Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 18, 2025
I frequented the Latin Quarter assiduously and there I learned many things; among others to take an interest in those students who blew their political opinions into the foam of their beer, every night, then to acquire a taste for the works of George Sand and of Heine, of Edgard Quinet, and of Henri Murger. The psychophysical moment of silliness was upon me.
He was not guilty of a black heart, it was only absolute deficiency of everything like moral sense. Henry Murger was under obligations to me, as he said constantly; I had introduced and recommended him to a man and a magazine that are, as of right, difficult in the choice of their contributors; I had, for his sake, conquered their prejudices, borne their reproaches.
"Why shouldn't I? We live in a day when white cravats have to be very respectful to red cravats. Besides, nothing is too strange to happen; and I would not bet you that Murger does not write in 'Le Moniteur' before I do." "If you think I had better admit Henry Murger, I consent; but remember what I say to you: It will be the source of annoyance to you."
The silence growing tenser, Colonel Dearman said encouragingly but firmly: "Do something, Captain Rozario". Captain Rozario did something. He drew his whistle. He blew it. He replaced it in his pocket. Seven obliging volunteers darted forward to retrieve it. "May we expect the evolutions this evening, Colonel?" inquired General Murger politely.
There will be candles!" a young person, dead since but still living, exclaimed of her poet's fête. The fête, however lavish, and which you will find reported by Murger, was not held in a kitchen. The poet's garret did not contain a kitchen. That was Paris. Hereabouts, nowadays, walk-ups are more ornate.
On other points connected with that old life on the borders of Bohemia, I need not touch; it has all been so well done already by Murger, in the Vie de Bohème, and it will not bear translation into contemporary English. There were cakes and ale, pipes and beer, and ginger was hot in the mouth too! Et ego fui in Bohemiâ!
The first time I talked with Murger, and every subsequent conversation I had with him, brought up money incessantly, in every tone, in every form; and when, having become more familiar with what he called my squeamishness, he talked more frankly to me, I saw that he required to support him a sum of money three times greater than the annual income of which a whole family of office-holders in the country, or even in Paris, live with ease.
On his return he beheld his superb and expensive hunter behaving superbly and expensively in the expert hands of Rissaldar-Major Shere Singh. He feasted his eyes upon it. Suddenly a voice, a voice he disliked intensely, the voice of Mr. Dearman croaked fiendishly in his ear: "Why, General, they've got your horse numbered wrongly!" General Miltiades Murger looked again.
But that's the way it used to be, I tell you. That's the Bohemia of Murger, with the hospital at the end, the terror of children, the comfort of kindred, Little Red Riding Hood eaten by the wolf. That state of things came to an end a long while ago.
The most curious part of the whole business is, that he did not write the article, all he did was to sign it! Four years, and a scratch given his vanity, had proved enough to produce this change! Shall I speak to you now of Henry Murger? I wrote this chapter of my Memoirs during his life.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking