him, subconscious, never rising to the surface of his acknowledged personality? But here it is, become conscious by the genius of a poet; the imagination has been made consciously alive to one more aspect of the vast possibilities which surround us, but are always being hidden from our eyes by a crowd of insignifi cant actualities.
We are larger beings for the power of feeling nature in all her moods, which, if you like, are ours, but are yet somehow, we shall believe, more than ours. It is good to turn from one to another. Here is one, for instance, in which an evening walk suggests. Where are four lines that give more of evening sounds and sights and sense than these? They recall the simplicity and power of Gray's Elegy. Even Victor Hugo has never got on to the paper more of the great things that float in the imaginative air than in this verse and those which follow it:.
And here is another, full of mystery too, but of a mystery which has nothing dark or sinister about it:. Vois le soir qui descend calme et silencieux. But it is in the presence of the sea, which has meant more, perhaps, to Hugo and his disciple Swinburne than to any other poets that have ever lived, that we get the final word combining both moods:.
We have seen what came of the teaching of the priest and the garden. But what of that of the third of his teachers, his mother? Well, there were a great many things in Victor Hugo's life, public and private, which were not what his mother meant them to be. But the greatest gift a man receives from his mother is his heart: and that gift Hugo kept all his life unchanged, or changing only to grow greater.
All his fierce interest in politics never hardened his heart. He loved liberty, and democ racy, no doubt, as the watchwords of a political creed: but he never made the common mistake of forgetting on their account the individual human beings without which they are mere names echoing idly in the air. It is no small part of his poetic strength that he always kept his hold on the great primal joys and sorrows which are the only noble emotions that can come into the majority of human lives.
There is no subtlety in his treatment of them: but there is often a greater thing than subtlety, a kind of elemental and childlike simplicity. Hear him sending his daughter to her new home and her husband:. There is a bookishness about the antitheses which one wishes away; but, except for that, it is almost as quiet as the tenderest things in the Greek anthology. One comes from it prepared for the solemn simplicity of his grief, four years later:. One of the most wonderful things in Tolstoy's wonderful Anna Karenine is the picture of Levine on the morning after his engagement. A child smiles, a pigeon's wings shine in the sun, the smell of the good cake comes through the window; and these trifles are so big to him that he laughs aloud in his happiness.
It is always so when we touch reality. We are conscious of being in possession of the secret, and everything we see must take its colour. Only there are two secrets.
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Whoever could be at the same time in perfect possession of both would have solved the eternal problem of humanity. As it is, many men never touch either; and the few, who touch both, have for the most part forgotten the one before they feel the other. So it was with Hugo. Perhaps he never felt the secret of life as Levine felt it: if he did he never managed to get it so vividly told as it is told in those pages of Tolstoy's.
And when the secret of death takes possession of him it over whelms all the rest. All the pleasant colours of life look trivial in its tremendous shadow, all life's hurrying activities look as unbelievably small from its height as farms and roads and houses look when seen from a mountain. And so, in a remarkable little poem, he can accumulate them, pile them up one upon another through nineteen lines, well know ing that there is a last line in reserve which will in a moment reduce them all to insignificance.
It is easy to criticise the feeble obviousness of such a commonplace as 'bonheur qui manque aux rois'; or the ridiculous mixture of the smug citizen and the self-conscious genius in some of the other verses: but perhaps Hugo was happy here in being no critic and, above all, constitutionally incapable of associating banality with anything that came from his own pen. At any rate the solemn boom of that great last line could not have hushed us as it does without the contrast with the tinkling trivialities that precede it. And note how the effect is further heightened by the breathlessness which is kept up till the last line, without a pause any where, with scarcely a line that flows unbroken and none that finds rest.
Nothing is finished: nothing is a whole that we can accept and be quiet in: the unsatisfied hurry of life continues throughout. And then comes the great escape of the last line, the escape into reality; and all the chattering voices are gone out of the world in a moment, like a treeful of starlings at the report of a gun. But death is, after all, the one universal source of tenderness. There is no one who is not moved at death.
But there is more in Hugo than that. All the primary facts of life find in him their poet. Of childhood, particularly, he has a unique mastery. There has never, perhaps, been a poet to whom children meant so much. They are everywhere in his poetry. A whole volume is dedicated to them in L'Art d'etre Grand-pere , and if the grandfather and his vanity fill too much space in it, it is still the greatest book of verse which children have ever inspired.
Hugo would not have been Hugo if he had not been very pleased with himself in the role of grandfather; but, after all, if his delight in Jeanne and Georges is a little self-conscious, was ever any thing more radiant, more gracious, more delicate? The fingers of the dawn are not softer than his touch when he handles a child. He returns again and again to that kinship between the wise innocence of childhood and the inarticulate profundity of Nature. It inspires him with some of his most charming verses:.
Again and again it compels him to this noble brevity.
The sight of a child asleep can almost always do it:. So it is time after time, as, for instance, in the beautiful 'Jeanne Endormie' of L'Art d'etre Grand-pere. This 'gentleness of heaven' comes to all of us a little at sight of the mystery that fills a cradle: but to Hugo it came supremely, the most uniquely great perhaps of all the gifts of his genius. The child Cosette is perhaps the most moving figure in the most wonderful of novels. And it is the same thing in his poetry.
Never does the poet take such complete possession of us as when he has a child for his theme. But, lovely as this and fifty other pictures of radiant childhood are, they are still not the things one remembers longest of all. The pathos in a child's face meant even more to Hugo than its beauty. Even here the exquisite little Infanta is set against a background of the doomed Armada, as the lovely girl whose step made music in the streets of Paris is set against the hideous beldam with her 'Monsieur, veut-il de cette fille? There is no praise equal to such a thing as this: and yet there is one other poem of even more astonishing power, the five stanzas about the chil dren of the poor, which Mr.
Swinburne's incom parable rendering has made familiar to all lovers of English poetry. Perhaps the translator has even surpassed his original, treachery as he would hold it that we should say so: still, in any case the ineffable tenderness of the poem is not his, but Hugo's. There is nothing quite like it so far as I know in all poetry. In this region Hugo is supreme. William Blake may perhaps have anticipated him once or twice: but Blake, as a whole, is as far below Hugo in poetry as he is above him in spiritual power. The only other poet whose name could be mentioned with Hugo's in this connection is his disciple, the translator of this poem, Mr.
There must at last be an end of quotation. It is hard not to be able to find space for the beautiful stanzas in Les Rayons et Les Ombres , which end with that fine praise of tears:. And it would be easy to show the poet's tenderness stretching out its hands not only over childhood, but over all the innocence and weakness of humanity, and his sympathy going out to meet every natural joy and sorrow of mankind. But I must leave the children to speak for all the rest. Only it may be fair to add one word of explanation. It is 'the sense of tears in human things' that calls forth Hugo's greatest poetry.
But he must not be sup posed to see only the sad side of life. Far from that. He is even a poet of inextinguishable faith in the future: and, for the present, his ears catch a note of music in everything that moves in all the world. And so it does, in a kind of Alexandrian suavity of form and utterance.
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In the hands of Leconte de Lisle the poem would have been a lament for a music of the universe which passed away with Paganism. In Hugo's it is the rejoicing echo of a music which can never pass away so long as earth is earth and man is man. There, then, is Hugo. I have tried to let him speak for himself. That, indeed, seemed the only way in which an essay could attempt to give an idea of his immense range, his exuberant power, his universal sympathy. More might have been said of his limitations: of the speculative poverty which is almost as conspicuous as his pictorial wealth: of the childish vanity which makes all his world a stage, and himself the only actor before its foot lights: of the flimsy superficiality masquerading as omniscience which made him a lifelong journalist in all but anonymity: of his perpetual declamation, as violent often as that of the Revolution, often as empty as that of the monarchy of July: of his shallow optimism, his unreasoned faith, his entire lack of critical distinction, his political, moral, and intellectual obviousness.
These are grave defects: it is too early yet to say that there is no chance of their proving fatal. But at any rate I have preferred to try to bring out the positive qualities which, on the whole, as it seems to me, greatly over balance them. We are often and justly severe on rhetoric. Yet it is fair to remember that rhetoric involves in its very essence a certain quality of largeness. No man can be a great rhetorician with out realising, what ordinary men do not realise, the greatness of the great commonplaces of life.
Other people accept them: the rhetorician must, to a greater or less degree, feel them. And then his work cannot be done with the petty and insignifi cant. He has to use ideas that have some element of greatness, true or false, in them. Without the appearance, at least, of large conceptions he cannot produce the effect at which he aims. So it becomes as much a part of his temperament to seek after great or grandiose ideas as it is a part of the temperament of the practical man to avoid them. That results, of course, in the empty stuff that fills the waste-paper baskets both of poetry and of politics.
It results in the echoing hollowness that reverberates through so many pages of such men as Bossuet or Rousseau or Byron. But if these great men suffer by it, it is fair to admit that they also gain. It was precisely that very rhetorical cast of mind, demand ing great things at any cost, that made Bossuet the founder of the great conception of the unity of history, and enabled him, in his stately funeral sermons, to make of nothingness itself the most majestic of realities.
It was that temperament that made Rousseau, and not Voltaire, the voice that prepared the way of the French Revolution. It was that temperament that made of Byron the first English poet whom all Europe united to acclaim. The rhetorician in him was for ever leading him away into a wilderness of verbiage. But the same temperament that made him a rheto rician had also something to do with making him the greatest poet of his day. To begin with, it decided the most important event in his literary life by carrying him into the Romantic movement in which eloquence played such a large part.
There he found, in such accepted heroes of Romanticism as Ossian and Chateaubriand, Scott and Byron, a love of colour and action, and an interest in the Middle Age, which were all to his taste; and in its school were developed some of the best things he had in him: his gift of dreaming, his sense of the intimacy of things, his intuition of the mystic unity of the world towards which Plato might draw his solitary bow at a venture but which only Romanti cism, trained by centuries of Christianity, could fully attain. There also he found the natural home of his unique mastery of the shapes of things.
He became the very centre of the Romantic reaction against the eighteenth-century habit of generalising away all shapes and colours into an indefinable something, supposed to be sublime in proportion to its vagueness. To no other poet has the outward form of things been so vividly present. Whatever the eye can see he has seen. His bewildering wealth of metaphor is largely due to a visual memory which retained the shape of everything that had ever come within reach of his eye.
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The extent of this power and the use he made of it are so remarkable that a distinguished student of Hugo's work has lately devoted a whole book to them. Another side, again, of Romanticism which he found congenial was its Byronic tendency to rebel against established authority. All genius begins with the instinctive assertion of liberty, though it often ends in a convinced acceptance of law. That second stage Hugo never reached. He passed from opposition to opposition. From a literary free-lance he went on to be a political and social rebel. The democrat who was in him almost from the first played a continually larger and larger part.
Indeed, as we look back now, there is perhaps no single word that is the key to so much in his many-sided personality. He is a democrat, the voice and incar nation of a people, speaking to the people in the only two manners the people understand, at one moment as grandiose as a scene-painter, at another as simple as a child.
He cannot think. The moment he aims at thought he becomes, not a child, as Goethe said of Byron, but a declaiming schoolboy. But he can feel. In that world he is at home. Whatever can be felt he feels as a child feels it, as bare humanity feels it. Here, above all, his noble universality comes out. His is always a human and popular voice, never the voice of a coterie.
And that perhaps is the very last word; for it gives the two sides of him. His is a popular voice, for evil and for good: for evil in its carelessness, its lack of humour and distinction, its incapacity for difficult thought, its loud and ridiculous vanity, its violence, its prejudice, its liability to cheat itself with windy and meaningless phrases: for good, in its breadth of utterance, in its tenderness of feeling, in its in vincible faith in the primal relations of life, wife and husband, mother and son, the beauty of child hood, the dignity of age; in its sure and unfailing instinct for the large universal things both of heart and head of which no questionings of philosophy will ever deprive the people.
There, I think, lies his surest hold on ultimate fame. He said of himself in his old age:. There has never been a nobler voice of that human brotherliness which is the soul of all that is best in democracy. And it is that side of all that he was which those who have loved him best have wished to think of last and longest. So at least it seems to have been with the greatest and most generous of them all. Swin burne has found a thousand things to praise in his master; but when it came to the very end and Victor Hugo was being carried to the grave, it was neither to the lord of language, nor to the interpreter of nature, nor even to the prophet of justice, that he paid the final tribute of his In Time of Mourning: it was to the poet whose finger had felt every beat of the heart of humanity, the giver and healer of human tears.
Back to Victor Hugo. It is written during an illness with the possibility of death before him: Mon ame se change en prunelle: Ma raison sonde Dieu voile; Je tate la porte eternelle, Et j'essaie a la nuit ma cle. C'est Dieu que le fossoyeur creuse: Mourir c'est 1'heure de savoir; Je dis a la mort: Vieille ouvreuse, Je viens voir le spectacle noir.
S'il est un sein bien aimant Dont l'honneur dispose, Dont le ferme devouement N'ait rien de morose, Si toujours ce noble sein Bat pour un digne dessein J'en veux faire le coussin Ou ton front se pose! Unless indeed it be this which follows it: L'aube nait et ta porte est close. Ma belle, pourquoi sommeiller? A l'heure ou s'eveille la rose Ne vas-tu pas te reveiller? O ma charmante, Ecoute ici L'amant qui chante Et pleure aussi! Tout frappe a ta porte benie. L'aurore dit: je suis le jour! L'oiseau dit: je suis l'harmonie!
Et mon cceur dit: je suis l'amour! O ma charmante Ecoute ici L'amant qui chante Et pleure aussi! Je t'adore ange et t'aime femme. Dieu qui par toi m'a complete A fait mon amour pour ton ame Et mon regard pour ta beaute. L'oiseau, que les hivers desolent, Le frais papillon rajetmi, Toutes les choses qui s'envolent, En murmurent dans l'infini. He stands listening as the darkness comes on, and what he seems to hear is such voices as these: Vivez! Ou'on sente frissonner dans toute la nature, Sous la feuille des nids, au seuil blanc des maisons, Dans l'obscur tremblement des profonds horizons, Un vaste emportement d'aimer, dans l'herbe verte, Dans l'antre, dans l'etang, dans la clairiere ouverte, D'aimer sans fin, d'aimer toujours, d'aimer encor, Sous la serenite des sombres astres d'or!
Faites tressaillir l'air, le riot, Paile, la bouche, O palpitations du grand amour farouche! Ou'on sente le baiser de l'etre illimite! Et paix, vertu, bonheur, esperance, bonte, O fruits divins, tombez des branches eternelles! Ainsi vous parliez, voix, grandes voix solennelies: Et Virgile ecoutait comme j'ecoute, et l'eau Voyait passer le cygne auguste, et le bouleau, Le vent, et le rocher, Pecume, et le ciel sombre. O nature! Will any but the dullest fail to feel some dance of love in him as he listens to those songs: will any but the blindest fail to see some of the magic that unites old and new, memory and dis covery, together in what the poet saw as he watched Dans l'obscur tremblement des profonds horizons?
O splendeur! Contemplons a genoux. Regois la flamme ou l'ombre De tous mes jours! L'ete, lorsque le jour a fui, de fleurs couverte La plaine verse au loin un parfum enivrant: Les yeux fermes, Poreille aux rumeurs entr'ouverte, On ne dort qu'a demi d'un sommeil transparent. Les astres sont plus purs, Pombre parait meilleure; Un vague demi-jour teint le dome eternel: Et l'aube douce et pale, en attendant son heure, Semble toute la nuit errer au bas du ciel. It is the sower, using the last hour of daylight: Sa haute silhouette noire Domine les profonds labours. On sent a quel point il doit croire A la fuite utile des jours.
II marche dans la plaine immense, Va, vient, lance la graine au loin, Rouvre sa main, et recommence, Et je medite, obscur temoin, Pendant que, deployant ses voiles, L'ombre, ou se mele une rumeur, Semble elargir jusqu'aux etoiles Le geste auguste du semeur. What a tremendous effect, for instance, is produced, in the great picture of the sea slowly and calmly rising over the doomed primeval city, by that wonderful line, Comme un grave ouvrier qui sait qu'il a le temps; what a Shakespearian touch it is! There they lie in their monstrous splendour: dormant dans la brume des nuits, Avec leurs dieux, leur peuple, et leurs chars, et leurs bruits.
There they were, a stain on the earth, with their hideous gods and monstrous vices: and yet, Tout dormait cependant : au front des deux cites, A peine encore glissaient quelques pales clartes, Lampes de la debauche, en naissant disparues, Derniers feux des festins oublies dans les rues. De grands angles de mur, par la lune blanchis, Coupaient Pombre, ou tremblaient dans une eau reflechis.
Peut-etre on entendait vaguement dans les plaines S'etouffer des baisers, se meler des haleines, Et les deux villes sceurs, lasses des feux du jour, Murmurer mollement d'une etreinte d'amour; Et le vent, soupirant sous le frais sycomore, Allait tout parfumd de Sodome a Gomorrhe. Let us take the great dawn in Paradise, with which the Legende des Siecles opens: L'aurore apparaissait; quelle aurore? Un abime D'eblouissement, vaste, insondable, sublime; Une ardente lueur de paix et de bonte.
Tout etait flamme, hymen, bonheur, douceur, clemence, Tant ces immenses jours avaient une aube immense! Or take another picture: no longer from La Legende , but still of Eve, a little later, taking her place now with Adam among Les Malheureux Ils venaient tous les deux s'asseoir sur une pierre, En presence des monts fauves et soucieux, Et de I'eternite formidable des cieux. Leur ceil triste rendait la nature farouche. Et la, sans qu'il sortit un souffle de leur bouche. Les mains sur leurs genoux, et se tournant le dos, Accables comme ceux qui portent des fardeaux, Sans autre mouvement de vie exterieure Que de baisser plus bas la tete d'heure en heure, Dans une stupeur morne et fatale absorbes, Froids, livides, hagards, ils regardaient, courbes Sous Petre illimite sans figure et sans nombre, L'un decroitre le jour, et Pautre, grandir l'ombre.
Et, tandis que montaient les constellations, Et que la premiere onde aux premiers alcyons Donnait sous 1'infini le long baiser nocturne, Et qu'ainsi que des fleurs tombant a flots d'une urne Les astres fourmillants emplissaient le ciel noir, Ils songeaient et, reveurs, sans entendre, sans voir, Sourds aux rumeurs des mers d'ou l'ouragan s'elance, Toute la nuit, dans Fombre, ils pleuraient en silence, Ils pleuraient tous les deux, aieux du genre humain, Le pere sur Abel, la mere sur Cain. But their canonising voices have scarcely ceased when the ghostly king rises from his tomb, takes his sword and, gates and walls being no bars to spirits, goes forth to the mountains: for the thing he lacks in his stately grave is a shroud of snow: II alia droit au mont Savo que le temps ronge, Et Kanut s'approcha de ce farouche aieul, Et lui dit: Laisse-moi, pour m'en faire un linceul, O montagne Savo que la tourmente assiege, Me couper un morceau de ton manteau de neige.
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Kanut prit son epee impossible a briser, Et sur le mont, tremblant devant ce belluaire, II coupa de la neige et s'en fit un suaire: Puis il cria: Vieux mont, la mort eclaire peu; De quel cote faut-il aller pour trouver Dieu? Le mont, au flanc difforme, aux gorges obstruees, Noir, triste dans le vol eternel des nuees Lui dit: Je ne sais pas, spectre, je suis ici. And so he goes out, clothed in his shroud of snow, Seul, dans le grand silence et dans la grande nuit: La pas d'astre: et pourtant on ne sait quel regard Tombe de ce chaos immobile et hagard: this is the place of death, he thinks: beyond, there will be God.
II voyait, plus tremblant qu'au vent le peuplier, Les taches s'elargir et se multiplier: Une autre, une autre, une autre, une autre, o cieux funebres! Leur passage rayait vaguement les tenebres: Ces gouttes dans les plis du linceul, finissant Par se meler, faisaient des nuages de sang: II marchait, il marchait: de l'insondable voute Le sang continuait a pleuvoir goutte a goutte, Toujours, sans fin, sans bruit et comme s'il tombait De ces pieds noirs qu'on voit la nuit pendre au gibet. Le linceul etait rouge et Kanut frissonna.
Et c'est pourquoi Kanut, fuyant devant l'aurore, Et reculant, n'a pas ose paraitre encore Devant le juge au front duquel le soleil luit: C'est pourquoi ce roi sombre est reste dans la nuit, Et, sans pouvoir rentrer dans sa blancheur premiere, Sentant, a chaque pas qu'il fait vers la lumiere, Une goutte de sang sur sa tete pleuvoir, Rode eternellement sous l'enorme ciel noir.
And the horrors of the eternal descent through the abyss seized on him: the abyss in which, as one falls, on songe a la vie, au soleil, aux amours, Et Ton pense toujours, et Ton tombe toujours!
Et le froid du neant lentement vous penetre! And the captains are summoned: and they pass the guilt on to the judges: Nous n'etions que le bras, ils dtaient la pensee. L'ange dit. Amenez les images de Dieu. Des etres monstrueux parurent. Thanks for telling us about the problem.
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